Page 38 of Spearcrest Prince

Anaïs is wearing shapeless faded jeans and a massive blue sweatshirt. Her silky black hair is tucked behind one ear, the rest hanging around her face like a curtain.

She bites her lip in concentration as she makes her way to the door, clearly trying to remain as quiet as possible. Her gaze sweeps through the room, and our eyes meet. The corner of her mouth lifts in a slight smirk.

“Good night?” she whispers.

Despite the truly concerning amount of alcohol I consumed, despite the skull-splitting headache hammering through my entire body—I can still remember last night.

Every single part of it.

Fuck my life.

With great effort, I lift my arm to give her the middle finger. With a quiet laugh, she returns the gesture and walks away, disappearing through the front door.

Idon’tseeherthe rest of the first day, which suits me fine. She’s out, following the itinerary the teachers sent us, probably ambling through nature like she belongs to the highlands and the lochs, probably feeling fresh as a daisy. Fuck her. I have a hangover to nurse, anyway.

But I don’t see her that evening or the next morning.

By the evening of the second day, I’m annoyed again. Issheavoidingme? Hardly seems fair, given what happened between us. I might have been slightly drunk, butshe’sthe one who made out with me, got all wet and moany, and then had the audacity to reject me.

I’ve never in my life been kicked out of a girl’s bed. It stings like an open wound. But I still have the courage and dignity to face her.

She’s acting like she’s not even realised we’re paired up for this trip and assignment.

Luckily for me, Melody Wilkins—Mellie to her friends—hasn’t been getting on so well with Pembroke. She’s also pretty, friendly, and seems only too happy to spend time with me instead. So on the afternoon of the third day, when the teachers force us on a hike to go see some castle ruins, I have Mellie at my side to keep me company.

The afternoon is cold but dry, with low white clouds in a deep-blue sky. The hills here are emerald green, and the trees an explosion of colours: red, orange, yellow. Mellie keeps pausing for pictures, and I watch her as she does. She’s very Spearcrest: golden hair shaped into effortless waves, violet manicure—daisies painted on the nails of her ring fingers—and her lips are lush and pink as a rose.

Normally, a girl like her would need to make next to no effort to excite me. A flirty gaze and the light scratch of her nails across my arm would be signal enough that she wants me, and I’m only ever happy to oblige.

Sex, just like drinking, is one of those things I will always indulge in if I can. Unlike Luca, I don’t get bored with the things I enjoy. Pleasure is pleasure; if I can have it, I will.

But something is missing with Mellie. I don’t know if it’s the silly nickname or the affectation with which she says, “Oh my god, how simplygorgeous!” every time she stops to take a picture, but it’s just not working for me.

By the time we reach the castle ruins, I’m in a thunderous bad mood.

I had every intention of dragging Mellie with me to some shadowy part of the ruins and fucking her into centuries-old walls. But I’m just not in the mood to have sex with her—even though I’m definitely in the mood for sex.

The teachers gather us in front of the castle to give us our instructions. When they’ve finished, I glimpse movement from the corner of my eye. Anaïs, her hair tied back and her sketchbook hugged to her chest, is already wandering away from the edge of the group, a dreamy look in her eyes.

She doesn’t even look around to see if I’m there; she simply disappears into the ruins.

“This fucking girl…” I mutter to myself, stomping off after her.

A hand at my elbow stops me. I turn in surprise to find Mellie gazing up at me with soulful blue eyes.

“Don’t you want to join us?” she asks.

Her voice and eyes suggest she’s not interested in sharing thoughts about truth in art. Unfortunately, what she’s offering is not what I’m in the mood for. I shake my head.

“Maybe later, beautiful,” I tell her.

She nods, cheered by this glimpse of hope, and her hand drops from my elbow. I turn around and stifle back a curse. Anaïs is gone.

The ruins are sprawling, but she can’t evade me forever. I stride in the direction I saw her walk in and plunge into the maze of collapsed stone.

The castle is much darker inside. Moss and ivy crawl along the surface of the rock, which exudes a profound cold, almost like a breath. Night is already falling, and tendrils of mist crawl like ghosts up the hills we climbed earlier, creeping around the corners of walls and pillars.

Ghost-like of all is Anaïs. Several times, I seem to spot her in the corner of my vision but turn to see the branches of a tree poke in through the empty frames of windows. Other times, I think I’ve caught a hint of her smell—the delicate perfume of lilacs and a faint chemical smell similar to sesame seeds—and follow the scent down a corridor to find myself at a dead-end.

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