If the poetry competition had been a roasting spit, the Royal Portrait Studio was a slow-cooker.
The room smelled of turpentine, linseed oil, and the collective repressed rage of the Valdamar family. It was stiflingly hot, the windows sealed shut to prevent "drafts from disturbing the lighting," according to the artist, a man named Maestro Vance who wore a beret so large it threatened to consume his head.
"Chin up, Lady Victoria! Yes! Radiate majesty!" Vance shouted, waving a paintbrush like a conductor's baton. "And Prince Aeron... more... benevolent! You look as though you are contemplating a murder!"
"I am contemplating several," Aeron said, his voice a smooth, terrifying purr.
He was seated on a velvet chaise lounge, his posture immaculate. Victoria stood behind him, her hand resting delicately on his shoulder. They looked like a porcelain figurine set that cost more than a warship.
Across the room, Kaia was suffering.
She was posed on a window seat, with Prince Beckett standing beside her. The instructions were simple: "Look lovingly at your intended."
The reality was excruciating.
"I am so sorry," Beckett whispered for the tenth time in as many minutes. His hand was resting on her waist—well, hovering a millimeter above the silk of her lemon-yellow dress, trembling slightly. "Is this... is this too forward?"
"It's fine, Beckett," Kaia muttered through a fixed smile. "Though if you hover any longer, I think you might start vibrating."
"I can't help it. The Maestro is staring at me. And... well... he is staring at me."
Kaia didn't need to ask who he was.
From across the studio, Aeron's gaze was a physical weight. He wasn't looking at the artist. He wasn't looking at his flawless fiancée. He was staring directly at Beckett's hand on Kaia's waist.
If looks could maim, Beckett would be missing an arm.
Aeron's eyes were cold, metallic slivers of fury. He was the "Saint" of Arindale, yet he was looking at his own brother with the territorial aggression of a wolf watching a spaniel sniff its steak.
"Prince Aeron!" Vance cried out. "The benevolence! Where did it go? You look like you are about to declare war!"
"My apologies," Aeron said flatly. "I was merely admiring my brother's... technique."
Kaia stiffened. She knew that tone. That was the tone he used right before he bit her.
"Beckett is doing wonderfully," Victoria chimed in, her voice crisp. "Though, Kaia, do try to look less like a hostage. It ruins the aesthetic of the family tableau."
"I am trying, Victoria," Kaia snapped. "But my leg has fallen asleep."
"Suffering is part of the royal duty," Victoria recited, adjusting her lace choker.
"Five minute break!" Vance announced, throwing his hands up. " The light is shifting! I must consult the sun!"
The room exhaled. Beckett immediately stepped away from Kaia as if she were made of lava, mumbling an excuse about needing water. Victoria swept off to critique the canvas, leaving Kaia rubbing her numb hip on the window seat.
A shadow fell over her.
She looked up. It wasn't Aeron. He was currently trapped by the artist, who was adjusting his cravat.
It was Caspian.
The valet looked clammy. His auburn hair was disheveled, and his hazel eyes were darting around the room as if checking for snipers. He held a silver tray with a glass of lemonade.
"My Lady," Caspian said, his voice cracking. "Refreshment?"
"Thank you, Caspian," Kaia said, reaching for the glass.
"There is... ah... a napkin," Caspian stammered, his face turning the color of a beet. "In case of... spills."
He thrust a folded linen napkin at her with the intensity of a man handing off a bomb.
Kaia frowned, taking it. It felt heavy. There was something inside.
She glanced at Aeron. The Prince was listening to Vance, but his eyes flicked to her—sharp, expectant, and dangerous.
Kaia unfolded the napkin in her lap, shielding it from Victoria's view with her fan.
Inside was a small, torn scrap of parchment. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and commanding.
The Royal Library. North Alcove. Midnight.Wear the blue silk stockings.Do not be late. I hate to wait.
Kaia felt the heat rush to her face so fast she felt dizzy. She looked up at Caspian.
The valet was staring at a potted fern with intense fascination, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "Why couldn't I have served a Duke? A nice, boring Duke with gout."
"Caspian," Kaia whispered.
He jumped. "Yes, My Lady?"
"Tell your master," she murmured, crumpling the note in her fist, "that I am not a servant to be summoned."
Caspian looked relieved to be delivering a rejection. "Of course! A resounding no! I shall tell him immediately. Perhaps he will take up knitting instead."
"However," Kaia added, a wicked smile curling her lips, "tell him that if he wants to see the blue stockings, he will have to find them himself."
Caspian's relief died a violent death. He closed his eyes briefly. "I... see. Find them himself. Right. I will... convey the... nuance."
He scurried away, looking like a man marching to the gallows.
Kaia looked across the room. Aeron was watching her. He saw Caspian deliver the message. He saw the flush on her cheeks.
He raised a white-gloved hand to his lips, seemingly to stifle a yawn, but Kaia saw his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip.
It was vulgar. It was possessive.
And tonight, in the North Alcove, she was going to make the Saint beg.