The walk to the throne room is different without being flanked by dozens of guards. Holly moves casually through the overgrown walkways, her shiny armor gleaming inthe sun.
Damn, if I don’t just want to snap a photo of everything—including Moth, the moment the heavy doors open to reveal him.
Holly gives me a knowing smile.
“This is how a king should be portrayed,” she whispers, which I assume is another insult about my photos. I knew a royal portrait session would be serious. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’tthis.
Moth’s armor is heavy and black; he holds a helmet in one hand and a sword in the other. This must have been what he changed into before sparring with Holly, who suddenly comes to life with compliments for herbrother.
“It is going to be absolutely perfect. Wait ’til Mother sees.” She clasps her hands together in a gleeful, almost childish gesture, before stiffening her hands at her sides. I peek at the unfinished painting, and my jaw goes slack. It’s even more severe than he looks in front of me.
He looks just like his father in that portrait hanging over the fireplace. His posture is stiff and his lips a straight line. This is the picture of a warrior—a king. Someone ruthless, scary and …not Moth.
“What do you think, my flame?” Moth’s voice floats down the staircase. Even his tone sounds prickly, which isn’t too different from the man I fell in love with. He tilts his eyes toward me while remaining perfectly posed—and there’s that softness I recognize.
“It’s different,” I say, earning a glare from both Holly and the artist, who like everyone I’ve met so far is model-level gorgeous. “I mean, you look great.”You just don’t looklike you.
“And you think you could do better,” Holly scoffs, her wings fluttering.
“No, it’s looking amazing. It’s just—”
God, how do I explain this?
“Just?” The painter interrupts our brewing argument by blowing out a sigh. Stepping around his canvas, he tucks the paint brush behind his ear, awaiting mynext word.
“It’s not him,” I add a little more gently. “And like … that isso notyour fault.”
The artist squints between the canvas and Moth and lets out a defeated sigh. “I will admit it is appearing … stiff.” With a hand on his hip, the artist swivels toward me. “What would yousuggest?”
“First, the armor has got to go.”
Moth wastes no time unclipping the heavy chest plate to reveal another frilly shirt with sleeves that cling to his biceps in just the right way. I blink to try to regain focus but … nope, he’s too damn sexy. Yes, he’s dark and brooding but also delicate—someone more suited to holding a flower while surrounded by greenery, nota sword.
“Then what if we moved this outside?” I muse. “Some more greenery would totally brighten things up and add a nice contrast.” Clasping my hands together in front of my body, I rock on my heels, awaiting aresponse.
“There is plenty of greenery in this space,” the painter argues, gesturing with the tip of his paintbrush to the ivy and flowers that flow into the white open space. “However, I am beginning to agree—something does feeloff.”
Despite the beautiful setting, there’s something cold in this room I can’t explain. I’m glad the artist is starting to see it too.
“I would be willing to move,” Moth says, looking to me for approval. I love how he trusts my artistic direction.
“Wait!” Holly shouts, holding out her arm as if to block the doorway. “Brother, this cannot truly be what you want.” Her eyes flick from the canvas to the discarded armor.
“Is there any significance of this particular background?” Moth asks with genuine curiosity.
“It is where we are always painted.” Holly’s response is matter-a-fact, but I have a feeling that this outburst is about more than just tradition. “I do not understand.”
Are her eyes watering? Her hard exterior begins to crack, and I’m reminded that she’s just a girl who missed the heck out of her older brother. This is supposed to be a gift, and she probably feels like I’ve totally messed it up.
“Then perhaps it is time for a change,” the painter suggests gently, sparing a hopeful glance toward Holly.
“I will hear no more of this,” Holly says, shaking her head. “No, no. We will do it once, and we will do it properly.”
Moth has moved off the platform toliterallytake my side.Before he can open his mouth to speak, Holly throws her hands in the air then points a sharpened claw at the artist’s chest.
“I have called you here for a portrait. I expect it to be done before the ball. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” With heavy footsteps and thud of the door, the three of us are alone. The room falls silent.
“I am so sorry.” It seem like ever since I got here, I can’t stop putting my foot inmy mouth.
