Page 42 of Spearcrest Prince

Above me, Séverin’s face is flushed. His hair is a sweaty mess of fallen strands, half-covering one eye. Whatever emotion is on his face, it’s not anger. I’m not even sure what it is—a feral mixture of triumph and amusement, hunger and excitement.

He looks like the wolf that’s about to eat the lamb.

“Don’t stop fighting me,” he says when I grow still. His voice is low and silken. “Go on, trésor. You got this far—why stop now?”

This is far more frightening than any of his anger, any of his insults. He’s not asking this to scare me off—he’s asking me because he wants me to fight him. And a part of me wants to do just that. A wild, repressed part of me wants to lash out at him, to hit him so hard it hurts my own hands, to scratch and claw at him until I draw blood.

I’ve never felt this way before about anyone.

But this isn’t me, I remind myself. And whatever path Séverin is trying to drag us both down isn’t a path we could come back from.

It’s a dark, dangerous path. The kind of path I try to avoid.

“I’m done fighting.” I pant, trying desperately to squeeze air into my constricted lungs. “You win.”

A shadow crosses his face. Then his eyes narrow, and a deadly smile curls the corners of his aristocratic mouth.

“No,” he says. “You’re not done.”

And then he grabs the collar of my jumper in his fist, pulling me up to him, and crushes his mouth to mine.

Chapter 16

La Pomme

Séverin

Anaïs’smouthopensina gasp of surprise, and I slip my tongue inside. Her lips are soft, so soft I want to bite into them. She tastes like peppermint. She tastes like wilderness and desire.

She tastes like my newest addiction.

She pulls away from me with a strangled whimper. Her hand, which I released when I grabbed her collar, collides with my face in a hard slap. My cock hardens against her, and I grind down so she has no choice but to feel it. She doesn’t get to ignore my want, not this time.

She slaps me again, the same place she slapped me the first time. I laugh and kiss her cheek. It’s hot and smells of French summers. She tries to slap me a third time.

“See?” I catch her wrist and kiss it. “You’re not done fighting, trésor. Not one bit.”

“You’rethe one who wants to fight,” she snaps. This is the most anger I’ve ever heard in her voice. The most emotion. “Not me.”

Her hair is tangled with blades of grass and fragments of fallen leaves and mud smears her cheeks and clothes. She looks like an angel that’s just been dragged down from the stars and through the mud.

And I can think of so many ways to send her back to heaven.

“I don’t want to fight,” I tell her truthfully, lowering my mouth to speak against her ear. “I want to fuck.” Pulling away, I gaze down at her. Her eyes are wide, her lips are pink and shiny. I let out a low, dirty laugh. “And I think you do too.”

Her cheeks are the bright red of fairy tale apples. Cupping her face in my hand, I reach down and bite her cheek. Maybe I’ll fall into a hundred-year-long sleep.

I already feel like I’m under some sort of spell.

“Salaud!” she yells. Her hand flies up to cover her cheek once I pull away. She looks angry and irritated. She looks a mess. It’s the most satisfying feeling I swear I’ve ever felt. I could come just from the trembling of her voice, the tears of annoyance and pain glimmering prettily in her eyes. “T’es un salaud!”

“Oui.” I rub my thumb over the two red marks on her cheek. “Je suis un salaud, et t’es une menteuse.”

“I never lied to you,” she says, her voice quivering in anger. “I’m not lying to you now, and I won’t ever lie to you. Unlike you, I’m not ashamed of my own desires. If I want something from you, I’ll ask you for it. I won’t wait until I’m drunk in the middle of the night, and I won’t steal it from you after chasing you around like a bloodthirsty animal.”

She’s breathing hard, and all I can think about is crushing the breath from her lungs with another kiss. We stare at each other and, for the first time, it feels like we’re truly looking at each other. Not at the façade we present to the world but at the exposed souls within.

Words battle on my tongue. I want to tell her she’s not as brave as she thinks she is. I want to apologise for stealing a kiss from her. I want to test her bravery and dare her to hit me again, to bite me, to hurt me. None of these things feels like the right thing to say.

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