Page 80 of Spearcrest Prince

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Parker’s a loser.”

Kay shrugs. “That’s what you think, not what Anaïs thinks. Luckily for Parker, it’s her he’s asking to the party, not you.” We stare at each other for a second. Kay gestures to the men facing her. “Do you mind, Sev? Unlike you, I intend to end the night in somebody’s bed.”

“Fine.” I stand. “I presume I’m invited to your little get-together?”

She grins. “Of course. Bring a plus one if you wish.”

“Fine.”

“Great,” she says. As I walk away, she adds, “Oh, and Sev?”

I turn back to look at her.

“Choose your plus one carefully, will you?”

I glare at her and walk away without a word.

Chapter 28

L’Ordre

Anaïs

Séverinmusthavebeenright about the limousine driver spying for our parents because a week after the date, I get a text from my mother.

Maman: Hope you’re well, Anaïs. Your father and I are glad to hear things are going well with Séverin. x

I lock my phone and throw it in the bottom of my bag. I’m sitting in a corner of my usual art studio, working on a painting. With a sigh, I resume my work. These days, painting is the only thing that feels familiar and safe.

The only aspect of my life where I’m completely in control.

With my painting knife, I crush and mix my colours: burnt sienna and silver imit and pearl white to complement the sage greens and misty blues on my palette.

I’m working on one of my exhibition pieces, a painting based on the Isle of Skye mountains. The outlines are done, and I’m in the middle of painting the backdrop of moody clouds when the door to the studio slams open.

Startled, I turn, my brush jerking across the canvas.

“Shit! Oh—Séverin.”

He stands in the doorway. His uniform is perfect and crisp, the necklaces and rings glittering at his hands and throat.

But his hair is in disarray, strands falling across his forehead. A deep flush is in his cheeks. He’s breathing hard like he’s been running.

He stares at me from across the room, his chest rising and falling.

“Um, are you alright?” I ask.

He nods, slowly crossing the room. I’m sitting in front of my canvas, which is propped against a drying rack next to the window. Outside, the sky is gunmetal grey, the sun already a long-forgotten blur low in the sky.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says finally.

I frown. “If I’m not in lessons, I’m usually here, painting.”

“Why here?”

I gesture with my brush at the window. “Good view.”

---