"Of course I'm nervous. You're very intimidating." She glances at me, then back at her canvas. "All those shadows and sharp angles and general air of barely contained violence."
"But you're still here."
"Well, yes. The light in this room is exceptional." She adds a delicate stroke. "And you need documenting. For posterity."
"Posterity."
"Someone should remember you as more than the Shadow King." Another stroke. "Even if it's just one painting in a room somewhere, proof that you were human too."
The words hit somewhere I thought I'd walled off. My shadows reach toward her before I can stop them. She doesn't flinch when one brushes her wrist. Just smiles.
"See? Very reactive."
"That's not—"
"Oh, wait. I need to fix your collar. It's casting the wrong shadow." She sets down her brush, wipes her hands on her paint-covered apron. "May I?"
I nod. Words have abandoned me.
She approaches carefully. Smart. Her fingers are gentle as she adjusts my collar, barely touching skin. But it's enough. Heat races down my spine. My shadows curl around her wrists.
"There." She's close. Gold flecks in green eyes. "Much better."
She doesn't move back immediately. Just stands there, hands near my throat, staring at me. Her lips part. Her tongue darts out.
I'm going to kiss her. The thought arrives like a diagnosis. Terminal. Twenty years of control dissolving because she's standing here with paint in her hair and I can't—
My hand moves without permission, finds her thigh through fabric. She makes a sound—soft, surprised—but doesn't pull away. Something cracks in my chest. I trace upward, palm burning through her skirts, following curves I've memorized. She's warm. Real. Here.
"Ruvan..." Just my name. But the way she says it—
My fingers find her waist. She sways toward me. I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel—
The door explodes.
I'm moving before wood hits ground. Shadows wrap around Olivia, yanking her behind my desk as water floods the room. Tide Runners. Should have smelled salt and seaweed before they got this close. Would have, if I hadn't been distracted by freckles and soft curves.
"Stay down." I shove her under the desk as another wave crashes through my doorway.
Six of them. Two more coming through the window she insisted on cleaning. Water swirls around their feet, forming weapons. Sloppy but effective.
Time for the Shadow King. The man contemplating kisses dissolves. Much simpler.
My hand still burns where I touched her.
"Bold of you to attack my personal study." My voice drops to the register that makes grown men piss themselves. "Stupid, but bold."
The lead Tide Runner—scarred face, missing eye—grins. "Heard the Shadow King's gone soft. Figured we'd test it."
"By all means. Test away."
They attack simultaneously. Sloppy. I dissolve, reform behind Scarface, drive shadow through his kidney. He drops. My palm still tingles from her warmth as blood sprays. Water magic requires concentration. Hard to concentrate drowning in your own blood.
Two more rush. I catch one's water whip, yank him into my knee. Cartilage explodes. Grab the other's throat. Neck snaps. Under the desk, Olivia makes a small, hurt sound.
"Is this the test? Because I'm failing to see the challenge."
The remaining attackers hesitate. Good. Hesitation kills more than courage.
