Page 15 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

“You okay?” I ask, my voice rough.

She nods, but her face tells a different story.

I step closer, lowering myself into a squat on the floor in front of her. Her unresponsiveness is echoing louder than any words she could say. She sits there, her arms still wrapped around herself, her shoulders tight.

“You shouldn’t have come,” I murmur, my voice soft but firm. My hand finds its way to her thigh. As my fingers lightly graze her skin, I feel the goosebumps rise beneath my touch. I try to warm her, my hand gentle against the tremble of her skin.

Her head snaps up, her eyes blazing with anger. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I lean forward slightly, my gaze locked on hers. My hand instinctively tightens, gripping her thigh. “I brought you to the game tonight, and that was a mistake. You don’t belong in rooms like this.”

Her fists tighten in her lap, and I catch the flash of fire in her eyes, the stubborn defiance that’s become all too familiar. “Then maybe don’t invite me next time.”

I exhale, running a hand through my hair.. She’s right, of course. This is no place for her. I’d told myself it was to keep her close, to protect her, but now Hugo knows exactly what she means to me. And that’s a complication I can’t afford.

Still, the thought of her anywhere else, beyond my reach, feels even worse.

“I’m taking you back to your room,” I say, rising to my feet. I release her body, and immediately, the absence of her warmth leaves an ache in my hands.

“I can get there myself,” she snaps, pushing herself to her feet.

Before she can storm past me, I reach out and catch her waist—not hard, but enough to stop her. “Isabella.”

She freezes, her glare sharp enough to cut. “What?”

Even through her dress, I can feel the sudden warmth of her skin under my hand. I loosen my grip but don’t let go. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

Her expression softens, just barely, but the fire doesn’t leave her voice. “I didn’t ask you to protect me.”

Her tone hits deeper than I expect, but I don’t let it show. “You didn’t have to.”

She stares at me, and I wonder if she’ll argue again. But instead, she pulls herself free, the fight still simmering in her eyes. “Goodnight, Dominic.”

I watch her leave, her heels clicking against the floor as she disappears through the doorway.

When I hear the door upstairs close, I sit back down, the unsettling quiet swallowing me whole. Hugo’s words circle in my head, taunting me: You’re showing your hand.

He’s right. I am. And in my world, weakness is a death sentence. I’ve spent my entire life keeping people at arm’s length, making sure no one could get close enough to use me. But Isabella…

She’s already too close.

And I don’t know if I can push her away.

Not when she’s the first thing in years that’s made me feel like a man instead of a weapon.

The clock in the hall chimes midnight, and I stay there, sitting in the dark, trying to figure out if I’m protecting her from Hugo—or from myself.

Chapter 7 - Isabella

After having wine for the first time in months last night, my head throbs when I wake up. I drag myself out of bed and head straight to the kitchen, desperate to shake off the haze. It’s late in the afternoon, and thankfully, the kitchen is empty. The last thing I want is small talk. I pour myself a large cup of freshly brewed coffee and grab a chocolate croissant. If there’s one thing I’ll miss about being here, it’s the food.

As I enter my room, sipping on my coffee, the light streams through the curtains—golden and soft, but muted, hesitant to touch me. My room is a mess, an overwhelming sea of abandoned canvases scattered across the floor. Paintings I’ve started and hated, ideas I’ve chased but couldn’t catch. But today is different. Today, work is the only thing that will push the thoughts of Hugo away.

I woke up with a sudden burst of inspiration, sharp and vivid—one of those moments that feels too fleeting to hold onto. It’s been weeks since I’ve felt this way. The subject? A rose on a river—Dominic’s reference photo from the day I arrived. The image is etched in my mind, as vivid as if the photo were right in front of me. A delicate rose floating on dark water, its petals half-drenched but vibrant, fragile yet refusing to sink.

I grab the largest blank canvas in the room and prop it against the easel. My paints are already out, an array of deep blues, grays, and blacks that match the storm inside me. The moment I set the brush to the canvas, I lose myself. The river takes shape first—dark streaks of shadow and motion that ripple across the surface. My hand moves almost on its own, guided bya passion I can’t name. The rose comes next, its petals soft and trembling under the pressure of the water. I try to capture its struggle, its defiance.

I lose track of time as the hours slip by. Eventually, the sun dips below the horizon, and the golden light gives way to the silvery glow of the moon. I don’t bother turning on the light, though by now, I have to squint to make out the image. I know if I stand, the ache in my legs and the protest of my back will make it hard to continue, so I don’t stop. The passing hours go unnoticed until I finally step back and take in the painting as a whole.

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