Page 33 of Spearcrest Prince

“Well,” I say mildly, “we’ve met now. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that a meeting isn’t enough.” His tone is a little sullen now, and I half-expect him to cross his arms and stomp away like a grumpy toddler, but he doesn’t. He continues moodily. “If we don’t put on at least a bit of a show, they’re going to force our hands.”

“Our parents?”

“Yeah.”

By this point, it seems pretty clear Séverin’s had a conversation with his parents I’m yet to have with mine. They probably haven’t gotten to it yet; they’re always busy with work and meetings and social engagements.

But I’m also beginning to suspect my parents might trust me a little more than the Montcroixes might trust Séverin.

If they didn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to plot my escape.

“What kind of show?” I ask slowly.

I’m not opposed to the suggestion, but I’d rather know what Séverin has in mind before I commit to anything. A low growl of distant thunder rumbles through the sky with ominous timing.

He grins, pulling out his phone.

In the next moment, his arm loops around my neck, pulling me to him. I smell his perfume once more, that warm, woody fragrance, like expensive leather and sandalwood.

Holding his phone up, he wraps his fingers around my chin and kisses me on the cheek. His lips are surprisingly warm. There’s the tiny artificial shutter sound of a photo being taken on his phone.

Then he releases me. I sit in stunned silence while he taps away at his screen with a satisfied smirk. The shape of his kiss glows hot on my cheek as if his lips were hot metal when he kissed me.

I brush my fingertips against it.

“There,” he mutters. “This should shut them up for a bit.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I doubt a kiss on the cheek is going to convince them we’re falling in love.”

“I’m not trying to convince them we’re falling in love,” Séverin says, not looking up from his phone as he types. “I’m just trying to convince them we one day might.” He sends his text and looks up, putting his phone back in his pocket. “Why? Are you sad I didn’t kiss you on your mouth, trésor?”

“Don’t even think about it,” I say with a light laugh.

He stands and stretches, his top lifting slightly to reveal a sliver of smooth flesh and hard muscles. I lift my eyes to his face, where a dangerous smirk curls the corners of his lips. “Is that a dare?”

“It’s a warning.”

He shakes his head. “Well, you can calm down. I’d rather kiss every ugly toad in this pond than your mouth.”

I stand, putting my sketchbook and pencil away. “Good.”

“Great,” he says, turning to head back to the car. Then he mutters, loud enough for me to hear him quite clearly, “You fucking pain-in-the-ass.”

“Moody asshole,” I mutter back.

“Gold digger.”

“Toad kisser.”

Despiteourspat,therest of the journey is pleasantly peaceful. We drive through the day and dusk, the grey clouds growing steadily darker. Séverin bops his head to his music. I alternate between doodling and gazing out of the window at the passing lights. The landscape slides by like a dream: shadowy mountains, velvety pines, dotted lights.

It’s deep into the night when we finally arrive.

We’re staying in a place called Corrimore, in the middle of the Scottish highlands. Séverin pulls up by a set of rustic wooden cabins on the edge of an enormous lake, trees and mountains lining the distance under a pitch-black sky sown with stars.

The further north we went, the fewer streetlights there were until we were driving in complete darkness. Now we’ve arrived, the only lights are coming from inside the cabins, the lanterns in the cobblestoned car park, and the stars high above.

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