The deep rich voice brushed her skin like black velvet.
Wariness flicked in her chest before she doused it. Nothing triggered her fight or flight like the sound of Berith's voice.
Marcella turned, her gaze traveling over to see the man walking just to stand beside her. The heat of his presence seeped deep into her skin, wrapping her like a warm blanket.
Her heart slowed a fraction of a beat.
Berith did not look pleased at all as his dark predator gaze ping ponged between her and Lucian.
Lucian turned toward him with the sa easy smile he had given Marcella. "Your Grace." He greeted politely, nodding his head. "It has been so ti."
Berith returned his polite nod with dry amusent. But it was his eyes that held her still—dark, smoldering, and calculating, like the calm before a storm.
"Indeed, Your Highness" Berith replied, though his gaze barely left Marcella. "You seem rather engaged in conversation with my betrothed."
Heat rushed over the back of her neck. His betrothed?
Marcella sighed dramatically, folding her arms. "If you two are finished speaking about as if I am not standing right here, perhaps we can return to the fact that I was enjoying this conversation."
Lucian laughed. "My apologies, Lady Marcella. It seems the Duke is already quite protective of you."
Her nose twitched. "It seems so. A new habit, I imagine."
Berith ignored the remark and instead extended his hand. "Shall we? We are, after all, here together."
Marcella hesitated—she turned to Lucian bowing, "It was truly a pleasure seeing you, Your Highness. I hope we et again soon."
The Crown Prince accepted her warm farewell with a small nod. The curve of his lips pulled up, as he flashed her a smile that reached his eyes.
The, she slipped her hand into his. His touch felt warm to her skin, spreading shiver of ripples throughout her veins. "How considerate of you to rember."
The mont they were out of sight, Marcella imdiately withdrew her hand from his hold.
"Must you?" she snapped, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve.
His chuckle ca off condescending. "Must I what?"
She sucked in a breath, "Play your little ga of possession. Dragging to this exhibition like so prized relic, parading before the court as if I'm a trophy to be claid." The words shook through her chattering teeth.
"Trophy? Hardly." Berith crossed his arms against his chest, drawing her eyes toward the muscles straining beneath his fabric.
Marcella gawked at him, wondering if she should be offended. "A sha, then, that I do not recall being sold to you like an ornant."
He rubbed his chin. "Perhaps not. But I have every intention of ensuring that no one doubts our arrangent. The court will think twice before daring to question your place at my side." His jaw clenched and his sharp bone structure stood out even more.
Marcella scoffed, sothing flashed behind her eyes before disappearing. "Let be clear, Your Grace—" she lifted her chin ever so slightly in defiance while staring him straight in the eyes. "I do not play along when ordered."
Berith leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Then pretend it was your idea."
Their close proximity caressed her skin like velvet. Damn him.
The tension thickened and slipped into her veins. Hot and restless, her lungs were filled with his scent.
To dissolve the inexplicable tension blanketing the air, Marcella turned abruptly and strode away.
She hated how easily her cheeks flushed in his presence. How he affected her.
Slowly, Marcella found herself drifting deeper into the exhibition, away from the gilded conversations of noble guests.
She stopped abruptly.
A single oil painting at the far end of the hall, caught her eye—and with it, a sensation like ice creeped down her spine.
It was dark and sprawling, its brushstrokes jagged, almost frantic, as if painted by a hand desperate to convey sothing before it was too late.
Her throat dried as she recognized it imdiately.
A palace in flas. A throne cloaked in darkness. And at its center—a lone, fallen figure.
A queen.
Her.
Marcella's heart rate sped up. The nerves scaled their way up her chest and into her throat. Her stomach was roiling, and it was all she could do not to show how the painting affected her.
How?
How could anyone has painted this? This mont—this mory—had died with her.
And yet, here it was.
As if fate itself had found a way to mock her.
Her gloved hand reached out, fingers barely brushing the painting's surface. The texture of the paint was rough, almost unfinished in places, as though the artist had been unable—or unwilling—to complete it fully.
Her eyes trailed down to the bottom corner.
A signature.
Or rather, what should have been a signature.
Instead, the na had been smudged beyond recognition, as if soone had deliberately destroyed it.
Marcella swallowed hard.
Whoever had painted this—knew sothing.
Soone was watching her.
Soone knew who she was.
"Your tastes are darker than I expected, Lady Valemont," The smooth timbre of his voice fanned against her ears.
Marcella whipped around, barely masking the alarm that flared in her chest.
Berith stood just behind her, one gloved hand resting casually behind his back, but his dark eyes were locked onto the painting.
Marcella watched him closely.
His expression didn't change—but sothing flickered behind his gaze: an emotion too brief to na.
Not shock.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
He knows sothing.
Reviews
All reviews (0)