“I’m not expecting anyone,” I answer, my voice flat and grouchy.
My brothers don’t disturb me unless it’s urgent. And in the Rusnak family, “urgent” usually means something capable of ruining my entire week. I really don’t want to let him up.
“What do you want?”
“Seb.” He frowns up at the camera, irritation sharpening his features.
I roll my eyes and hit the button.
The elevator hums as it ascends. I turn away from the intercom and walk back to my easel, charcoal already waiting between my fingers. The doors slide open behind me just as I resume painting, dragging a line across the vellum like nothing has changed.
I hear his footsteps, but I don’t look up.
He stops a few feet behind me.
Without turning, I rotate the easel slightly, angling the canvas away so he can’t see it.
“What do you want?” I ask again.
“Is that a way to greet your brother?”
I ignore him.
Lev moves past me toward the minibar. Glass clinks softly. He pours two fingers of something dark into a pair oftumblers. When he comes back, I’m lowering myself onto the couch, charcoal still smeared across my hands.
He offers me one.
My fingers stain the glass as I take it.
“Why are you here?” I mumble, watching him knock back his drink in one smooth swallow.
“Drink first.”
The words tighten something in my chest.
Alarm bells start ringing. Lev doesn’t ease into bad news. He braces people for impact. If he wants me to drink first, whatever he’s about to say is catastrophic.
I don’t argue.
I knock back the drink. It burns its way down my throat, sharp and unforgiving.
Lev watches me closely.
Then he says, “You’re getting married. It’s a strategic alliance.”
The room tilts.
“You can’t refuse.”
I lift my gaze to Lev, irritation slicing through me sharp enough to upset my balance. Arranged marriages aren’t new in our world, but they’re usually political theater—ceremonial chains fastened around my cousins. Not me. Not the reclusive artist. Not the Forger Prince who prefers ink to people and shadows to ceremony.
I have never been a negotiable asset.
“What do you mean I can’t refuse?” I ask.
Lev’s expression hardens. There’s no humor there. No brotherly indulgence. Just the weight of authority he never bothers pretending he doesn’t wield.
“The council wants the alliance,” he says. “And you’re the only suitable match.”
