Page 16 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

It’s finished.

The river is dark, rushing, alive with energy. The rose floats on its surface, delicate but unyielding. Its edges blur where the water laps against its petals, but it doesn’t drown. There’s an unfiltered charm to it that feels real in a way my other attempts haven’t.

I hope Dominic likes it. The memory of his expression when he showed me that photo, the mention of his mother being an artist and the way his eyes lingered on the image as if it carried an emotion too heavy to voice stirs sympathy in me. It was more than just a random picture to him. I know that much.

The room smells of turpentine and oil, reminding me of my apartment. I miss being home, surrounded by familiar things, instead of here, where even my own reflection feels foreign. It’s strange how my life has shifted in just a month. Suddenly, my stomach grumbles, saving me from an existential crisis and reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I glance at the clock—past nine. I’ve been at this for hours, completely lost in the work.

The satisfaction from the painting still buzzes faintly in my chest, but now it’s accompanied by an uncomfortable feeling of dread.

Because this painting means I’m one step closer to leaving—unless it’s just the first step in repaying my debt, thanks to Demitri.

That was the plan from the beginning: finish the painting, pack my things, and get out. But now that the end is in sight, the thought of leaving isn’t as easy.

Not with Dominic.

I rub my temples, trying to push the thoughts away. He’s just a man. A complicated, infuriating man who somehow gets under my skin more than anyone else ever has. And yet…

I force myself to look at the painting again, hoping it will ground me. Instead, it only stirs the turmoil in my chest. The rose looks so fragile, so exposed. It doesn’t make sense for it to survive the river, but it does.

The soft knock at my door startles me, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. My heart jumps, and I consider ignoring it. But the knock comes again, more insistent this time. I cross the room, pulling the door open just a crack.

Dominic stands on the other side, his broad frame filling the doorway. His dark eyes flick to mine, then over my shoulder, taking in the chaotic room behind me.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice low.

“What do you want?”

His gaze sharpens. Is that hesitation I sense? Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he says, “You missed dinner.”

“I was working,” I reply, keeping my voice even. Surprised that he would notice something that insignificant. Fate is certainly not on my side because my stomach decides to growl at the mention of dinner, earning a raised eyebrow from Dominic. Suddenly I’m grateful the room isn’t lit because I’m certain I’m flushed.

Thankfully, his eyes move past me again, landing on the painting. His expression shifts subtly, his usual mask slipping just enough for me to catch a hint of eagerness.

“Is that it?” he asks, nodding toward the canvas.

My stomach twists. “Yes.”

He steps forward, and I instinctively move aside, letting him into the room. He walks toward the painting, his movements slow, meticulous.

For a long moment, he just looks at it.

I cross my arms, watching him carefully. “Well? What do you think?”

His head tilts slightly, his hands sliding into his pockets. “It’s… striking.”

I scoff, though the hint of warmth in his voice sends an uninvited flutter through me. “That’s not exactly helpful feedback.”

He turns to face me, his expression softer than usual. “It’s more than I expected.”

There’s a softness in his tone—quiet, almost reverent—that makes my chest tighten. I don’t know how to respond, so I settle for a shrug. “I’m glad you like it.”

Dominic steps closer, his gaze lingering on me now instead of the painting. It is almost unbearable, and I feel the urge to say something.

“I’ll varnish in the morning,” I say quickly, turning away to tidy the brushes scattered on the table. “Then I can—”

“You’ve captured it perfectly,” he interrupts, his voice softer now.

I glance at him, caught off guard. His eyes are on the painting again, but there’s something raw in his expression, like the layers he usually hides behind have been peeled back just enough to show a glimpse of what’s underneath.

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