I expected her to reject it. I anticipated another show of defiance, perhaps a canvas broken over her knee, paints smeared across the glass walls. It would have been predictable. It would have been boring.
She did something far more interesting.
She began to draw. And from the first angry, slashing lines, I knew her subject was me. A cold, predatory thrill shot through me. She was trying to dissect me, to exorcise me. To reduce me to charcoal and paper.
But as the hours wore on, I witnessed a transformation. The frantic, angry energy subsided, replaced by a deep, almost reverent concentration. Her head tilted, her brow furrowed. Her hand, which had held the charcoal like a weapon, softened its grip, moving now with an artist’s grace. She was no longer just drawing a monster. She was studying a man.
My pulse quickens. This is better than compliance. This isobsession. She is so consumed by me, by her hatred and her fear and her undeniable curiosity, that she must render my image to make sense of it. She is dedicating hours of her time, her focus, her very soul, to the study of my face.
The sun begins its descent, painting the snow outside in hues of orange and gold. On the screen, she finally steps back from the easel. She stands there for a long moment, covered in a fineblack dust, a warrior surveying her kill. But the look on her face is not one of triumph. It is one of pure, unadulterated horror.
It is time.
I rise from my desk, my movements smooth and silent. I leave the sterile control of my office and walk through the quiet, opulent corridors of my home. Every step is deliberate, my anticipation a sharp, pleasant ache in my chest. I am not going to see a prisoner. I am going to see a tribute.
The glass door to the conservatory slides open noiselessly. The warm, humid air, thick with the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine, envelops me. She doesn’t hear me. Her back is to me, her posture rigid, her entire being focused on the canvas before her.
I approach silently, my shoes making no sound on the flagstone path. I stop directly behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, to smell the faint, clean scent of her hair mixed with the dusty aroma of charcoal. My gaze moves past her shoulder to the easel.
And my breath catches in my throat.
It is not a caricature. It is not a monster.
It is a masterpiece.
She has captured me. Not just my likeness, but my essence. The cold authority, the predatory stillness, the violence simmering just beneath the surface—it is all there, rendered in stark, unforgiving black and white. But she has also captured the things no one else sees. The intelligence in the eyes, the cruel curve of the mouth that hints at a capacity for devastating passion, the almost imperceptible weight of command that settles on my shoulders. It is beautiful. It is terrifying. It is the most intimate portrait of a man’s soul I have ever seen.
She did not create a monster. She created a king.Her king.
A low, guttural sound of pure, possessive triumph escapes my lips. “Magnificent.”
Wynter flinches as if struck, whirling around to face me. Her eyes are wide with panic, her face pale beneath the smudges of charcoal. She looks from me to the drawing, a caged animal realizing the hunter has been in the cage with her the entire time.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she gasps, her voice trembling. She lunges for the canvas, her hands outstretched, her clear intent to rip it from the easel, to destroy the evidence of her obsession.
I am faster. I grab her wrists, my fingers wrapping around her delicate bones, stilling her frantic movements. “Oh, no,cara,” I murmur, my voice a low, dangerous purr. “You don’t get to destroy it.”
“It’s nothing,” she insists, struggling against my grip. “It’s ugly. It’s a monster. It’s how I see you.”
“No,” I say, my voice surprisingly soft, which seems to startle her more than a shout would. I pull her back against my chest, trapping her, but my grip is firm, not bruising. “It’s not ugly. It’s honest. It’s powerful.”
I release her wrists and gesture toward the canvas. “My mother was an artist.”
The words hang in the humid air between us. Wynter stops struggling, her body going still against mine. I can feel her confusion, the way her mind is scrambling to fit this new piece into the puzzle of the monster she thinks she knows.
“She painted,” I continue, my voice a low rumble, my gaze fixed on the portrait. “Not pretty landscapes or bowls of fruit. She painted people. She painted their truth. The darkness and the light. She said that real art is never polite.”
I finally look down at her, at the top of her head nestled just below my chin. “She would have loved this. She would have seen the fire in your technique.”
Wynter turns her head slightly, looking up at me, her eyes filled with a wary, disbelieving confusion. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to understand,” I say, my hand coming up to cup her jaw, my thumb gently wiping a streak of charcoal from her cheek. “I know what Evilin did. I know she took your art from you. She tried to extinguish your fire because she was afraid of its heat. She wanted to turn you into a pale, cold reflection of herself.”
I lean in, my lips brushing against her ear, my voice dropping to a possessive whisper. “I am not afraid of your fire, Wynter. I want to stoke it. I want it to burn so brightly it consumes everything else. You have her gift. Her passion.” I pull back, forcing her to meet my gaze. “And I will not let it be extinguished. I will own it.”
Her face is a mask of horrified disbelief and dawning comprehension. He isn't just a monster; he's a connoisseur of them. He's not just a captor; he's a patron.
I release her and step back, the moment of connection severed, the cold mask of command sliding back into place. “Alrik,” I say, speaking into the hidden microphone in my lapel. “Have this piece removed from the conservatory. I want it framed. Museum-quality. And hang it in my office. Directly across from my desk, where I can see it every day.”
