CHAPTER ONE

Miss Camilla Antonius had very little patience for fools, even handsome ones.

And Lord Philip Atticus Vexley—with his golden hair, tanned skin, and roguish grin—was among the finer specimens in both areas. Especially if he thought she’d create another forgery for him.

Which, as he swept into the art gallery just as the sun was setting—in his buffed riding boots, burgundy swallowtail jacket, and close-fitting camel breeches—Camilla knew was precisely the reason he’d come.

It was almost closing time, and the secretive glint in Vexley’s eyes was most unwelcome; they were not friends or confidants. Nor were they lovers. In fact, if Camilla never saw him again, she’d host a soirée fit for the crown to celebrate her good fortune.

“Working on anything intriguing, Miss Antonius?” “Just a landscape, Lord Vexley.”

It was not the truth, but Vexley didn’t deserve to know that. Camilla’s art was deeply personal to her, drawn from her mother’s warnings, her father’s stories, and her own loneliness, which helped her see the world as it truly was.

Her art was often her soul laid bare, a part of her she hesitated to share with just anyone.

Thankfully the easel faced away from the door and Vexley would need to walk around to view it. He rarely put such great effort into anything but his own scandalous reputation.

Camilla pushed the stool back from her easel and quickly abandoned her painting as she moved to the old oak desk that acted as the register and a wonderful partition to keep the irksome lord at bay.

“Was there anything I could assist you with, or are you simply admiring the art this evening?”

His attention dipped to her paint-splattered smock. She hadn’t removed it upon his arrival, and the slight pressing of his lips indicated that he wished she would.

“Don’t play coy, darling. You know why I’ve come.”

“As we’ve previously discussed, my lord, the debt has been paid. I’ve even secured a memory stone for you. All you have to do is feed that particular memory to it.”

Or so Camilla had been told by the dark-market dealer she’d purchased the alleged magical stone from. She hadn’t felt any buzz of magic, though that wasn’t exactly a surprise, all things considered. Still, Vexley refused to accept the stone.

He gave Camilla a bemused look as if her denying him something he wanted were more outrageous than a magical stone that could withdraw any memory he chose to give it.

Lord Vexley wasn’t quite a dandy, but he certainly spent money like one. He was the firstborn son of a viscount and as such had indulged in only the finest things for the whole of his spoiled thirty years.

Four years prior, after a rather scandalous theater incident that involved not one but two stage actresses and a very public display of drunken affection during what was now called “the intermission of infamy,” his father had cut him off from his inheritance and named his brother the heir instead, a bold move that should have shocked all of Waverly Green’s elite.

But much to his family’s surprise, Vexley’s antics hadn’t disgraced him in the slightest. If anything, he’d become something of a rapscallion legend around the Green.

Society praised incorruptible morals above all, especially for women. But virtues never held the same appeal as sin. They weren’t as thrilling to gossip about over tea, and no matter how prim and proper high society claimed to be, they all loved a good scandal, the more salacious, the better. Nothing in Waverly Green was ever as entertaining as watching someone’s fall from grace.

Satire-sheet columnists often followed close on Vexley’s heels now, desperate to be the first to report on his next potential scandal. Everyone knew he’d been disinherited, so the source of his income was a growing mystery most of the city wished to solve.

Vexley laughed it off, claiming he was a smart gambler and made wise investments, but people still whispered more nefarious stories about his growing fortune.

Some rumors claimed he’d made a deal with the devil, while others whispered about a bargain he’d struck with the Fae. Camilla alone knew the full truth.

Due to what she called the Great Mistake, she now unwittingly funded his extravagant lifestyle and placed herself in danger of being caught by the press.

The last painting Camilla had created and sold for him had almost been discovered as the fraud it was, and if the collector hadn’t imbibed too many glasses of claret, then promptly relieved himself on a priceless sculpture, in front of the entire party of lords, ladies, and even a duke, thus causing quite the stir as the duchess fainted right onto the foul mess, Camilla’s reputation would have been ruined.

