Rachel, her youngest, perked up at the question. She darted to my side, quicker than her mother’s limping steps, and leaned in to inspect the damning lines.
At nearly fourteen, she would soon be seeking a match of her own, but for now, Dior’gad shepherded her through palace halls, assessing the options.
The girl frowned, tilting her head as though a different angle might reveal the truth. “I don’t see it.” Her lips puckered in thought, her curiosity as sharp as her mother’s scrutiny.
“Rachel! Princess Nienna—is that man naked?” Dior’gad’s voice rang with both scandal and intrigue.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as I gripped the folds of my skirt, my palms damp. “I was only working on proportions,” I stammered. “It’s crucial to understand the balance of the human form in art.”
Did that sound believable—or worse?
“If that’s the case,” Dior’gad sniffed, “you’ve exaggerated his shoulders, his chest is overdone, and Veridis be praised, no man possesses that many abdominals.”
One did. Six visible muscles carved his stomach, with faint diagonal lines connecting them to his back. The memory of that perfection lingered, burned into my mind like the charcoal that had captured him. A reminder I couldn’t erase, no matter how much I tried.
But I could dispose of the canvas.
“You’re right, the proportions are off,” I said, nodding with feigned agreement.
Fyrn narrowed her eyes, that sly grin creeping across her face. She knew I was lying—and I would pay for it later.
“I’ll get rid of it and start fresh. It was a pleasure, Dior’gad.”
Even Rachel couldn’t hold back a giggle as I took my leave.
“I’ll visit later!” Fyrn called after me.
I offered a brief nod before stepping out into the hall, clutching the canvas close. A deep breath of relief filled my lungs.
None of them knew. They didn’t know I had drawn the king with his tunic off. If they did—my reputation would be ruined. It was improper for me to even perceive what his bare chest looked like, let alone capture it in art.
I hurried down the corridor, my guards falling into step behind me. It was my own fault for letting my mind wander. Dior’s complaints about the lack of trade from central Radaan had worn thin. I understood her point, but after her sixth lament about lavender from their fields, I nearly suggested she hire a new overseer to source better seeds.
Her constant droning had set my thoughts adrift, my hand absentmindedly sketching that damnable image.
The drawing room felt miles from my quarters as my boots sped against the rugs, urgency driving me forward. My guards were nearly jogging to keep pace, their footsteps echoing in the halls. I approached an intersection, unsure whether to turn left or go straight. A wrong move would mean retracing my steps to ask for directions or worse—relying on my guards.
I spun around the corner—and collided with a wall of metal and cloth.
The canvas slipped from my grip as I tried to catch myself. Its corner caught the toe of my boot, sending it skidding out of reach. I yelped in surprise, and the man I collided with grunted under the impact, and someone’s strong grip seized my arm to steady me.
“Princess.”
The chains of Kallias’ mantle tangled in my hair, and I gasped as he pulled away to put proper distance between us.
“My hair!” I whimpered, stepping on his toes as I followed his retreat.
Greaves released his hold and took a step back, giving a brief bow for touching me.
Frantically, I worked at the gold chains. The loops felt endless, and my fingers trembled, only tightening the mess. “I’m sorry!”
“Wait.” Kallias grunted, shifting his boot beneath mine to remind me I still stood on his toes.
I mumbled an apology and shifted back, my head near his chest. His hands moved through my hair, pulling the chains free with gentle tugs.
“I should’ve slowed down. I apologize.” My voice stumbled as I noticed the deep green brocade of his overcoat. Gold embroidery of flowers and leaves traced the fabric, fitting his broad chest and tapering waist. The scent of spices surrounded me, and my stomach twisted with nervous energy.
“In a hurry?”
