Page 98 of Spearcrest Prince

“Just. Say. Sev.”

“Alright.Sev. Look. I can imagine what happened with the exhibit. But I won’t tell on you, so you don’t need to worry. And I don’t expect an apology. I know that—” I interrupt myself, hesitating, wondering if he’s going to be offended. “I know that we probably hurt one another last time. But I…”

I sigh and hesitate once more.

Why is he not interrupting me? Why is he not trying to argue and fight the way he always does? What happened to the boy who chased me through the woods, who forced me to slap him just because it amused him?

And where is the girl I used to be? The girl who could lock herself away and keep herself safe and live in her bubble far away from the world and its messy emotions?

I want her back. But I suspect I won’t get her back until I’m halfway across the world from Sev.

So, for the first time in my life, I open my mouth and say exactly what I’m feeling. I let the emotions spill out like green sea water and algae from a gutted mermaid.

“I don’t hate you, Séverin Montcroix.”

My voice trembles as I speak. Sev doesn’t even try to control his reactions to my words. His eyes soften in an unbearable expression. He bites his bottom lip and steps forward. I continue before I can no longer speak.

“I don’t hate you. I never have. You’re too emotional, too impulsive, too impetuous. But I don’t hate you, not even a little. I think, for a while, I even liked you. If things had been different, I think you and I could have been something different altogether. Something splendid and interesting and exhilarating. But things happened the way they did. I don’t blame you for not wanting this engagement, for not wanting your hand forced and your fate chosen for you. But you can’t blame me for not wanting that either. You can’t blame me for leaving.”

He opens his mouth, but I continue while I still have the courage to do so.

“I know it hurt you to hear that, and you probably wanted to hurt me back. But I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you for anything. Honestly, I—” The lump in my throat is making it hard to speak—hard to breathe. “If I look inside myself, I can’t find even a morsel of hatred for you. So whatever you’ve done, I forgive you. I don’t care. I don’t care at all.”

Séverin swallows hard, his throat shuddering. He brushes his hand through his hair, but the strands fall back on his forehead, covering one eye. I hadn’t realised how long his hair has grown. His mouth moves, but he doesn’t speak straight away.

Then he turns, grabs a canvas propped against the window and turns to show it to me.

“What about this?”

He’s holding our painting—well, my painting, his image. Our moment, with the mountains and the stars and the lake in Scotland and all the laughter and pleasure we shared.

It’s wrecked beyond belief. The paint is smudged; the canvas is scratched and sodden. Sev’s dreamy face is an unrecognisable blur. My most recent changes have disappeared.

How did he even manage to do this much damage?

I let out a sigh that almost sounds like a laugh.Of courseSev tried to destroy my painting. He knows me more than I give him credit for. The irony is bittersweet.

“It doesn’t matter.” I take the canvas from his hand. My eyes sting. “I still forgive you. It’s fine. I’ll, um… I’ll paint over it.”

“You said it wasAletheia—remember?” His voice trembles. “You said you painted the truth of what you felt that night.”

“I did.”

“How are you going to paint over it?”

“I’ll paint something different.”

“And what about that night? That moment? The truth of it, of what you felt then?”

“What about it?”

His eyes become pitiful, almost pleading.

“Is it gone, then?” His voice is wretched. “Completely destroyed? Like the painting?”

I shake my head. “Of course not, you idiot. That painting took me hours. I put so much work and care into it. If you feel bad about that, then good. You should.” His features melt with sadness, and I almost have to repress the urge to laugh. “You’ve wasted time and paint, Sev. You owe me a new box of acrylics. But whatever happened that night happened and nothing can take it away. I don’t regret it. I don’t regret anything.”

I take the ruined painting from his hands and set it gently aside. For a moment, we just stare at one another. I’ve told him everything I feel, and I feel oddly… light. Free. Like I can breathe again.

---