A scandal of that magnitude would destroy her hard-won standing as Waverly Green’s most sought-after art dealer. And the selfish scoundrel standing before her—with his damnably charming smile and freshly pressed suit—knew it and clearly couldn’t care less.

“Honestly, Camilla darling—”

“Miss Antonius,” she corrected primly.

Camilla’s smile was nearly as tight as the grip on her paintbrush.

Vexley, or Vex the Hex, as she’d taken to calling him in her head, had been blackmailing her for that one horrid mistake she’d made eons ago, and—after they’d struck a bargain for his silence—he was supposed to have purged the memory into the rare magical stone after she completed three forgeries to sell for him.

The trouble with scoundrels and blackguards was, they hadn’t a modicum of honor.

They were now approaching six forgeries, and Camilla needed this to end.

No matter how talented she was, if anyone found out what she’d done, aside from possible arrest and facing the gallows, she’d never sell another painting in Waverly Green. Or any of the surrounding towns or villages in Ironwood Kingdom, for that matter. Not that she ventured outside Waverly Green often.

Ironwood Kingdom was a small island nation that could be traversed by carriage in a handful of days, but everything she knew was in her city and at the country estate two hours north of it. If she were forced to leave Waverly Green, all Camilla’s hopes and dreams of having her gallery flourish to keep her father’s memory alive would wither and die.

Men like Vexley could thrive on scandal and ending up in the satire sheets, but women—especially of her station—weren’t afforded the same status. Camilla needed to walk a fine line, showcasing the art she curated in scandalous ways but never becoming the subject of scrutiny herself.

Through personal experience with her father’s most famous painting, Camilla had learned early on that high society loved a bit of drama and a good show—as was evidenced by the soaring popularity of satire sheets and caricatures.

Luckily, for now, society couldn’t stop talking about her unique exhibitions. Short of committing a heinous act of violence upon Vexley’s per- son, Camilla would do nearly anything to keep her gallery and name free from the more vicious gossipmongers, who loved nothing more than to tear others down for a passing bit of drawing room entertainment.

She often read the gossip sheets just to remind herself what was at stake, to serve as a constant warning of how carefully she needed to tread as she fought to maintain her glittering reputation in society while also garnering respect as a gallery owner. They’d tolerated her taking over her father’s gallery because they loved Pierre and his unconventional nature. But she knew the gossips were waiting like carrion vultures, hoping to swoop in and feast.

Camilla’s true hope was to one day win people to her gallery through her own paintings alone, and that would never happen if her reputation was in any way sullied.

She stole a quick glance out the window, relieved that no columnists were lurking, waiting to report on Vexley’s current whereabouts. She could already imagine the unflattering headlines if they found the Angel of Art and the Devilish Deviant cavorting alone.

“I can no longer help you with that other matter,” Camilla said quietly. “If you’d like to commission a custom work,” she added before Vex- ley could continue any paltry attempts at charming her, “I’m more than happy to—”

“Cannot and will not are extremely different things, Miss Antonius.” She seethed at his arrogant, dismissive tone. As if she were unaware of the difference between the two and he’d just shared earth-shattering news with her.

Vexley raked his ice-blue gaze over her face, taking liberties to admire her lips a bit longer than was considered polite. His attention shifted to her cool silver curls, her delicately upturned nose and naturally golden skin.

Camilla’s deep silver eyes were always what drew a suitor in, though, and at the moment, Lord Vexley was seemingly transfixed by them.

She’d heard rumors that that half-lidded, come-hither look he was giving her now had worked in seducing several widows and even some women who weren’t lacking a husband.

Lord Philip Vexley was an unrepentant rake, and rumor had it that his troublesome mouth was quite pleasing when he got someone between his silken sheets. He hadn’t visited Camilla’s bedchamber, nor would she ever invite him there.

Blackmail, she found, dampened any thoughts of passion.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he drawled, ignoring the steam Camilla was almost certain billowed out from her ears whenever he adopted that condescending tone. “You aren’t exactly in a position to turn down the work, are you? What with the information I have about that one little famous painting you sold me. You remember the one, don’t you? I still have it.”

“Vexley,” Camilla warned, glancing around the quiet room.

