Page 35 of Spearcrest Prince

Is she asleep? Am I going to need to knock harder to wake her up? Why didn’t she come to the party, anyway? She said it was because she didn’t want to repeat the mistakes we made last time—but we actually know each other now. What does she think is going to happen? That we’re going to make out by accident? That I’m going to trip and land with my hands under her clothes and my mouth on hers? That—

The door opens, startling me out of my rhythmic knocking.

“Séverin?” Anaïs’s face, pale and soft with sleep, appears behind the door. “What are you doing?”

I sigh. “Just say Sev. Nobody calls me Séverin.”

“Why are you trying to break my door down in the middle of the night?” Her voice is rough from sleep. Her confused frown is slowly morphing into a glare. “You scared me.”

“I just wanted to see you,” I try to explain.

“You’ve seen me,” she says, shaking her head and brushing tousled strands of black hair out of her eyes. “Go to bed.”

“Let me in.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Come on, Anaïs.” I soften my tone, caressing her with my voice. “My little trésor, my little bride. I just want to talk.”

She sighs. “You’re drunk.”

“No, no, look.”

I hand her the bottle I’m still holding.

“It’s empty,” she says.

“Exactly,” I answer, waving the bottle in her face. “How could I get drunk from an empty bottle?”

She takes it with an unimpressed look but steps aside. Smiling at my unexpected victory, I stumble past her. Her room is small but cosy. Her bed is a little rumpled. I throw myself onto it, flopping on my stomach. My face lands against her pillows, which smell like lilacs. I breathe in deeply, then turn my head to look at Anaïs as she puts away the empty bottle I’ve given her.

She’s wearing a T-shirt that’s about five sizes too big for her. Her black hair is feathery with sleep, her cheeks a little flushed. Fuck. She looks quite cute. She looks cute, softened and sweet in sleep, like whipped butter and honey. Even her long graceless limbs look cute, those awkward elbows and knees. There’s a tiny pencil tattooed on her ankle.

She sits on the edge of the bed, grabs a plastic water bottle from the nightstand and hands it to me.

“Drink,” she says.

I shake my head. “Don’t need it. M’not that drunk.”

“Drink it,” she repeats. “If you throw up on my bed, I’ll take your room and leave you here to sleep in your own sick.”

“M’not going to throw up.” I wave a hand at her. “I’m a Montcroix. Montcroixes don’t throw up.”

“Ah, of course. Being a Montcroix makes you closer to a god than a man. I forget.”

“I never said that,” I mumble sullenly, face still squished into her pillows. “M’not a god.”

“No? What are you?”

I rub my face into her pillow and grin. “Your future husband.”

She sighs. “Why are you here, Séverin?”

“Because I’m horny.”

The truth drops from my lips. A truth I didn’t mean to admit. But now I’ve said it, I’m hornier than I was before. There’s a buzzing underneath my skin, like trapped electricity. Excitement—no, not excitement. Lust.

Hot, pounding, simmering lust.

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