Page 25

Lex purses his lips, head tilting as he inspects it. “Why that one?”

“He’s creepy,” is my answer.

The man in the painting is middle-aged and stick-thin. His eyes are hollow and he’s holding a rose like it’s a weapon. I don’t even know who he is. Maybe he’s an Ashby. Maybe we’re related. Maybe this is some distant granduncle or something.

I shudder. “Put it with the cherubs.”

Shrugging, Pace drags the ladder over and climbs the four rungs to reach it, smoothly unmounting it from the wall. Something inside of my chest unwinds when he stacks it with the others, face down.

“What’s next?” Wicker asks, only half paying attention. He’s leaning against the wall in an annoyingly artful curve, a half-full beer bottle dangling from his hand. “Wanna take down the drapes? Pull up the carpet?”

Actually, I kind of do.

I’ve been taking them all throughout the second floor, removing the portraits I hate. Sometimes Pace or Wicker will chime in with their own opinion—they really don’t like still lifes—and they’d go into the pile. But mostly, I’m just trying to erase it ofhim. Unfortunately, de-Rufus’ing the palace is probably an exercise in futility.

We’d have to burn it down.

“The drapes,” I agree, smirking at Pace, who grabs two fistfuls of the heavy brocade covering the window and gives it a powerful yank.

Suddenly, the landing is bathed in colorful light.

It really is a beautiful palace, the window bearing a geometric stained glass design. Burning it down would be effective, but a real shame.

We’ll just have to make it our own.

Hands on my hips, I nod decisively. “Let’s go to the next wing.”

It’s not the best way to spend a summer’s day, but also not the worst. I stand by as Pace, Lex, and a couple of PNZ members labor through it, removing paintings and ornate tables, crude figurines, and creepy busts. Somewhere in the middle of this, guys begin losing their shirts, tucking them into their waistbands. A fine sheen of sweat covers Lex’s brow as he and Rory push an old armoire to the end of the hall. I watchhim specifically—Lex—and the way his muscles shift and ripple as he pushes. It doesn’t even matter that he pulled off his shirt to reveal a white tank top.

He’s magnificent.

I’m used to seeing him do such precise, delicate things that it’s almost easy to miss the pure, masculine power of his body.

There isrippling.

“You’ve got a little something…” Pace says, thumbing at the corner of my mouth. “Oh, that’s just drool.”

I try to snap out of the lust-fog, sending him a tepid glare. “Shouldn’t you be destroying more drapes?” He groans when I point out the tall, gargantuan window in the library, its windows covered with heavy velvet.

“You’re just trying to make it hotter in here so we’ll sweat more,” he grumbles, stalking over to the window in question.

Well, it doesn’t hurt.

Wicker, however, does almost nothing. “Does this,” he asks, pointing to his cheek, “look like a face for manual labor?”

I roll my eyes. “You’ve lived under Ashby’s elaborate roof your whole life. Now he’s out of the equation, this place belongs to us. Don’t you want to make it yours?”

Plainly, he says, “Itismine. I don’t need to gut it to feel better.”

“Really?” I step up to him, arms crossed. “So that painting in the foyer—you know, the one with the Prince standing over the dead Baron—you don’t feel any desire to burn it?”

His lip twitches. “Father didn’t kill my father.” Brow knitting up, he backtracks, “Ashbydidn’t kill my father. You know what I mean. I think that painting is hilarious, though. It’s perfectlyhim. More about the illusion of victory than anything real.” Tipping the bottle to his mouth, he takes a long swig of the beer. “I know you’re new here and all, but I came to terms with my world a long time ago, Red.”

“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow. “So you haven’t even considered taking it down and pissing on it?”

He pauses, the bottle poised against his lips, and then hums thoughtfully. “Hm.”

I jerk my chin at the staircase, holding back a laugh. “Go on.”