No columnist had showed up, and since it was the middle of the week and it was near closing, the gallery was blessedly empty. Due to her limited funds, she’d had to dismiss her assistant this morning, a choice that broke her heart. And was now proving even more terrible as the opportunistic scoundrel closed in on her.

“In fact, it’s such a fine painting I had to hide it from view,” he continued, pressing a hip against the large desk as if leaning in to share a secret. “Lest anyone try to steal it from me.”

The famous painting was a forgery, the first and the last she’d ever wanted to create. Two years prior—and nearly eight years to the day after Camilla’s mother abandoned them—her father had abruptly taken ill with a mysterious affliction and could no longer work.

Camilla had emptied their coffers in a desperate attempt to save him, and she would do it again. She’d had several physicians visit their home, had even ventured into the forbidden dark market in search of a magical elixir, convinced his illness was not of this realm.

All attempts to battle Death had been in vain.

It had hurt terribly when her mother disappeared, one bright morning the spring before Camilla came of age, but her father’s death had truly broken her heart.

Pierre had been fearless, as an artist sharing every part of his soul with his audience, as a father raising Camilla on his favorite tales of magic and adventure, of dark realms far beyond Ironwood Kingdom’s shores. Camilla still worried she wasn’t living up to all he’d taught her.

After his death, she’d painted the forgery only to raise funds. She’d hated being dishonest, had considered trying anything else, but both their town house and the gallery were set to be wrenched away by debt collectors, even after she’d pawned all her jewels, and the silver, and rented their country estate for barely enough coin to maintain the staff and groundskeeper’s salaries. Camilla had nothing left to sell. Save her art or her body.

Or the one thing she hadn’t the heart to pawn. And that sentimentality had come back to haunt her. In more ways than one.

Somehow, though not utterly surprisingly, Vexley had been both cun- ning and sober enough to spot a minute difference between the forgery and the real painting, and instead of being enraged that she’d attempted to cheat him, had immediately come up with a scheme to profit from her talent. It wasn’t honest work he was requesting now.

Nor would he be paying for her services.

Camilla smothered the urge to knee him in the groin and plastered on another smile.

“A gentleman of your breeding is known to stick to his word, sir. We had a bargain and I’ve more than paid in full. Shall I fetch the memory stone?”

Vexley tossed his head back and laughed, the sound genuine yet somehow grating for that very reason. He found her amusing. Wonderful.

“My darling, what if I were to propose marriage? Would you be more inclined to please your husband then? Surely you’d wish to ensure that we had a comfortable life with a roof over our heads and fine foods in our bellies.”

Now it was Camilla’s turn to laugh. Marriage. To Vex the Hex. And with it a lifetime of servitude and forever being a cheat and liar. Along with the string of lovers he’d not be discreet about and the whole ton thinking she was a plumb fool.

He eyed her speculatively, brows raised, and she realized he hadn’t been jesting.

Camilla cleared her throat, searching for the most diplomatic response to soften the blow. The privileged men in their world did not take well to their whims and fancies being denied, and while she might loathe him, she needed to remain in his good graces until he purged that damning memory and set her free.

“Unfortunately, I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. My gallery keeps me quite thoroughly busy and—”

“You’d continue with your gallery, my dear. With your talent and my connections, we could make more gold annually than the Crown.”

“We were almost discovered!” she hissed. “There will be no money if we’re hanged.”

“You worry too much.”

Vexley waved off that most important detail as if it were nothing at all. “And there won’t be another scare like that. I hadn’t heard that Harrington already possessed that piece. It was easy enough to convince him that his original was the fraud and Walters’s was the original, wasn’t it? He handed it over to me just as I said he would. And anyway,” Vexley went on, “do you really believe anyone would question my wife? If they did, all we’d need to do is update your wardrobe with some low-cut gowns and they’d hardly care what you were saying or selling after that, my dear. I assure you their attention would be thoroughly diverted. Your bosom is quite impressive for someone of your stature. We can certainly work with that, use it to our advantage.”

“I—” Camilla was at a loss. Vexley seemed entirely certain that she’d be pleased to have her mind ignored in favor of her body being ogled to further their scheme.

