The petite artist carefully handed the slip of paper back, then brushed her hands down the front of her work smock as if the paper had grossly offended her.
His gaze sharpened at the unexpected movement, his hand simultaneously flexing toward the emerald-studded dagger he always wore strapped beneath his jacket.
Wrath was the general of war, but Envy could wield a weapon just as easily, and any sudden movements had the warrior in him on high alert, no matter how mundane a potential adversary might seem.
Miss Antonius repeated the motion, and Envy forced himself to relax and really take her in, realizing that—with her shimmering silver hair and unique eyes—there wasn’t anything mundane about Camilla’s appearance after all.
In fact, as he studied her further, he couldn’t help but note that her mouth looked like a heart, and if he’d had a mind to paint her, that was precisely the shape he’d use to capture it on canvas. The gentle sweeps and curves of both the upper and lower lips were wonderfully balanced, her Cupid’s bow a study in perfection.
Unaware that she’d caught his attention, Camilla dragged her teeth across her lower lip as she fussed with her clothing.
Those lips were plump, tempting things that caused his gaze to linger and his mind to spin with all sorts of wicked ideas. He’d been so focused on his weakening court, on the game, and on the curse before that, that he hadn’t thought of much else.
Temptation and sin fueled him, and he’d neglected both for far too long, it seemed.
His brother Lust would be pleased.
Envy immediately stopped his mind from wandering down roads he refused to travel and watched Camilla cringe slightly at the rough-spun work garment, then untie the strings at her waist, promptly removing the paint-smeared apron and shoving it under the desk.
He gave her a cool look.
“When can you begin work? This is rather time-sensitive, Miss Antonius.”
“Apologies, but I must have missed your name, Lord…”
Clever woman, her interrogation was subtle. Based on his fine suit and the elegant, cultured manner in which he spoke, she already knew he was a blueblood.
Little did she know he wasn’t human, and he was no mere lord; he was one of the seven ruling Princes of Hell.
In some mortal realms they were known as the Wicked—a name they’d earned after centuries of perfecting that moniker through sinful games and debauchery.
He was playing one such game now—except these stakes were the highest he’d ever played for.
“Lord Ashford Synton. But those who know me best simply call me Syn.”
It was a lie, naturally, but it would be the first of many now that he could do so.
“Well, Lord Synton,” she said, using his full surname to clearly remind him she was not one of his acquaintances, “I must decline this commission but am happy to consider another.”
“Pardon?”
Envy’s eyes narrowed. Of all the ways he’d considered this meeting might go, he hadn’t once imagined her declining his patronage.
He needed that painting to unlock the next clue.
And, according to the previous clue, which had played out in his throne room, she needed to be the one to create it. Same lie Lilac deciphered was Camilla Elise. He still hadn’t quite figured out why it had to be her, but he’d have an answer to that particular mystery soon enough.
Envy’s spies were currently unearthing all they could find on the artist, and whatever secrets she had wouldn’t stay hidden from him for long.
By week’s end, Envy would know every sin, vice, or virtue she held dear, and then he’d exploit that knowledge for all it was worth. Everyone wanted something, and he’d happily pay Miss Antonius whatever price she required.
Camilla nodded to the paper.
“You’ll need to find someone else to paint that for you, my lord.”
“That won’t do. You’re the best, hence my coming to this… establishment.”
He glanced around the gallery. The wooden sign outside swinging pleasantly in the breeze proclaimed WISTERIA WAY. It was hand-painted, yet elegant, and utterly charming.
The exterior was a simple stone cottage with lush vines of wisteria hanging over the entry. Something quaint one would imagine in any provincial countryside, if one had brought the countryside into the heart of the vibrant art district and wedged it between two larger, less welcoming buildings.
Inside, it felt more like a darkened chamber where secrets were whispered and clandestine meetings were held.
Dark carpets were layered over broad floorboards, and the walls were papered with a deep hunter-green brocade. Paintings and sketches in every medium hung in gilded frames, while sculptures and statuary stood guard over dark corners.
On a tiny round table in the alcove where she’d been painting by candlelight, multiple cups of used paintbrushes were collected in every size and shape imaginable, the water a swampy array of discarded colors.
Her canvas faced away from the door, leaving him to wonder what she’d been working on. Everything else in the gallery had been meticulously set up, showing the art to its best potential. It was all most intriguing. And not entirely what he’d expected.
Much like the woman standing before him, who, he realized, was studying him as closely as he’d just examined her gallery.
“I’ve not seen you at any society function nor heard any mention of you before, Lord Synton. Are you visiting?”
A tinge of annoyance hit him. He’d been in this mundane city for nearly two weeks, slowly restoring an old estate that overlooked the whole damned town. Surely she’d heard some whispers of his arrival. He managed a tight smile.
“For the time being, I’m staying indefinitely, Miss Antonius.”
It was close to the truth. Envy was prepared for anything—perhaps Miss Antonius would take longer than expected to paint the Hexed Throne, or the following clue might keep him here.
Of course, he’d also wanted a base from which he could keep watch—if the game had led him here, other players might soon follow. Or worse, had already arrived.
“Well, then, welcome. I can happily direct you to someone else who can help you.”
Envy noticed that her emotions had changed slightly. While he still sensed her annoyance bright and clear as day, he also felt a rising tide: impatience.
He could not fathom anyone feeling put off by his company.
Perhaps he should have listened to his brother’s ridiculous scheme to woo Camilla. If he flirted with her, she couldn’t possibly dismiss him so thoroughly.
Envy quietly seethed. Most humans had quite a different reaction to his kind. Demon princes had a certain dark charisma that attracted lovers; some believed it was due to their power to wield sins. He’d been certain she’d be taken in with little to no effort on his part.
He tried to keep the contempt from his voice.
“Is it a matter of payment?” he asked. “Name your price.”
“I assure you it has nothing to do with money, my lord.”
Her chin notched up defiantly. Envy knew damn well that she wasn’t in any position to turn down work that would pay so handsomely.
“Is there anything else I may help you with, or will you be on your way?” she asked. “I’m afraid you’ve come at an unfortunate time, as the gallery is closing.”
“Perhaps.”
Envy debated whether to use a bit of his sin to influence her agitated mood but decided against it. Fae games were tricky. Players couldn’t use magic to win. It kept the playing field level, reducing immortals to mere humans. Envy would burn before he’d admit how exciting he usually found that challenge. But these weren’t usual circumstances.