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I watch Braxton’s face closely, but all I see is a sudden shift from sadness to pained.
“Please, don’t brush it aside,” I say, “or tell me not to worry about it. Just answer the question, once and for all. I deserve to know what I’m up against.”
His jaw clenches. He slides a hand through his tousle of hair. But he doesn’t pull and twist at his signet ring, and I take comfort in that.
“You’re notup againstanything,” he finally says. “It ended months ago.”
“For you maybe, but I’m not so sure about her.”
“Tasha—”
I follow the trajectory of his gaze. Moving from the rich brocades that spill down the sides of his canopy to the collection of large gilt-framed paintings that occupy the far wall. Though I can’t easily recall the names of all the artists, the images are painted in the style of the old masters—vivid, highly detailed, and biblical in nature—portraying subjects with faces twisted from both pleasure and pain as they wrestle with the dueling temptations of earthly delights versus spiritual bliss. Though there is one that stands out from the rest.
“Narcissus, by Caravaggio,” Braxton says. Judging by the way he winces when he catches me studying it, I figure it must be the most revealing piece in this room.
The painting depicts a handsome boy leaning over a pool of water and gazing at his own reflection. Everything surrounding him is dark, effectively shrinking his reality down to his image.
The painting is beautiful, brooding, like Braxton himself. And I can’t help but wonder if it serves as a sort of warning, a cautionary tale, of what becomes of those who lose themselves in the vanities of the world.
“Look,” Braxton says, his voice drawing me away from his art, his lush, masculine space with its polished woods, worn leathers, and charcoal gray walls. “Here’s what you need to know about Elodie—she’s loyal only to herself.”
“And Arthur?”
He pauses to think. “Maybe. But that’s the extent of it. And the truth is, I’m sorry I ever got involved. For her, it was all a big game.”
“And for you—did it mean something more?” I inhale a shallow breath, not entirely sure I want to hear his answer.
“No.” He’s quick to insist, but maybe too quick? “Or at least not in the way you might think. Look, I consider myself a loyal guy, and…I’m really not sure what you want me to say.” His hands helplessly flop on his lap.
“What about when you Trip?” I ask. “Are you loyal then, too?”
The air steamrolls right out of him. He falls back against a pile of cushions and stares at the swoop of fabric hanging over our heads. “Are we really going to do this?”
I pull one of the velvet pillows to my chest and pick at the silk fringe that runs along the edge. “I’m just curious how many princesses or countesses you might’ve slept with.” I hold my breath, feeling silly, needy, and embarrassingly small. But last night, I gave him a piece of my heart, and I want to make sure it’s safe in his hands.
“Tasha—” He reaches toward me, his fingers landing on the curve of my hip. “This is a terrible road to travel.”
“But you know everything about me! You researched me, watched me, studied me, stalked my social media, left no stone unturned. And meanwhile I know virtually nothing about you.”
“You know plenty.” He sighs, swipes a hand across his eyes. The conversation is weighing on him.
“I know you’ve gone out of your way to be kind, but other than the few details you’ve shared about your past—”
“What is it you want to know?” He rolls into a sitting position and spreads his arms wide. “Now’s your chance. Ask me anything.”
“How did someone like you end up with someone like Elodie?”
He regards me for a long, sobering moment. “This place,” he finally says. “Gray Wolf changes you. And for a long time, it changed me. But now I’m trying to find my way back.”
Outside, a loud clap of thunder shakes the whole sky.
Inside, I rid myself of all thoughts of the past and focus on the present, as this beautiful boy pulls me into his arms and silences me with a kiss.
