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“It is. And as much as I want to hope with you, I can't. Not yet. Before any of that becomes possible we have to confront Osric and his partner. You're not safe while this is unresolved, and people shouldn't make plans for the future when their present is uncertain.”

I held back my protest and waited. Sometimes the best way to get someone to talk was to listen.

“You've had one shock after another. You must be scared and confused. I want you to know I'll be here to help you through this. I will do everything I can to protect you and end this threat against us. Even if you decide you don't want to take our relationship further, I will protect you, Destiny. You didn't choose any of this. You were drawn into it, and you're only in danger because of me, who I am. I don't want you to feel as if you owe me anything, or be afraid I might abandon you if you don't warm my bed.”

“Tristan.” I pressed my lips together to hold back a smile. Warm my bed? This man was too much.

He barreled on. “And if you do want to explore what we could be to each other, I don't want you to think your decision is irrevocable. After you're safe again, you may decide to go back to your normal life. I will completely understand. I won't be angry with you.”

I let the silence run for a beat. “Tristan.”

“Yes?”

“I don't hold you responsible for this. You didn't send the reliquary to me. From the sound of it, we were going to meet eventually anyway. And I'm not afraid of being trapped by my decision to be with you or that you'd ever deny me help because I chose not to be with you. You're not that kind of man. That's not what frightens me.”

“Then what does?”

“You making the decision for me.” I motioned at his head. “You've got a lot going on up there—a lot of conclusions getting drawn with a big chunk of honor mixed in. I'm afraid you'll let them get between us. I don't want you to decide for me what I can or can't handle. If you don't want to be with me because you don't want me, that's fine. But don't you dare be honorable and end us before we have a chance because you think it's what's best for me.”

Tristan looked at me for a long moment, his lips softening into a smile. “As long as you promise not to hide your feelings from me.”

I chuckled. “A man who wants to talk about feelings? Yes, please. It's a deal.”

“Good.” He grinned like a little boy, but it quickly vanished. “Should we talk about what Mirana said?”

“I think there are only two things we can take from that prophecy with any amount of clarity. One, there's a heartbroken man working with Osric.”

“And what's the second?”

“I can't run away from this. She told me I have to use my weapons. That means, I'll have to fight.”

Tristan took my hand. “You won't fight alone.”

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning, Tristan took me to see the Conclave's art collection, dedicated to Curses. There was a painting he wanted to examine, one the Conclave had acquired recently. It was of him at Stylos, and it was particularly interesting since he'd never posed for a painting at the monastery.

He led me through the ground-floor corridors of the east wing, and to a steel door. It reminded me of his bat cave, but this door required a code. Tristan punched it in, and the thud of bars sliding preceded a click and the whoosh of a climate controlled seal breaking. When he opened the door, its six-inch width and the bars within it were revealed.

Beyond was a gallery with conservation-standard LED lighting—warm but controlled, with no damaging ultraviolet or infrared light. The cachunk of the door shutting came as I stepped forward.

Portraits of people from many centuries hung on the walls, and the effect was less like a conventional art collection and more like a hall of records. I recognized certain stylistic hallmarks as I moved—a fifteenth-century Flemish technique in the handling of light through a window, a later Italian approach to Baroque drapery from the seventeenth century. They reminded me of Tristan's portraits. At least these were given the respect they deserved.

Instead of names, Tristan gave me their Curses when I paused before paintings. A woman in Mughal-era dress, her painted eyes carrying an expression of patient understanding was the Curse of Silence. A wild looking man wearing only leather pants was the Curse of Lycaon. There were so many of them, all notably attractive. Curses didn't settle for ordinary vessels. Each painting was a masterpiece, worthy of study, but if I gave them their due, we'd never get to Tristan's painting. So, I kept moving.

Until I stopped.

The man in the painting wasn't standing or sitting in the usual poses used in portraits. Instead, he reclined on a bed among rumpled sheets, one knee bent with an arm casually propped on it. He wore only breeches, with the buttons undone, and a naughty smirk. His long dark hair hung around his broad shoulders in wild tangles, his eyes glinted with mischief, and his full lips glistened as if he'd just been kissed. There were scratches on his chest, the type a man bore after rough sex.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

Tristan cleared his throat.

I spun to look at him, eyes wide, horrified I'd been caught ogling another man, even if it were just a painting.

Tristan chuckled and motioned at the painting. “Can you guess?”

I blinked and looked back. My face went slack. “Oh! Lust?”