Eliza walked quickly through the tangle of greenery, her fingers trembling as she clutched her skirts, heart thudding like a bird caught in a cage. The jasmine clung to her skin, the warmth of his hand still ghosting along her waist, and that maddening thumbprint of sensation just beneath her bodice.
What had she done?
What had he done?
But this time, it hadn't felt like a mistake or an accident. That was the danger. It had felt like something she'd been hurtling toward for days, maybe even longer, an inevitability hiding behind every glance, every breathless pause, every word unsaid between them.
Outside the greenhouse, the morning sunlight stabbed too brightly through the colonnades. She didn't stop. Not until she reached the nearest alcove, tucked between the library wing and the inner garden. There, behind an ivy-draped pillar, she pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady the rhythm of her pulse.
Why do you look at me like that?
Because I've never seen anything more forbidden.
The words played again and again in her head. Not just because of what he said, but because he had said them to her. The man who spoke little, who watched her like she was both muse and mirage. The man with hands that trembled only when they touched her.
And oh, how they had touched her.
Eliza closed her eyes. She should feel shame. Guilt. Panic. But instead, she felt… alive.
Down the corridor, she could hear the voices of attendants passing by. She would be missed soon. Her father's advisors would want her opinion on the floral arrangements. Her lady's maid would come looking for her to try another gown. And the Duke, yes, the Duke would expect her hand on his arm come the Autumn Ball.
But in this moment, she thought only of him.
Inside the Greenhouse...
Marek stood very still.
The scent of her lingered, wild jasmine and warm skin, like sunlight on porcelain. He pressed his palm flat to his chest, grounding himself, trying to push the memory of her mouth against his from his mind.
He'd kissed her.
He had touched her.
He should be ashamed. But shame didn't come
Instead, fury.
Not at her. At himself.
He turned on his heel, stalking to the far end of the greenhouse, where the glass was fogged and cracked, where moss grew between the tiles. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged beast. The memory of her gasp, soft, startled, unguarded, burned like a brand on his skin.
What are you doing?
She was the princess. The daughter of the man he had been hired to kill. And worse than that, she was dangerous in ways no blade could prepare him for. She made him hesitate. She made him want.
He pressed his hands to the rusted iron shelf nearby, bowing his head.
He had come here to gather his thoughts. To draw the vines for the painting he was working on, nothing more. He hadn't expected to find her. Hadn't meant to look at her like that, let alone touch her.
But her voice, soft and searching.
Her eyes, hungry for something no one in that glittering court could give her.
And her lips…
He cursed under his breath. His hand ached for the charcoal and canvas he'd left in his room.
Without thinking, he turned and made his way back through the halls, ignoring the courtiers, ignoring the guards. His boots struck the floor in rhythm with his guilt. But the desire still burned beneath it, unrelenting.
He needed to remember himself. He needed to refocus.
He had a mission. And that mission had a deadline.
In His Quarters…
The door shut behind him with a hollow thud. He threw off his coat, tossed his satchel to the floor, he thought of the journal he had first made sketches of her in, safely tugged away in the corner of the library and he reached for his new sketchbook. Pages fluttered past, studies of her hands, the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her hair as it spilled down her back.
And then, the one he shouldn't have drawn.
Nude.
Reclining in imagined shadow, her red curls loose, her body arched toward a figure that was unmistakably him.
He stared at the image, breath shallow.
He had drawn it last night, half-drunk on wine and madness, unable to sleep. A fantasy. A confession he never meant to show. He should burn it.
But instead, his fingers traced the lines of her body.
He slammed the book shut.
"This is madness," he muttered.
Then louder: "She is the princess. You were sent here to end her father's reign, not to fall for the blood in his line."
The rebellion hadn't waited this long to see him fail. Elena would come soon, expecting progress. The foreign mercenaries would want assurance that the Autumn Ball would proceed as planned.
He was the one they trusted to paint his way into the palace's inner circle. To charm and deceive. To get close enough to the king.
And he had been doing just that.
Until she walked in with fire in her hair and secrets in her eyes.
He let out a slow, shaking breath and looked at his hands.
Hands that had sketched her, touched her, wanted her.
He stood and poured water into the basin, splashing his face. Cold clarity snapped him back.
This couldn't happen again.
No more chance meetings. No more stolen glances. And gods forbid—no more kisses.
He would finish the portrait. He would see the ball through. And then he would be gone.
Whatever spell she had woven, whatever piece of his soul she had stirred—it would have to be buried. Locked away.
He couldn't have her.
Even if he wanted to.
The door burst open behind him.
Marek turned.
"Elena."
She stood in the doorway like a blade, sharp, motionless, gleaming with cold fury. She didn't move, not at first. Just stared at him, then past him, to the book in his hand.
To the mouth he had painted a dozen times.
To the hunger he had confessed in charcoal and oil.
Her voice was low. "So it's true."
Marek's blood chilled.
She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. The sound rang louder than any shout.
"I thought I imagined it," she said. "When I saw you follow her into the greenhouse. I thought, no, he's smarter than this. He's not a fool. He knows what's at stake."
Marek opened his mouth, but no words came.
Elena's eyes flicked to the easel again. "But then I saw it with my own eyes. The kiss. Her mouth on yours. Your hand on her like she belonged to you."
"Elena—"
She cut him off with a hiss. "Do you know what happens if the king finds out? If his spies see you? They'll cut your tongue out before you can even explain why you were tasting his daughter."
Marek's chest tightened. "I didn't mean for it to happen."
"No," she said bitterly. "You meant to kill her father. And now you're making art out of her lips?"
The accusation burned. Not because it was untrue, but because it was entirely, damnably true.
"She kissed me," he said. Quiet. Shamed. "And I let her."
"You let her?" Elena laughed, sharp and humorless. "You think this is about choice? You think you get to let her do anything? You're here on borrowed time and forged papers, Marek. You are no one. You are a shadow with a knife."
"I know what I am," he said. "But I also know what I feel."
She crossed the room in two strides and shoved the canvas. It wobbled on its stand, then stilled.
"You feel," she said. "That's the problem. You're not supposed to. You were chosen because you don't. Because you could slit the king's throat and leave before the blood cooled."
He looked away. "I still can."
"You won't," she said coldly. "Not while you're painting her mouth like it's holy."
Silence fell between them, thick and weighted.
Then, quietly, almost desperately, he said, "Let me finish this. Let me choose how it ends."
She studied him. Her gaze scraped over the hollows in his face, the tension in his shoulders, the ache in his voice.
"You have three days," she said finally. "Until the Autumn Ball."
Marek lifted his eyes. "Three days is enough."
"Is it?" Elena asked, not unkindly. "Because when you look at her, I don't think you see a mission anymore."
And with that, she turned and left.