"Sorry. May I adjust your position? For artistic purposes. Not murder purposes."
He releases my wrist. Nods once. I touch his shoulder carefully, angling him toward the light. He's all tension under expensive fabric.
"There. Perfect. You can see the actual color of your skin now. Which is pale but not corpse-pale. More 'I work indoors' pale."
"I don't live in a cave."
"You live in shadow. Same principle." I retreat to my easel, start mixing colors. "When's the last time you just... sat in sunlight? Without planning someone's demise?"
"This morning. When you forced me to."
"That was five minutes of aggressive compliance. Doesn't count." I'm getting his skin tone wrong. Too pink. He's moregray-undertoned. "I mean really sat. Maybe read a book. Had tea. Watched dust motes."
"I don't watch dust motes."
"You should. They're very soothing. Like tiny, lazy snow." I glance up. He's watching me instead of the dust motes. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like you're cataloging weaknesses."
"I'm always cataloging weaknesses."
"Well catalog the dust motes instead. I need you looking natural, not planning where to hide my body." I add more gray to the mix. Better. "Besides, we both know you're not going to kill me."
"Confident."
"Accurate. You've had multiple opportunities. Instead you're letting me rearrange your furniture and criticize your curtains." I start sketching the basic shapes. "Face it. You're domesticated."
His shadows flare. Just for a moment. "I am not domesticated."
"You're sitting for a portrait in your private study. That's at least partially domesticated."
"Do not compare me to a cat."
"Too late. Already did." I'm getting the angle of his jaw now. It really is architectural. "Very elegant cat though."
He makes a sound that might be offense or amusement. But he stops trying to catalog my weaknesses and just... sits. In sunlight. In his own chair. Looking almost comfortable.
"This is nice," I say without thinking.
"What is?"
"This. You being... here. Not performing Shadow King duties. Just being Ruvan who needs better curtains and possibly some plants."
"I don't need plants."
"Everyone needs plants. They make oxygen. You like breathing, don't you?"
"I'm indifferent to breathing."
"Liar." I'm painting properly now, losing myself in getting the light right. "You're very attached to breathing. I've seen you do it. Quite regularly."
We fall into quiet then. Just the scratch of brush on canvas and distant sounds below. His shadows settle, pooling naturally instead of coiling with intent. The sunlight makes patterns through the dirty window that I definitely need to clean.
When I come back. Because this won't be done in one session, no matter what he thinks.
"Stop smiling," he says.
