Page 40 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

“He’s just taking some time away.”

It’s a lie.

I see it in the way his fingers twitch slightly in his pockets. Charles doesn’t just take time away. He’s Dominic’s right-hand man, his shadow. If he’s gone, something happened.

But Nico doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press.

Not now.

Instead, I tuck the suspicion away, filing it with the growing list of questions Dominic refuses to answer.

By the time we reach the library doors, my nerves vibrate with unease.

Nico doesn’t knock, just pushes the door open and steps aside, waiting for me to enter first.

The scent of whiskey and aged books surrounds me, warm and rich, curling around me as I step inside. The library is bathed in a dim, golden glow, the fire in the hearth casting moving shadows against the dark wood shelves.

And there, standing near his desk, is Dominic Castellano.

The library is grand, but there’s something constricting about it now.

Maybe it’s the towering bookshelves lining the walls, casting long, stretched shadows in the flickering firelight. Or maybe it’s the scent of aged paper, whiskey, and what feels like dried blood that makes me nauseous.

The moment I step inside, I know I’ve walked into something I wasn’t meant to be part of.

Dominic stands near his desk, one hand braced on the polished wood, the other wrapped loosely around a crystal glass of whiskey. He looks composed and impossibly calm, like he always does. His face is emotionless, carved from the same unshakable resolve I’ve seen before—but I know better now. I’ve seen the cracks. I’ve felt them in the way he kissed me, in the way his body tensed under my hands when I pressed down on his wound, desperate to keep him from bleeding out.

And yet, here he stands, unbothered. As if none of it happened.

I grit my teeth, ignoring the way that realization burns.

But then my attention shifts.

I’m not alone with him.

The man beside him is unfamiliar—tall, sharply dressed in a suit that fits like it was sewn onto him. He carries himself with the kind of cool arrogance that only a man who deals in high-end art and expensive clientele can. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly styled, his sharp blue eyes flicking over me like he’s already assessing my worth. I don’t like it.

I don’t like him.

He gives me a slow, knowing smile, one that feels more like a calculated gesture than a genuine expression.

“So, this is the artist?”

His voice is smooth, controlled, but I hear the undertone of amusement.

I stiffen. “Excuse me?”

Dominic doesn’t give me a chance to process, let alone demand an explanation.

“Oliver is handling the auction.”

Auction.

The word lands like a slap, sharp and unexpected.

I frown, arms folding tightly over my chest. “Auction?”

I stand there, confusion clouding my thoughts—until my eyes land on it.

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