Page 31

The sunroom-turned-studio was flooded with natural light, its three glass walls offering panoramic views of the ocean and surrounding forest. Easels of various sizes stood throughout the space, each holding works in different stages of completion. Tables lined the walls, covered with organized chaos—jars of brushes, tubes of paint, containers of materials ranging from traditional to experimental. The air smelled of oils, acrylics, andsomething distinctly Finn—a creative energy that permeated the space as surely as his scent.

“Impressive,” Keir said, genuinely admiring the setup. “It’s like a window into your mind, but with better organization.”

“Thanks… I think?” Finn said, his tail swishing with nervous energy as he moved toward the main easel. “This is the one I was telling you about.”

The painting was striking—the coastline near the mansion transformed through layers of texture where sand and crushed shells caught the light, sea glass glinting like hidden treasures among painted waves. Driftwood formed the frame, weathered pieces arranged to extend the scene beyond the canvas.

“This is remarkable,” Logan said, his usual gruffness momentarily forgotten. “The technique is exceptional.”

Finn’s ears twitched in surprise. “Really? You don’t think the texture is too much? I was worried it might be?—”

“It’s perfect,” Cade interrupted, stepping closer to examine the technique. “The way you’ve captured the light on the water… it’s almost tangible.”

A flush crept up Finn’s neck, his tail now swishing with unmistakable pleasure. “That’s what I was going for! I wanted it to feel immersive, like you could step right into it.”

As he moved from piece to piece, explaining his process with growing animation, the brothers were drawn not just to the art but to the artist himself. This was Finn in his element—confident, passionate, his usual snark replaced by genuine enthusiasm. His fox ears and tail emphasized every emotion, impossible to hide behind his usual defensive walls.

“What about those?” Logan asked, nodding toward a stack of canvases turned to face the wall.

Finn froze, his ears flattening instantly. “Those are… nothing. Just practice pieces.”

He’s lying, Keir noted through their bond.His scent just spiked with anxiety.

Don’t push, Cade warned, but Logan was already moving toward the stack.

“Logan, don’t—” Finn began, but it was too late. Logan had already turned the first canvas.

It was a portrait—Cade, sitting in his study, a rare moment of unguarded contemplation. The technique was different from Finn’s other work, more impressionistic, focusing on the play of light and shadow across his features. But what took Cade’s breath away wasn’t the technique but the emotion captured in it—there was something in the way Finn had painted his eyes, something that spoke of longing, of seeing beyond the surface.

“Finn,” he breathed, unable to form more words.

Logan turned another canvas. This one showed him in the training room, mid-movement in what appeared to be a combat drill. Again, the technique emphasized strength and grace, the tension in his muscles, the focus in his eyes. But there was that same quality—a perspective that went beyond mere observation.

The third canvas revealed Keir lounging on the deck at sunset, golden light turning his hair to fire, his customary smirk softened into something more genuine. The painting captured not just his physical beauty but something deeper—the warmth beneath the charm, the intelligence behind the playfulness.

Finn stood frozen, his tail tucked between his legs, ears flat against his head. “They’re just practice,” he said weakly. “For figure studies. They don’t… they’re not…”

But they were. Each painting revealed how Finn saw them—not just as his adoptive brothers, not just as alphas, but as men he had studied, admired… desired.

“These are extraordinary,” Cade said quietly, moving closer to Finn, who backed up a step.

“They’re invasive,” Finn countered, wrapping his arms around himself. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t ask permission to?—”

“You don’t need permission,” Logan interrupted, still staring at the portrait of himself. “Is this really how you see me?”

Finn swallowed hard. “I paint what I see.”

The intensity of three alpha gazes made Finn step back nervously, his tail swishing in agitation. He bumped against a shelf where paint supplies were balanced precariously. Time seemed to slow as the shelf tipped, tubes of paint and jars of turpentine tumbling toward him. Logan lunged forward with supernatural speed, managing to catch most of the falling supplies, but not before a jar of cobalt blue acrylic upended itself over Finn’s head and shoulders.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Finn yelped, jumping back too late as blue paint splattered across his shirt and down his chest. “This is what happens when you make me nervous!”

The admission slipped out before he could stop it, his ears flattening in embarrassment.

“Our fault entirely,” Cade said smoothly, though his eyes darkened as he took in the sight of Finn standing there, blue paint dripping down his neck and soaking through his white shirt, making it cling to his torso like a second skin.

“It’s fine.” Finn sighed, plucking at the ruined shirt with obvious resignation. “This is why I usually wear studio clothes in here.” He glanced down at himself, grimacing. “I need to get this off before it sets.”

He pulled the shirt over his head, revealing a torso that was slender but toned, skin smooth and pale where the sun hadn’t touched it. Blue paint streaked across his collarbone and down one shoulder, making him look like some kind of fae creature marked by otherworldly pigment.