Page 94 of Spearcrest Prince

Anaïs reaches around her neck, and my heart lurches. My stomach clenches.

“Don’t.” My voice is low and dull.

There’s a pain in my chest like I’ve been stabbed. My throat is tight, and my eyes burn.

She unclasps the necklace I gave her—the necklace with the Montcroix ring on it—and hands it to me. I step back, hands behind my back.

“I never intended to remain your fiancée,” she says quietly, “but I did hope we might become allies. I think maybe we could even have been friends.”

“I don’t fuck my friends,” I bite out.

She tilts her head to give me a sad smile.

“No. You don’t fuck people you like, do you? Well, I don’t know a word for that, not in English, French or Japanese.” She holds the necklace up. The ring dangles from it, the diamonds catching the dim moonlight and reflecting it in brilliant sparkles. “Take it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Neither do I.”

She opens her hand. The necklace drops, falling between us and disappearing in the tangle of frosty grass, moss and roots beneath our feet.

Without another word, Anaïs turns and walks away. This time, I don’t give chase.

This time, I let her go.

Therestoftheevening is a blur.

I leave the arboretum with a lump in my throat and bump into Iakov, smoking outside. There’s no way of telling how far away from the building Anaïs and I strayed during our confrontation; if Iakov heard anything, he keeps it to himself.

He hands me the bottle of whisky he’s holding, and I take big gulps, smoothing away the lump in my throat.

He offers me a cigarette, but I decline with a wave of my hand.

I can’t even talk.

I stumble into the red-brick building, music and heat swallowing me up like the wet throat of some colossal monster. Mellie runs up to me and tries to say something, but I jerk away from her, mumbling garbled apologies before I lurch through the packed dancefloor.

Kay catches my eye, and I push through the crowd towards her.

She smiles brightly and extricates herself from the grip of some boy to dance towards me.

“Having fun?” she asks through the music.

“Your party blows!” I yell back.

She waves her hand dismissively in my face. “I’m not taking responsibility for your fuck-ups!”

“What fuck-ups!” I shout, outraged, thinking about the ring hanging against Anaïs’s chest, warm from her skin, now lying in hard mud and icy grass, the metal cold, the jewels dull. “I never fuck up.”

“You neverhadanything to fuck up,” she says, a hint of sadness in her voice. “But now you do. It’s so easy, isn’t it? Fucking up something good out of fear?”

We stare at each other.

“I’m not like you,” I snarl. “This isn’t the same.”

She shakes her head. “If you say so, Sev.”

With a wave of her hand, she disappears back into the crowd.

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