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“I broke your things last time,” he mutters, the words tumbling out. “So I replaced them. I bought out half the art boutique. Don’t get emotional about it. It’s charity.”

“Charity,” I repeat, fighting back a grin.

“Yes. You looked pathetic without your little brushes.”

I reach out and slide one hand around the nape of his neck. Ilya stiffens. I can see his lips parting to launch another venomous retort, but I lean in and catch his mouth with mine.

I feel the exact second his defenses give out as his hands come up to clutch at the front of my shirt. He makes a soft sound into my mouth, kissing me back.

“You are so sweet, prince,” I murmur against his skin.

“Don’t sweet-talk me,” he rasps back, though his hands stay tangled in my shirt, refusing to let go. He is so clingy, I don’t think he even realizes it.

“Since you’re already here,” I say, trailing my knuckles down the line of his cheek, “let me paint you.”

The scowl returns, but I see the secret spark in his eyes. He loves it. For all his complaints about sitting still and being stared at, there is nothing Ilya loves more than having my eyes entirely consumed by him.

“Fine,” he huffs, pulling away with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. “I will entertain you.”

He hops onto the drafting stool near the north window, crossing one leg over the other and resting his chin in his palm in an exaggerated pose of regal boredom.

I smile, pulling off my dark jacket and draping it over a chair. I walk over to the supply cart, unwrapping a fresh pack of the brushes he bought.

“You really went all out,” I remark, running a thumb over the silky bristles. “Handmade birch handles.”

Ilya lifts his chin proudly from the stool. “I only buy the best. You’re lucky I have expensive taste. Aren’t I nice?”

“Devastatingly nice,” I say, turning to look at him as I squeeze dollops of burnt sienna and raw titanium white onto my palette.

“Shut up and paint.”

I dip the brush into the linseed medium. As I begin sketching the outline of his jaw and the slope of his throat, I notice his gaze.

His eyes are glued to my right hand. Every time my wrist rotates, his pupils track the movement.

“Do you paint, Ilya?” I ask softly.

He blinks, pulling his gaze away from my hand to look at the floor.

“No,” he murmurs, the flippant tone slipping out of his voice entirely. “I don’t.”

“Have you ever tried?”

He hesitates, his fingers picking idly at a loose thread on the cuff of his sweater. “When I was little. I used to ask to draw all the time. My mother would sit on the terrace in the afternoon and draw things with me, but Alya was the one with real talent,” he adds, his voice dropping an octave. “She’s the artist. Papa bought her private tutors from Florence when she was seven. I was just… scribbling.”

I set my palette and brush down on the glass table as I walk over to his stool, unlock the caster wheels, and roll the chair directly across the floor until it is positioned right in front of a wooden easel holding a sheet of French cotton paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Get your hands out of your sleeves,” I say gently.

“Kento, I told you, I don’t draw—”

“You’re going to draw with me.”

“I don’t need an arts and crafts lesson—”

“Ilya.” I pick up a soft 4B graphite pencil and press it firmly into his right palm. “Hold it.”