A scheme she wanted no part in.

If he pressed the issue of marriage, it could become a true problem.

In fact, since they were alone and he was encroaching on her personal space, they were teetering near scandal now.

Camilla wasn’t exactly middle-class, even if she operated a business. Her father, eccentric though he might have been, had been high-born and titled. She’d spent nearly all her inheritance trying to save him, so her earnings were critical for maintaining her home and staff. Her father used to say how proud he was of taking care of generations of staff. She did not want to let anyone else down by having to let them go.

All Vexley would need to do was come around to her side of the desk and give the impression that something untoward was happening; then if one columnist spied the action through the window and reported on it, Camilla’s life and all she’d worked hard to achieve would be in total ruin.

An icy finger of dread trailed down her spine.

The lord standing before her had no qualms about blackmail and might very well be desperate enough to trap her in marriage. Then she would be his pawn for the rest of her days.

Vexley suddenly reached for her bare hand and brushed a chaste kiss across her knuckles, his cool lips causing a slight shudder of revulsion that he mistook for pleasure. His pupils dilated, mouth quirking upward. He thought much too highly of his ability to seduce.

“I see you’re overcome by my charms. Let’s continue this discussion another time. I’m hosting a lavish dinner party in two nights to show off my most recently acquired treasure; expect an invitation shortly.”

Before she could find a reasonable excuse to decline, Vexley turned on his buffed heel and exited the gallery.

The bell tinkling overhead was the only indication he’d truly been there and it hadn’t been a wretched nightmare.

He wished to make her Lady Camilla Vexley. God save her.

She pushed that horror from her mind and glanced at the clock. Thankfully it was almost time for her weekly dinner with her best friend, Lady Katherine Edwards, and Camilla’s own beloved cat, Bunny, whom Katherine watched while Camilla worked at the gallery.

Kitty had been there during Camilla’s darkest hours, a guiding light and advocate for Camilla’s place in society who ensured that Camilla attended all the balls and social gatherings, regardless of her financial difficulties. She not only acted as Camilla’s chaperone when necessary, she was the truest friend Camilla had ever known, and Camilla was grateful for her in many ways. Without Kitty, Camilla wasn’t sure what would have become of her.

To pass the last half hour before closing, Camilla returned to her painting. Getting lost in creation was precisely what she needed to do to forget Vexley’s absurd proposal.

She’d been trying to paint a world she saw repeatedly in her dreams, one where winter reigned in all its stark, lethal beauty.

Camilla had just returned to her easel, plucked up her paintbrush, and sat when the bell over the door sounded again. This time she nearly snapped her brush in two.

How dare he come back and coerce her again.

She closed her eyes and prayed for some hidden well of strength to appear and save her from committing murder. At eight and twenty, she was far too young to be either locked in a cell or beheaded for strangling that scheming, arrogant rake right then and there.

“Apologies for any insult it causes,” she said without peering out from around her easel, “but I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. Please just go.”

A beat of silence passed. With any luck, Vexley would be insulted by the bite in her tone and would turn right back around and leave for some faraway city at the edge of the world.

“Well, that’s quite a relief, considering I’m in want of a painting, not a wife.”

The deep, rumbling voice had Camilla immediately standing up from her stool to see who it belonged to, her lips parting in surprise.

The man who stood just inside the doorway was most decidedly not Vexley.

For a moment, Camilla somehow lost the ability to speak as her attention roved over the dark stranger.

This man was tall, his hair black with the slightest hint of brown in the flickering candlelight, and while his frame was lean, she noticed the hardness of his body as he moved farther into the gallery, his clothes tailored to show off the definition.

Not moved but prowled.

Camilla innately sensed that she was in the presence of a jaguar—a sleek apex predator one couldn’t help but be fascinated by even as it drew close enough to bite.

His eyes, a unique, lovely shade of emerald, glittered as if he knew where her thoughts had traveled and he rather enjoyed the idea of sinking his teeth into her flesh.

