Page 58 of Slaying the Shifter Prince
Ibarely spoke to him the rest of the afternoon. Just cutting, curt comments. His pity had sliced me wide open, letting the stinging saltwater seep in.
Maybe it was even worse that he didn’t seem irritated by my quiet, butthoughtful. After the swim, he insisted on drying me with a thick, fluffy towel, watching me with this little crease between his eyebrows the whole while.
I was going to murder him.
Not even for revenge, just to stop that look.
By the time we returned to the palace, with another mysterious snooze on the ride, it was dinnertime. Instead of eating with the others, we sat at a round table in the private dining room off his bedroom. He finished first and disappeared through the door.
With him gone, I could breathe. I slumped over the table, gripping its edge.
I hated him.
Good fucking gods. I hated him even more when he was nice than when he was cruel.
Or maybe they were one and the same. Maybe he was trying this change of tack to keep me on the back foot or because he’d worked out it would hurt more. He had got a rise out of me, after all. Telling him to fuck off was not part of malicious compliance.
I shoved another forkful of food into my mouth and forced myself to chew and swallow, even though it felt drier than the sand from the beach. I needed fuel if I was going to survive long enough to destroy him.
When I finally looked up from my empty plate, I found him leaning in the doorway, arms folded, watching me.
I refused to ask out loud, but the question bubbled inside. Why was he staring?
Jaw clenched, I held his gaze and returned that challenge with one of my own.
One corner of his mouth rose, lazy. “I ran you a bath. Thought you’d want to get that salt off your skin and hair.”
I touched the braid I’d tied to keep the straggly lengths from my face. Crisp instead of soft and smooth. I grimaced.
He stood back, heavy gaze on me. “Come.”
But before we reached the bathroom, something new in the bedroom caught my attention. The low coffee table before the fire was covered in…
I slowed and peered closer.
Pencils, ink, pens, charcoal. A stack of new sketchbooks. Tubes of paint. Jars and brushes.
Almost as much as my body craved the silks and my hoop, my fingers itched to hold a pencil.
He’d never shown any interest in painting.
“What’s that?”
He paused in the doorway and shrugged. “Your sketches were good. I thought you might wish to continue. Especially now you have your principal subject actually present.” He gave a preening smile, all dazzling and handsome.
I gave the art supplies a long look. Was this in response to my lack of hobby? Was he trying to keep me entertained? Was he trying to do somethingnicefor me?
It unfurled in me, like a wing stretching, ready for flight.
And I hated it.
At least when he was horrible, I could loathe him and lose myself in that.
Not this. Whateverthiswas.
He disappeared into the bathroom and, arms folded, I followed.
The room was dimly lit—no fae lights bobbed through the air, but a whole host of candles covered every surface. Their guttering, golden light blanketed everything with warmth, casting soft shadows. The woody scent of sandalwood and lavender drifted through the steam. A low stool stood at the end of the bath.
