Page 44 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
“I don’t think so.” My cheeks warm, and I quickly drink down the rest of the water.
“Don’t let him cajole you into anything you don’t want,” says Louisa. “Men like him will play awhile, but their interest doesn’t last long. Still, he seems kind enough. I like him. We talked about orgies and dryad anatomy.”
Jealousy forks through my heart, sudden and sour. “You did?”
“Yes. He has had a lot of sex. Far more than I have, and with a wide range of Fae species, apparently.”
“Oh.” I chew my lip, feeling unaccountably downcast. Why would such a Faerie be interested in sex with me?
Louisa rises and pulls open the door with a hint of her usual gaiety. “I’ll let you finish your work. If I don’t see you before bed, good night. I’ll try to stay on my side of the mattress in case you’d rather not share Fin’s bed of debauchery.”
She dances out, and I stand still, gripping my cup.
I love my sister. But I also know her faults as thoroughly as I know my own. When she’s feeling despondent or rejected, nothing cheers her up faster than discouraging someone else. I’m not sure if she does it purposefully or unconsciously, but it holds true every time. Once she passes on some mildly upsetting bit of news or a depressing piece of information, her spirits immediately rise, as if she has handed some of her sadness over to them.
Glumly I return to my seat and stare at the canvas propped on the easel. Besides my concentration being broken, a little of the joy has gone out of the process for me. It’s not as if I care how many partners Finias may have had—after all, every story I’ve read mentions the licentiousness of the Fae, their insatiable lust.
I can’t trulycarefor someone I just met, beyond a casual liking and a shallow physical attraction. So it shouldn’t bother me that he and my sister discussed sexual topics, or that he likely views me as nothing but an exotic human lay, an attractive opportunity for release.
I’m not interested in him beyond a little fun. I’mnot.
What bothers me is the image I’ve put onto the canvas for him. It’s raw, open, intimate. I’m ashamed that I thought he would wantthis, over everything else I could have painted for him.
But I can’t change it now.
Reluctantly I pick up my brush and keep working. At least the piece is nearly complete. Just a few final touches. Slowly I immerse myself in it again, not with the same passionate intensity, but with pride in my work, a determination to finish the art to the best of my ability.
I have no idea how much time passes, only that the light outside is gone and a collection of glowing orbs near the ceiling have automatically illuminated to compensate for the darkness.
Movement startles me—someone’s in the doorway. I didn’t even hear the door open.
Finias is lounging against the doorframe. He’s shirtless, his translucent blue wings shimmering at his back. His long legs are crossed one over the other, dark pants slung low on his hips, angled ridges of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband. His pale skin has a faint sheen to it, like snow gleaming under lamplight. His feet are bare.
On his slim, splayed fingers he’s balancing a covered tray, and a lollipop stick protrudes from the corner of his mouth. His pink hair is rumpled, as if someone has been playing with it.
I try to ignore him and continue with the final touch-ups.
He pushes himself away from the doorframe, sets the covered tray on a worktable, and takes the lollipop from his mouth. My gaze can’t help traveling to that lollipop, in spite of myself. It’s orange, shiny and wet.
“It’s been hours,” he complains. “I got tired of waiting. And I’ve brought you food, sugar. You must eat—I command it.”
“Hmm,” I murmur.
“Tell me it’s done. I want to see it.”
“No work of art is ever really done.”
“But at some point, one must call it finished and leave it alone,” he says, prowling nearer.
“I suppose you’re right.” Sighing, I set the brush aside.
Now that it has come down to the moment of revelation, my stomach is twisting in anxious knots. “You told me to paint something you’d want to see.”
“I believe I said, ‘paint what you think I would most want to see,’” he corrects me.
“Yes, well… I don’t know you. So it’s quite possible I’ve got it wrong.” A hot flush is creeping up my neck, and blood pounds in my head, in my ears. I’ve never been this worked up about someone seeing my art.
I rise from the chair and step back. I feel as if I must go and hide while he looks at what I’ve painted for him.