Whether he would do so for pleasure or to cause a bit of pain, Camilla couldn’t immediately discern. Though if the wicked gleam flaring to life was anything to go by, she’d choose the latter. Which indicated he was quite dangerous, yet her heart wasn’t pounding from fear as he stalked closer, his gaze lazily taking her in as if he had every right to do so.

This man owned every inch of space around him, including her attention. Camilla found she couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. Not that she was trying very hard.

He wasn’t simply handsome, he was striking, his face a study of fine contradictions that made her fingers twitch with the urge to paint the hard, chiseled angles of his face, the soft curves of his lips, and those jewel-toned eyes that stood out against his bronze skin, forever capturing that devilish glint on canvas.

His beauty was cold ruthlessness with a regal edge. A polished blade meant to be admired even as it cut you down. He’d make a fine portrait, one Camilla imagined would cause quite the stir among noblewomen.

Her cheeks pinked at what she’d said about marriage, and she hoped it was too dim in the room for him to notice.

A hint of mirth curled the edge of his sensual mouth, indicating that he had indeed picked up on her embarrassment.

If he was a gentleman, he’d let it pass without comment. “You are Miss Camilla Elise Antonius, I presume.”

His knowing her middle name struck her as odd, but when he studied her appearance with quiet intensity once again, she could barely form a clear thought.

No one had ever looked at her with such singular focus before—like she was both the most glorious answer and an exceptionally troubling riddle tied into one.

“Correct, sir. How may I help you?” she asked, finally regaining her wits.

“I came to discuss details of a piece I’d like to commission,” he began, his voice like warmed honey melting over her, “but I’m intrigued by you now, Miss Antonius. Is that how you welcome all patrons or just the ones you find incredibly handsome?”

Only the ones I find insufferable, she thought crossly as the spell she’d initially felt broke.

Camilla bit her tongue to prevent herself from outwardly commenting on his arrogance.

She’d been wrong. He was no jaguar, he was a wolf.

Which meant he was just one more cocky aristocratic dog she’d need to rid herself of this evening.

“Are those the specifications?” she asked, nodding to a crisp piece of hunter-green parchment he held.

Her tone was as cool as the autumn air outside, but the gentleman didn’t seem at all put off. If anything, a flicker of intrigue ignited in those impenetrable, jewel-like eyes.

He silently held the parchment up for her, not moving from where he stood near her desk.

Camilla hesitated. He was making her come to him.

It was either a subtle show that he could be trusted, or a calculated move to exert his will upon her. Given the dangerous curve of his mouth and the cold calculation in his eyes, it had everything to do with power.

Here stood a man who wanted to be in control. Camilla considered kicking him out to put him in his place and his wolfish smile grew wider, his gaze quietly mocking.

“Unlike asking for your hand, you’ll find it’s a rather simple request.” His attention never wavered from hers. “Come. Look for yourself.”

Said the wolf pretending to be a sheep.

Camilla highly doubted that anything this man wanted would be simple but made her way to him nonetheless. The faster she knew what he desired, the faster she could send his dark, mysterious arse on its way and be rid of him—and his wicked grin—for good.

---

CHAPTER TWO

Few things pleased the Prince of Envy more than making a strategic move.

Fortunately, as he placed the parchment down and slid it across the old desk, careful to avoid snagging the paper on the scarred wood, today was one such glorious day. He was one step closer to unlocking his second clue.

From what he’d briefly observed of Waverly Green, the females in this realm were taught to please males. He had little doubt that Miss Antonius would have the painting completed by week’s end. All he’d need to do was walk in, command the room, and she’d do his bidding.

The woman who now stood across from him narrowed her silver eyes, her full lips turning down as she read. Her embarrassment had quickly given way to annoyance.

The feeling prickled over his skin, not quite the stabbing sensation of fury, but with enough effort, he was certain she’d get there. And as that was his brother Wrath’s sin of choice, Envy wanted nothing to do with stoking Camilla’s anger.

“See?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual, though internally he was feeling anything but. His heart thudded against his ribs the longer the artist stared at his note. She wasn’t reacting the way he’d imagined.

When she finally glanced up, he offered her one of his most sinful smiles.

She arched a brow, less than impressed.

