Page 22 of Spearcrest Prince

Mellie shrugs. “Honestly, she mostly just keeps to herself. She doesn’t talk to anyone unless we have group work. She’s not mean or anything, she’s just… a bit odd, I guess.”

“Mm.”

I nod slowly, a little pacified by Mellie’s information. Then she leans forward, enveloping me in the sugar-sweet cloud of her flowery perfume. “There’s a rumour that she’s…”

She stops, and I look up at her with a frown. “That she’s what?”

“Um… that she’s your fiancée.”

If Mellie knows this rumour, then surely that means everybody in Spearcrest knows it. I didn’t talk about my engagement to anybody apart from my friends—although it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they were the ones who spread the rumour—and I don’t know how much Anaïs has been telling others. Of course, the most likely possibility is that someone read it in a gossip column, and that’s how the rumour spread.

But if Mellie knows Anaïs is my fiancée, then so does everybody else. That includes Parker Pembroke, that posh English twat.

Mellie starts talking about the assignment and her plans for her portrait. I force myself to calm down, to not overreact. I don’t feel possessive over Anaïs—I don’t want her, so really, why should I care?

But then again, Anaïs was fully ready to have sex with a random person in London, and Parker is doing what he’s doing,knowingshe’s engaged to me. Put like that, it’s perfectly rational to be displeased with the situation. This isn’t about wanting Anaïs for myself or even about Anaïs at all.

It’s about pride and dignity.

I need to handle the situation with maturity and poise—the way a Montcroix ought to. I’m the first person to admit I can be prone to impulsivity, so I need to ensure—

Anaïs raises her arm and gently takes Parker’s face in her hand, tilting it to a certain angle. Her touch is delicate, like she’s arranging a flower in a vase, and Parker moves easily, guided by her.

I’m on my feet. My legs move of their own accord, carrying me across the classroom.

Anais has already let go of Parker's face when I stand next to them, and they both look up. My entire body is buzzing like a live wire.

“Get up, Pembroke.” My voice is low and, luckily, calm. “We’re swapping partners.”

Chapter 9

Le Prince

Anaïs

SéverinMontcroixlookslikesome sort of rockstar fairy prince in his school uniform.

His tie is loose, top buttons undone. Fine gold chains glitter around his neck. There are jewelled rings on his fingers, and his eyelashes are so thick and dark that he looks like he’s wearing eyeliner.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he was.

He stands glaring daggers at Parker and speaks imperiously. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Pembroke.”

“We can’t swap,” Parker says. He’s clutching his camera, and his left leg bounces up and down. He’s either nervous or annoyed—or both. “Mr Weston and Miss Godrick paired us up.”

At first, Séverin is perfectly silent. Then his eyes narrow. He leans forward ever so slightly and smiles. It’s a curious smile: hollow and glacial. But Séverin isn’t cold—there’s a dangerous kind of fire burning in his green eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks.

“You don’t want to do this, Pembroke.”

The two of them stare at one another, an unspoken battle taking place between them. I observe them with curiosity, like two animals communicating without words.

Finally, a victor emerges. Parker sighs, stands up and says, “I’ll catch you later, Anaïs.”

He grabs his things and walks away. Without even looking at him, Séverin takes his seat, swinging his backpack up onto the tabletop.

“That was incredibly rude,” I tell him.

His eyes flick up to meet mine. They really are a striking shade of green, the murky green of pale jades, ringed with grey. How many colours would I need to mix on my palette to find this particular hue?

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