Page 112 of This Shattered Star

He moved just enough for her to fit past him. Only when she was halfway through did he grab her arm. “Or perhaps I’ll have my father kill you for yours. I don’t take lightly to threats.”

“Let go of me,” she hissed. But there was a certain downturn to her brow that I had not yet seen on her before.

“Know your place,” Kodhan hissed back. Her sneer wavered a fraction. “I do not take orders from you. And the next time I hear whispers of you disrespecting her,” a tilt of his head in my direction, “it will not be my father doling out any form of punishment. It will be me. And I am far crueler than him.”

She yanked her arm away like he’d burned her. And maybe he had.

For once, she did not push for the last word. And that was how I knew she was afraid. If there was anything in this world Diana cared about more than power, it was her own hide.

Her heels echoed as she disappeared down the hall without so much as a glance back at me. No doubt to spread false versions of what had just happened.

“You didn’t have to defend me like that,” I said, a tad breathless.

“I wanted to.”

“The woman is vindictive. She’ll haunt your steps until her idea of revenge is exacted.”

He nodded to the artist before stopping next to where I sat. “I’ve told you before, Eloise. I am not afraid of any Fennhaven.” His eyes dropped to mine, and a shiver of anticipation trailed down my spine. “She’s lucky to have her head still attached to her shoulders.”

A small laugh burst past my lips. “She did run out of here rather quickly.”

Kodhan snorted. The sound was so unlike him that I laughed again. Moving past the growing smile on his lips, I studied his ensemble, the impeccable black vest cut precisely to the muscled planes of his arms, shoulders, and chest. It fit him deliciously, the shimmering diamonds adorning his lapel complementing the hundreds of smaller ones sewn into my skirts.

Together, we were night incarnate.

He draped half an arm across the back of my chair. “How long have you been sitting here?”

I thought the artist would protest, but he merely continued pattering the bristles of his paintbrush across the canvas.

“Too long.”

His eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault. Besides, you’re here now.” And I did not intend to part from him again for quite some time. Though it didn’t stop me from drinking in his every detail like I could commit them fully to memory.

“You can’t look at me like that, Eloise,” he said gruffly. “Not when we have company.”

“I am merely looking.”

“No, you are not.”

I couldn’t help it. I was addicted to the way his mere presence dispelled the hollow ache plaguing me since I’d returned to the castle. He made me feel alive. I didn’t want to feel anything else. Couldn’t stomach the alternative.

Without taking his eyes off me, he asked the artist, “Will this be sufficient, Henri?”

The brush paused. “I do believe so.”

“Then I may have to ask that you take your work elsewhere.”

The shuffling of paintbrushes clattered softly, filling the heavy quiet. “Understood.” I watched from the corner of my eye as the artist—Henri—crossed the room. “I’ll deposit the canvas where we discussed. But for the love of all gods mighty, keep yourhands away until it has fully dried. I have a reputation to uphold. I will not have it tarnished by the likes of smeared paint.”

“Never mind what we discussed. You can have it delivered directly. I believe my hands might be…” A flicker of his gaze towards my mouth. “Occupied, for quite some time.”

Henri scoffed, and without bothering with goodbyes he shut the door behind him.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“You will see soon enough.” The edge to his voice spoke of nothing but trouble. But I couldn’t find it in myself to press on the matter.