Well, then. He’d get straight to the point.

“As promised, it’s a rather simple request, Miss Antonius. I want a painting of a throne. Pristine and dazzling on one side and blazing with flames on the other. If you succeed in this piece, I’ll commission another.” The petite artist carefully handed the slip of paper back, then brushed her hands down the front of her work smock as if the paper had grossly offended her.

His gaze sharpened at the unexpected movement, his hand simultaneously flexing toward the emerald-studded dagger he always wore strapped beneath his jacket.

Wrath was the general of war, but Envy could wield a weapon just as easily, and any sudden movements had the warrior in him on high alert, no matter how mundane a potential adversary might seem.

Miss Antonius repeated the motion, and Envy forced himself to relax and really take her in, realizing that—with her shimmering silver hair and unique eyes—there wasn’t anything mundane about Camilla’s appearance after all.

In fact, as he studied her further, he couldn’t help but note that her mouth looked like a heart, and if he’d had a mind to paint her, that was precisely the shape he’d use to capture it on canvas. The gentle sweeps and curves of both the upper and lower lips were wonderfully balanced, her Cupid’s bow a study in perfection.

Unaware that she’d caught his attention, Camilla dragged her teeth across her lower lip as she fussed with her clothing.

Those lips were plump, tempting things that caused his gaze to linger and his mind to spin with all sorts of wicked ideas. He’d been so focused on his weakening court, on the game, and on the curse before that, that he hadn’t thought of much else.

Temptation and sin fueled him, and he’d neglected both for far too long, it seemed.

His brother Lust would be too pleased.

Envy immediately stopped his mind from wandering down roads he refused to travel and watched Camilla cringe slightly at the rough-spun work garment, then untie the strings at her waist, promptly removing the paint-smeared apron and shoving it under the desk.

He gave her a cool look.

“When can you begin work? This is rather time-sensitive, Miss Antonius.”

“Apologies, but I must have missed your name, Lord . . .”

Clever woman, her interrogation was subtle. Based on his fine suit and the elegant, cultured manner in which he spoke, she already knew he was a blueblood.

Little did she know he wasn’t human, and he was no mere lord; he was one of the seven ruling Princes of Hell.

In some mortal realms they were known as the Wicked—a name they’d earned after eons of perfecting that moniker through sinful games and debauchery.

He was playing one such game now—except these stakes were the highest he’d ever played for.

“Lord Ashford Synton. But those who know me best simply call me Syn.”

It was a lie, naturally, but it would be the first of many now that he could do so.

“Well, Lord Synton,” she said, using his full surname to clearly remind him she was not one of his acquaintances, “I must decline this commission but am happy to consider another.”

“Pardon?”

Envy’s eyes narrowed. Of all the ways he’d considered this meeting might go, he hadn’t once imagined her declining his patronage.

He needed that painting to unlock the next clue.

And, according to the previous clue, which had played out in his throne room, she needed to be the one to create it. Same lie Lilac deciphered was Camilla Elise. He still hadn’t quite figured out why it had to be her, but he’d have an answer to that particular mystery soon enough.

Envy’s spies were currently unearthing all they could find on the artist, and whatever secrets she had wouldn’t stay hidden from him for long.

By week’s end, Envy would know every sin, vice, or virtue she held dear, and then he’d exploit that knowledge for all it was worth. Everyone wanted something, and he’d happily pay Miss Antonius whatever price she required.

Camilla nodded to the paper.

“You’ll need to find someone else to paint that for you, my lord.” “That won’t do. You’re the best, hence my coming to this . . . establishment.”

He glanced around the gallery. The wooden sign outside swinging pleasantly in the breeze proclaimed wisteria way. It was hand-painted, yet elegant, and utterly charming.

The exterior was a simple stone cottage with lush vines of wisteria hanging over the entry. Something quaint one would imagine in any provincial countryside, if one had brought the countryside into the heart of the vibrant art district and wedged it between two larger, less welcoming buildings.

Inside, it felt more like a darkened chamber where secrets were whispered and clandestine meetings were held.

