Rejection was an unfamiliar and galling experience. Who was she to refuse to speak tohim,Taevas Aždaja, Lord of the Dragon Clans and Isand of the Draakonriik, war hero, the youngest leader to sign the Peace Charter, the patron who’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars commissioning her over nearly a decade, the man who spent every waking hour trying not to think of her?—
He’d been forced by pride and self-preservation to remove himself from the situation. A large part of him was relieved, believing that he’d finally found his limit and the obsession would die off, but it didn’t last.
Itneverlasted.
It only took another one of her notes, delivered with a parcel he hadn’t ordered.
I know this isn’t your usual style, but the flowers in my garden are in bloom. They made me think of your colors. Thank you for all your support over the years. I look forward to every new project more than I can say. I hope you’re well. -A
It was a gift. His artisan had sent him an oval-shaped embroidery hoop. The fabric stretched within it was nearly translucent. The stitches were so small, so fine, that they were only tiny flashes of jewel tones holding real pressed wildflowers in place. It was the single most beautiful piece of textile work he’d ever seen — and he’d beheld her skill with real gold and scarab beetle shells and crystal beads. Nothing compared to it. To what she’d chosen to givehim.
He crumbled. The great Isand, with his immense pride, was felled by the petals of a few wildflowers.
Some rules had to remain in place, for his sake and hers. He couldn’t allow himself to use the full force of his influence, nor his resources. It would violate the sacred thing that had bloomed between them. Taint it. He didn’t want to force his way into her life by demanding the atelier divulge her information or having spies track her down.
Not only would it be a horrific misuse of his power, but it would violate her right to keep him away. It was more than likely she was one of his citizens. Using his position to find her felt ugly. Taevas was obsessed, but he wasn’t a monster. More than that, he wantedherto come tohim.
So he continued, little by little, to needle the atelier. In return, they continued to demure, alternating between respecting her privacy and simply brushing off his requests. After a time, he got the feeling that their refusal wasn’t entirely based on his artisan’s wishes, which ignited a cold, quiet fury, but he didn’t dare press too hard, lest they cut him off entirely.
It seemed unlikely, given his patronage over the years, let alone his position, but he couldn’t risk it. The out of control thing in him wouldn’t allow it.
He began sending gifts. Bolts of the finest fabric and silk thread for her own use. Art that reminded him of her work. A new chair and work table designed specifically for sewists, to save their backs. He would’ve sent diamonds the size of robin eggs, gifts of food, blankets made of the finest materials, exotic flowers, or even money — if only he could be certain any of it would make it to her.
As it happened, he could only believe what the atelier told him, which was that they passed everything along. His artisan’s notes never mentioned his gifts, however, so he couldn’t be certain. The notes were sweet, always thanking him for his patronage, and usually included some tiny, abstract detail about her life.
This design was inspired by my grandfather.
This color reminded me of my favorite tea.
I know you asked for maroon, but I’m sure you’ll like plum better. It’s my favorite color.
He didn’t care what she sent him anymore. He’d wear anything. Hedidwear anything. Taevas wore her creations as often as he was able, and he tried his best to make sure he was photographed. Over the years he began to develop an even flashier reputation than he previously possessed, but he didn’t care. It was all part of the plan to get his artisan’s attention, somehow, someway.
Look at me,he demanded, flashing a wink over the rim of his sunglasses at a photographer. He always imagined it was her behind the lens.See how proud I am to wear your work. Talk to me. Please, gods, just talk to me.
Three years he’d been holding onto the fraying threads of his decency, his control, waiting with bated breath for her to reach out to him.
Never, in the decade of imaginings, did he think that he would simply… stumble across her. And never could he have dreamed that she would be more beautiful, more interesting,more mysteriousthan the phantom he’d crafted to fill that hollow place in his chest.
Nothing about it made sense. How could fate have worked so perfectly, so cruelly, as to thrust them togethernow?
Chapter Ten
Hoursafter they came to an understanding in the kitchen, Alashiya sighed, “I hate being behind.”
Stalton had withheld her payment for a month the last time she’d asked for an extension. She couldn’t afford to take that kind of hit again, or worse — risk the atelier cutting ties with her altogether.
Her grove had been doing business with them since her grandparents first came to the UTA. The atelier sold her grove’s work and took a cut for their efforts. Once, their work had been in high demand from many shops and designers, but now the demand for handmade embroidery was much lower.
She was lucky that Stalton still commissioned her, and even luckier that Adon continued to request her work. Alashiya couldn’t risk alienating either of them.
So she worked into the evening, until she was forced to turn on a lamp, and then worked some more, pretending all the while that she wasn’t hyper-aware of the dragon that watched her from the doorway. The tips of her right thumb and index finger grew red and sore from the constant push and pull of the needle. Her back ached. Her eyes began to burn from the strain of focusing on such small details for solong.
It wasn’t until the dragon made a low rumbling noise that she realized she was hungry, too. She’d missed dinner again.
Alashiya sat back in her chair with a low groan. Flexing her right hand came with some difficulty. Her muscles were locked in position. Trying to massage some life back into them, she dared to glance at the dragon, whose snout just barely touched the threshold of the door.
“I don’t make for good entertainment,” she dryly noted. “I bet watching me work is a bit like watching paint dry.”
