Page 17 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

I swallow hard, my hands tightening around the brushes. “It’s just a painting.”

“No,” he says quietly, his eyes meeting mine. “It’s not. It means a lot more than that.”

“Are you going to tell me what it means… or just keep me in suspense?” I squint my eyes at him. My tone is playful because I don’t really expect an answer.

“It’s a means to get back at my enemy. This painting only matters to me because it holds significance for them,” he answers, to my surprise.

I’m sure what I’m thinking is written on my face because he asks, “What? Spit it out.”

I give him a small smile. “It’s just that you have too many enemies... from what I’ve heard. Wouldn’t it be better to let go of some of it? Your anger. I mean, I don’t know you that well, but everyone knows about your family’s tragedy, and my brother told me...”

“What your brother or anyone else has to say doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he interrupts, his tone sharp. I realize I’ve crossed a line. Why did I think I could have a normal conversation with this man? There’s no way he has any empathy in him, but yesterday’s incident has blurred my perception of him. I know there’s still some human part of him in there.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” I whisper.

The words hang between us, heavy and unspoken, filling the room.

I turn around and take off the apron dappled with streaks of paint; the soft rustle makes more noise than I expected. The hush of the room amplifies everything—the faint creak of the wooden floor beneath my feet, the distant whisper of the house settling. When I turn back, I’m surprised to find Dominic’s eyes on me, following the motion of the apron as it slips from my fingers and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor. I had expected him to leave by now.

His gaze lingers before rising to meet mine, and it’s like a spark jumps between us. My breath catches. His eyes are dark, unyielding, and there’s an intensity to them that makes my skin prickle, as if he’s looking at more than just me—like he’s stripping away the layers I’ve worked so hard to protect.

I tug at the hem of my dress, suddenly hyper-aware of how wrinkled and casual it looks compared to his perfectly tailoredsuit. The pale pink fabric clings in places where I’ve sweated through the day, and faint streaks of blue and black paint stain the edges. I feel unpolished and out of place, a mess standing before someone who looks like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine.

“Long day?” Dominic asks, his voice smooth, low, and impossibly steady.

I nod, my throat dry. “Yes.”

He takes a step closer, his movements measured. There’s a subtle shift in the mood as he closes the distance between us. My heart begins to race, pounding so loudly I wonder if he can hear it.

“It shows,” he says, his gaze flicking briefly to my wrist where a streak of blue paint runs like a scar.

I try to laugh, brushing at the paint in a futile attempt to hide my nerves. “The price of inspiration.”

His lips quirk into a faint smile, but there’s no humor in it. If anything, it makes him seem sharper, more dangerous. The scent of his cologne drifts toward me—cedarwood mixed with smoke and leather. It’s intoxicating, and I have to force myself not to lean in, not to let it overwhelm me.

“You’ve been working hard,” he says, his voice dipping lower, almost a murmur. “But you missed dinner.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” The excuse falls flat between us, and his eyes narrow, catching the lie.

Dominic tilts his head slightly, his expression softening in a way that feels almost... caring. “You should take better care of yourself, Isabella.”

The way he says my name makes a deep shudder roll through me. His tone isn’t just casual concern—it’s deeper, and it latches onto me in a way I can’t ignore.

I look away, pretending to fuss with the edge of my dress, but he steps closer, his presence commanding enough to pull my gaze back to his.

“Why do you care?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

“I wish I knew,” he replies. Lifting his hand, he murmurs, “You’ve got paint here.”

Before I can react, his thumb brushes against my cheek, just below my eye. His touch is warm, his fingers rough against my skin, and the simple act feels intimate in a way that makes my stomach tighten. My breath hitches as he pulls his hand back, showing me the faint smear of black paint on his thumb.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He doesn’t reply, but his eyes don’t leave mine. My pulse pounds in my ears, my chest tightening under the pressure of his existence.

I take a step back, needing space to think, but my legs bump against the chair behind me. I’m trapped, and he knows it. He steps forward, closing the gap until there’s almost no space between us.

“Why do you keep running?” he asks softly.

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