Dark carpets were layered over broad floorboards, and the walls were papered with a deep hunter-green brocade. Paintings and sketches in every medium hung in gilded frames, while sculptures and statuary stood guard over dark corners.

On a tiny round table in the alcove where she’d been painting by candlelight, multiple cups of used paintbrushes were collected in every size and shape imaginable, the water a swampy array of discarded colors.

Her canvas faced away from the door, leaving him to wonder what she’d been working on. Everything else in the gallery had been meticulously set up, showing the art to its best potential. It was all most intriguing. And not entirely what he’d expected.

Much like the woman standing before him, who, he realized, was studying him as closely as he’d just examined her gallery.

“I’ve not seen you at any society function nor heard any mention of you before, Lord Synton. Are you visiting?”

A tinge of annoyance hit him. He’d been in this mundane city for nearly two weeks, slowly restoring an old estate that overlooked the whole damned town. Surely she’d heard some whispers of his arrival. He managed a tight smile.

“For the time being, I’m staying indefinitely, Miss Antonius.”

It was close to the truth. Envy was prepared for anything—perhaps Miss Antonius would take longer than expected to paint the Hexed Throne, or the following clue might keep him here.

Of course, he’d also wanted a base from which he could keep watch—if the game had led him here, other players might soon follow. Or worse, had already arrived.

“Well, then, welcome. I can happily direct you to someone else who can help you.”

Envy noticed that her emotions had changed slightly. While he still sensed her annoyance bright and clear as day, he also felt a rising tide: impatience.

He could not fathom anyone feeling put off by his company.

Perhaps he should have listened to his brother’s ridiculous scheme to woo Camilla. If he flirted with her, she couldn’t possibly dismiss him so thoroughly.

Envy quietly seethed. Most humans had quite a different reaction to his kind. Demon princes had a certain dark charisma that attracted lovers; some believed it was due to their power to wield sins. He’d been certain she’d be taken in with little to no effort on his part.

He tried to keep the contempt from his voice.

“Is it a matter of payment?” he asked. “Name your price.” “I assure you it has nothing to do with money, my lord.”

Her chin notched up defiantly. Envy knew damn well that she wasn’t in any position to turn down work that would pay so handsomely.

“Is there anything else I may help you with, or will you be on your way?” she asked. “I’m afraid you’ve come at an unfortunate time, as the gallery is closing.”

“Perhaps.”

Envy debated whether to use a bit of his sin to influence her agitated mood but decided against it. Fae games were tricky. Players couldn’t use magic to win. It kept the playing field level, reducing immortals to mere humans. Envy would burn before he’d admit how exciting he usually found that challenge. But these weren’t usual circumstances.

For him to move forward in this game, Camilla needed to freely choose to paint the piece.

And she’d need to do so soon.

“Might I inquire as to why you’d turn down my work?” he asked, mindful to keep his tone pleasant.

“Of course.” Her smile was as sharp as the dagger hidden on his hip. “I refuse to paint any hexed object. And correct me if I’m wrong, my lord, but the Hexed Throne is one of the most powerful.”

Envy appraised her in a new light. “What does a woman of your standing know of hexed objects?”

“Enough to decline getting involved with one.”

At last, Miss Antonius came out from behind her desk, sweeping past him toward the door, where she placed her ungloved hand on the crystal knob. Paint speckled her skin like a colorful constellation of freckles.

“Perhaps you should visit the dark market on Silverthorne Lane. They’ll know much more about that particular realm of art than I do.”

With that she tugged the door open, the bell ringing in finality. The Prince of Envy was being summarily dismissed.

He blinked down at the little hell beast before him, and she smiled even more sweetly back up.

“You may wish to hurry, my lord.” She glanced out at the darkening sky, her silver irises like strikes of lightning against the storm clouds. A beautiful portent of doom. “It looks about ready to rain.”

A clap of thunder punctuated her warning, and before he knew it, Envy was standing outside and the quaint door was being slammed and locked in his face.

Two beats later, the candles went out, plunging the gallery into complete darkness.

Envy cursed every saint he could think of under his breath as the first plump drops of rain freckled his shoulders. Then he heard the scrape of a boot, only seconds before his companion stepped from the shadows, chuckling darkly.

