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It’s the first outfit made for me by the minotaur seamstresses, and even though they measured me twice, it’s still a little big for my taste. I can imagine them fussing over measurements, thinking they’d misread the numbers since they’re so much smaller than what they’re used to. I try not to be irritated, but as Lizette pulls the corset laces as tight as they’ll go, the dress drops half an inch, andI can’t help but scowl. This dress is beautiful, with its billowing navy skirt and crystal encrusted top, but I wish they’d let me wear my own clothes for the portrait.
At least they would have fit.
“I might have to pin the back to keep it in place,” Liz sighs, changing the subject. She talks mainly to herself as she looks over the dress with a careful eye. “It should be okay unless they’re painting your back. In which case, we’d have to pin the front. I just wish we knew how they planned to do it.”
Judging by the artwork throughout the castle, I don’t see the back of the dress being pinned as a big issue, but she leaves my hair down in loose waves to cover her handiwork anyway. After donning a tiara encrusted with chunky blue sapphires and touching up my makeup, we’re ready to head to the throne room, where the painting will take place.
As nervous as I am about standing stark still for hours on end, I’m more nervous about being semi-alone with Nor. Even after our tender moment in my bedchamber, he hasn’t made an effort to get me alone again. He hasn’t said much to me either, outside of casual conversation at mealtimes, but at least those are pleasant. As eager as he was to consummate our marriage the first night, he seems to have lost interest in me, and the lack of communication keeps me in a constant state of confusion.
“You’re thinking too much again,” Lizette says, and I realize I’ve been staring into space, unmoving, as she tries to make her way to the door. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“I hope so.” I glance at the mirror a final time, sweeping over my reflection with an approving glance, and we make our way downstairs.
When we arrive, the room—a wide hall with pale marble floors and black columns stretching up the walls to the ceiling—is empty, aside from two forms moving at the opposite end. The painter is setting up a massive canvas much taller than me and organizing a collection of paints and other mediums on a table beside him. Nor is pacing near a set of massive black thrones, plated silver armor over his bare chest, and a navy cloak falling behind him to the floor. His dark pants are lined in silver, and I can hear the clop of his black boots across the empty space.
His eyes dart over as we enter the room and he stills, watching us approach. I can’t help but catch my breath a little at the sight of him. He looks incredibly regal in uniform. Powerful. Sexy. Although I’ve seen most of what he hides beneath those clothes, I can’t help but wonder what the rest of his hard, chiseled form looks like.
For some reason, despite how striking he looks, I can’t help but poke fun at him as soon as he’s within earshot.
“You forgot your shirt,” I say, putting on a smirk.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “And you forgot your humor. The good news is, we don’t need either today.”
Lizette snickers behind me and I open my mouth to reply, but snap it shut as my cheeks prickle with heat. As annoying as he is, I can’t deny the enjoyment I get from arguing with him. Coupled with his uniform, the snark is making my otherwise comfortable dress way too hot.
“I’ll check back in a bit to see if you need anything,” Lizette whispers in my ear. “I’m going to snoop around the library some more.”
I nod, hoping she finds something new that we might have overlooked, and watch as she bows to Nor and heads back across the room.
“The library?” he asks, taking a step closer to me. He keeps his voice low, even though the painter is distracted setting up his supplies. “You two have been spending an awful lot of time reading. Is that normal for humans?”
“Sometimes,” I chuckle. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
He shrugs, a cocky smile crossing his face. “You just seem so unread. That’s all.”
This time, my jaw drops, and I stare at him in disbelief while he laughs. What a jerk.
“Your Highnesses,” the painter says as he approaches from the easel, getting our attention and making me forget the insult I’d come up with. “My name is Eyal, and I’m honored to serve you both. Today, we will be immortalizing this union with a royal portrait, as I’m sure you’re both aware. If you’ll come stand just here, we’ll get positioned.” He gestures to a spot a few feet in front of the thrones, just away from a spill of rainbow light cast from one of the chandeliers.
Immortalizing this union.
How will they react when Nor becomes king and I return to Hyatt? Will they destroy this painting like our broken marriage, or keep it for years to come as a reminder of what once was? As a reminder that human princesses don’t make good wives?
I decide it’s better not to ask.
I follow Eyal’s order and get a good look at him for the first time. He’s older, the beige skin of his face set with wrinkles, and he’s short for a minotaur due to the hunch in his back. His eyes are pale, outlined in wrinkled skin, and one of his front teeth is made of gold. He wears a paint-stained apron over simple clothes, and I note a few chips in his bone-colored horns.
Painting must be a stressful job, because this guy looks like he’s been to hell and back.
He tries us in several positions, stepping back a few times to look at the overall composition before changing it again. He moves my arm, then turns Nor’s shoulders forward, and moves my arm back to its original position. I obey his suggestions quietly, growing more eager to begin with every position change. The quicker we get started, the quicker this will be over, which already sounds like a dream.
Eyal finally settles on me turned at an angle with Nor behind me, one hand on my hip. We’re so close that my shoulders are almost resting against his armor, and I’m hyperaware of each of his minute movements behind me. I feel the warmth of his breath dancing over me and hear the tiny clinks of his armor every time he budges.
“If he makes me look ugly, can we paint over it and never speak of it again?” I whisper jokingly as the artist heads back to his setup to get started. He reaches for a long wooden paintbrush and plops it into a glob of navy paint.
Nor stifles a laugh behind me and keeps his voice low when he answers. “I doubt that’ll happen.”
I’m not entirely convinced, despite his confidence. Eyal may call himself a painter, but I’ve never seen any of his work. Who’s to say he’s decent at all?
