Her father used to say talent like hers was a long-ago gift, perhaps bestowed on her family by some powerful Fae, and that when Camilla delved into its power, she shifted into the time of Faerie or the shadow realms.
It was dangerous, Pierre would remind her, to meddle with unpredictable forces, to stand between realms.
The idea that she might not be able to control her gift annoyed Camilla, even coming from her father. The depths of her talent might be a gift, but she’d worked hard at her craft. To understand not just what called to her, but how to give it life, how to make it her own.
Something Pierre Antonius had once known too. Before he’d crumbled in the end.
Camilla set her brush down, rubbing at the knot that had formed in her chest.
Her heart ached when she thought of her father. Time was so precious, human or Fae. She’d give nearly anything to have one more moment with him.
The abandoned canvas sent out a subtle pulse of light, a shadow-like heartbeat.
The throne did not want Camilla’s attention to stray. It was displeased.
It was the master of her universe now. And she would obey.
In an almost trancelike state, she picked up the brush, dipped it into the paint, and continued. From the darkness the throne had emerged, and now from the throne came the flames, burning bright, bold, insistent—
What felt like a moment later, she’d been roughly lifted off her feet. A hand firmly held her legs, and another pinned her backside while all the blood rushed painfully to her head.
Disoriented and half under the throne’s spell, Camilla needed another long moment to realize she’d been unceremoniously tossed over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Just as suddenly as she’d been picked up, she was dropped to her feet, the sound of a door slamming finally snapping her into the here and now at the same moment her back hit a wall. The impact wasn’t strong enough to harm her, but it did jolt her into awareness.
Camilla blinked until her abductor’s furious face came into view.
“What the bloody hell were you doing, Miss Antonius?”
Synton’s normally cultured voice was nothing more than a snarl, his expression bordering on savage as his gaze raked over her.
Cold air kissed her flushed cheeks.
The temperature had suddenly dropped, as if each fireplace in the estate had gone out at once. If Synton hadn’t been standing so close, she’d have rubbed her arms to escape the chill.
“Painting.” She glared back at him. “Or have you somehow forgotten our bargain in the last hour, my lord?”
He gave her a strange look, eyes narrowing slightly.
He stared for an uncomfortably long beat, his expression remaining as ruthless and hard as ever as he slowly looked her over again.
After another intense sweep of his focus, his stance relaxed, and he stepped back.
Marginally.
A flicker of warmth returned to her skin.
“From now on, you’ll only work on the Hexed Throne with me inside the studio too.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I’m protecting my investment.”
“That’s not—”
“Negotiable,” he interrupted, flashing a dark grin as her scowl deepened. “Willingly paint with me in the room, or I’ll handcuff us together until it’s complete, Miss Antonius. And I do mean the whole time it will take. The choice is up to you, pet.”
TWENTY-FIVE
ENVY KNEW CAMILLA would be furious if he called her pet, but that didn’t stop him from doing it. Igniting strong emotions in her perversely amused him. He liked seeing her nostrils flare ever so slightly, liked seeing the uptick in her pulse and the narrowing of those moonlike eyes. He’d come to enjoy the second before she gave him a little bit of hell.
And right now, her clear-eyed aggravation was a relief. When he’d pounded on the door the first night and she hadn’t answered, he’d gone to bed thinking nothing of it, knowing how easy it was to get lost to creativity.
On the second evening, after Alexei had spent the day outside the studio and reported that she hadn’t emerged to eat or drink, Envy had grown suspicious.
Camilla hadn’t lied when she’d told him she’d only been gone an hour—he would have sensed it if she had. To her it had only been that.
Meanwhile, just over two days had passed in Waverly Green.
Envy wasn’t sure whether it was the game or the throne itself causing time to flicker, but whatever the cause, he would not be leaving Camilla alone again.
It didn’t surprise him in the least that this clue was proving more difficult than the last. Lennox wouldn’t give up his prize so easily this time.
Camilla tried to move out from beneath his arm and he blocked her passage, keeping her firmly against the wall.
“Now what?” she asked, fresh aggravation lacing her tone.
“It’s getting late. You’ll eat and drink something, then retire to bed. We’ll begin again after you’ve fully rested. You are of no use to me if you’re ill or half dead.”
Silence stretched between them.
Camilla’s eyes sparked with anger.
“Nowhere in our bargain do I recall agreeing to specified bedtimes, Lord Synton. I work until I’m satisfied. You may either join me or see yourself to bed alone. Clearly your senses have been addled if you believe you have any right to order me around.”
Envy looked her over, wondering what was so gods-damned appealing about this constant battle of wills. If this mix of intrigue and arousal was even close to how Lust constantly felt, it was a wonder he did anything aside from indulge his sin every moment of the day.
A muscle in Envy’s jaw tightened. He wanted Camilla to continue painting for selfish reasons, and he was far from tired. If she wished to continue, then so be it.
He stepped back and swept an arm out. “After you, then, Miss Antonius.”
Camilla brushed past him and walked into the studio, spine straight, as if entering a battle.
If a war ever did break out, he wouldn’t be surprised if she eliminated her enemies, one by one. Her will was one of the strongest he’d ever encountered.
Camilla was all polite society darling until pushed; then a scrappy little warrior emerged, baring teeth.
Her savage side called to his.
She rolled her stiff shoulders only once and then sat, the emerald paintbrush he’d gifted her already in her hand and poised above the red paint. She’d kept his apron cinched at her waist.
Behind her, Envy poured himself a knuckle of brandy and leaned against the settee by the fire, his gaze snagging on the painting for the first time.
Camilla was much further along than he’d imagined.
Seeing the throne emerge from the canvas, he was reminded less of a chair and more of a blade, which made sense, considering the hexed object was precisely that: a weapon. Camilla had chosen a color somewhere between champagne and bronze, not quite warm in tone and not cool, either, but situated perfectly between the two.
Opposites melded together in perfect harmony.
Camilla had only just begun to add the flames on the left. She worked on them now, her brush dipping in and out of the blended paint on her palette.
As he stared at the image, the darkness around the throne slowly undulated, as if smoke were curling around the sides of the canvas. Curious.
If Camilla noticed the oddity, she didn’t let on.