“You’ll just walk right in, was it?” the Prince of Pride asked, grinning wide, his eyes an annoyingly bright silver against the night. His chestnut-brown hair was mussed, giving the impression that a lover had run their hands through it. “Simple as that.”

Envy gave his brother a murderous look. “I thought you were waiting at the pub.”

“Changed my mind.” Pride shrugged. “I wanted entertainment. How does it feel to have your balls handed to you?”

“Not now.”

Envy headed across the street toward the nearest awning, wanting to escape the impending storm and his damned brother. His cavalier mask was slipping.

“Now is the perfect time to point out it was a dismal plan,” Pride said, strolling beside him, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Even Lust’s idea was better.”

“It’s Lust’s only idea.”

“Point? It always works.” Envy gritted his teeth.

“So, Lord Syn.” Pride still drawled, but there was a sharper edge to his voice now. “Care to explain how the fuck it’s possible for you to lie?”

“Not particularly.” Envy wasn’t in a giving mood. “Aren’t you supposed to be searching for clues to Lucia’s whereabouts?” he asked instead.

“Perhaps you aren’t as heartbroken as you’d like everyone to believe.”

It was a low blow, but Envy needed to be left alone before Pride noticed the cracks in his armor. If he could have risked the power needed to summon his wings, he’d have catapulted into the heavens, leaving his brother behind. As it stood, Envy had to remain grounded until he won the gods-damned game and fully restored his magic.

All levity vanished from his brother’s face at the mention of his missing consort. Pride’s lips pressed together tightly, revealing the ancient scar that still carved a path across his lower lip. For most, Pride pretended to be a drunken rake, obsessed with all that glittered. Frivolous, egotistical. Unconcerned with anything aside from pretty lovers, parties, and baubles.

But Envy, king of masks, knew these were false identities his brother wore. Pride was much more calculating than he let on. His secrets were so vast, even Envy’s best spies hadn’t unearthed them all yet.

“Don’t get pissy because I was right,” Pride snapped icily. “I told you to court her first, then ask her to paint the throne for you. Why else would she help a stranger do something so dangerous? Put yourself in her position—would you risk yourself?”

Envy grunted, and Pride studied him more closely.

“Wrath said you’re abysmal at strategy, and you’re proving him correct.”

Envy swallowed a retort. Wrath and Emilia had visited his House of Sin a month or so previously, and he’d narrowly avoided them discovering the slow decline of his court. Thankfully the worst symptoms had been held at bay by a curse that was recently broken.

Pride mistook his silence for quiet contemplation.

“If you’re that repulsed by Camilla, perhaps one of our brothers might seduce her in your stead. I’m sure Lust or Gluttony would be willing to help,” he said. “Perhaps they’d even team up if she asked them nicely.”

“You’re not offering,” Envy pointed out, watching his brother’s face carefully.

Pride glared at him but finally shut up.

Envy glanced back at the gallery, annoyance rocketing through him.

Even in the dreary storm there was something otherworldly about the building, something enchanting. Much like the vexing woman who owned it.

Pretending to court her wouldn’t be a hardship. But he had enough to focus on without adding another distraction, and mortal courtship wasrife with inane rules and tiresome ballroom dances. He had no patience for promenading around for others to gossip about.

He had a game to win. And he’d wasted enough time.

“I’m quite through with your ego for one night.” Envy yanked his House dagger from its sheath, the emerald in its ornate hilt winking in the growing darkness. Princes of Hell couldn’t be killed by one another’s daggers, but they could be sent right back to their circle of the Underworld, whether the prince wished to travel or not.

“Go home, Pride. Unless you’d like a matching scar on the other side of your face.”

“Stubborn prick.” Pride held up his hands and stepped back. “Why won’t you just ask for help?”

Envy pressed his lips together, remaining silent. His brother gave him a disgusted look.

“With Camilla’s first refusal, you’ve now got two chances left to unlock the next clue, right?” When Envy still refused to speak, he added, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Keep reading Envy and Camilla’s story in Throne of the Fallen on October 3rd