Page 32 of Spearcrest Prince

“You do. You mutter all sorts of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like my name. Over and over again.”

I roll my eyes and unbuckle my seatbelt. “I must have been having a nightmare.”

We get out of the car, and I wince as I stretch my stiff legs. The air is already colder than it was when we left Spearcrest. Although it’s not raining, the presence of rain is all around us: in the puddles mirroring the orange lights of the lamp posts, the tiny pearls of raindrops dangling from the tips of leaves, the smell of damp grass and fresh mud.

We go our own ways, and when I return to the car, Séverin still isn’t back. I wander away through the trees to the edge of a little pond. Beyond it, the trees are sparser, opening up to a vista of rolling hills and citadels of grey clouds.

It’s a pretty view. Sitting on the stone bench by the pond, I tuck my legs under me and pull out my sketchbook and pencil from my tote bag. The tip of my pencil glides across the page, taking the shape of water, grass, hills and clouds.

Footsteps approach, heralding a dark silhouette. Instead of saying something cutting or insulting, Séverin sits down next to me, sipping on a cup of fragrant black coffee.

“Have you spoken to your parents recently?”

I turn around with a frown. Not the question I expected. “No, why?”

Séverin isn’t looking at me. His eyes are pointed to the pond, but they’re a little glassy, as if his gaze is turned inwards.

“When was the last time you spoke to them?” he asks thoughtfully.

“Uh… a few days after I arrived at Spearcrest? It’s been a while.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him my parents and I hardly ever speak. It’s not something he needs to know. It’s not something he’d care about anyway.

“What did they say?” he asks.

“Nothing much.” I try to remember the telephone conversation, a brief chat with my mother while she was in between meetings. “They asked me if the flight was alright, if I’m settling into Spearcrest, if I got my timetable… that kind of stuff.”

“They didn’t ask about me?”

I suppress the urge to laugh. “No. They just told me to try and get to know you.”

He finally turns to look at me. The green of his eyes almost looks gold in the desolate daylight. He gives me a searching look, refreshingly free of ire and resentment.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks finally. “We wouldn’t even have met if it wasn’t for that ridiculous night at The Cyprian.”

“I thought you didn’t want this engagement,” I answer truthfully. “I thought it might be better to just leave you alone.”

He’s quiet for a second, but his eyes remain on mine. His beauty is a strange sort. It has a vulnerable edge to it, something delicate and lovesome. The curling of his eyelashes, the faint dusting of freckles, the rose petal softness of his mouth. But there’s cruelty and arrogance there, too. In his aristocratic nose, the tilt of his jetty eyebrows, his sneer.

“It’s a little rude, don’t you think?” he says in a lofty tone.

I shrug. “You didn’t exactly approach me either.”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Why should it be one rule for you and another for me?”

He gestures vaguely. “Because of power.”

“Right. I forget. Because you’re the prince, and I’m the pauper, right?”

“Non.” He grins suddenly. “Plutôt le roi et le trésor.”

Is he teasing me or provoking me? It’s hard to tell. His emotions are always so naked, but his desires are impossible to fathom.

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