Page 14 of Between Flames and Deceit (Dragon’s Heart Duology #1)

Chapter Thirteen

Nienna

T he canvas loomed before me, its surface a taunting confession. My fingers twitched, itching to hurl it into a hearth—even in the sweltering summer heat, where no flames danced. Obliteration was the only solution.

Rough lines and jagged strokes seemed to pulse with accusation. The strong, sinewed figure caught in charcoal was unfinished but damning. The face remained blank, yet the wrists were bound in the sleeves of a garment.

“What are you sketching?” Fyrn’s voice pierced the silence behind me.

My breath hitched. Too late. Her sharp eyes had already seen it. Suppressing the sting of panic, I reached for the canvas, letting my features settle into an indifferent mask.

“Nothing of importance,” I muttered, fingers curling to claim it.

“Is that a man?” Dior’gad rose from her chair, pinching her spectacle into place as she squinted at the sketch.

Rachel, her youngest, perked up at the question. She darted to my side, quicker than her mother’s limping steps, and leaned in to inspect the damning lines.

At nearly fourteen, she would soon be seeking a match of her own, but for now, Dior’gad shepherded her through palace halls, assessing the options.

The girl frowned, tilting her head as though a different angle might reveal the truth. “I don’t see it.” Her lips puckered in thought, her curiosity as sharp as her mother’s scrutiny.

“Rachel! Princess Nienna—is that man naked?” Dior’gad’s voice rang with both scandal and intrigue .

Heat rushed to my cheeks as I gripped the folds of my skirt, my palms damp. “I was only working on proportions,” I stammered. “It’s crucial to understand the balance of the human form in art.”

Did that sound believable—or worse?

“If that’s the case,” Dior’gad sniffed, “you’ve exaggerated his shoulders, his chest is overdone, and Veridis be praised, no man possesses that many abdominals.”

One did. Six visible muscles carved his stomach, with faint diagonal lines connecting them to his back. The memory of that perfection lingered, burned into my mind like the charcoal that had captured him. A reminder I couldn’t erase, no matter how much I tried.

But I could dispose of the canvas.

“You’re right, the proportions are off,” I said, nodding with feigned agreement.

Fyrn narrowed her eyes, that sly grin creeping across her face. She knew I was lying—and I would pay for it later.

“I’ll get rid of it and start fresh. It was a pleasure, Dior’gad.”

Even Rachel couldn’t hold back a giggle as I took my leave.

“I’ll visit later!” Fyrn called after me.

I offered a brief nod before stepping out into the hall, clutching the canvas close. A deep breath of relief filled my lungs.

None of them knew. They didn’t know I had drawn the king with his tunic off. If they did—my reputation would be ruined. It was improper for me to even perceive what his bare chest looked like, let alone capture it in art.

I hurried down the corridor, my guards falling into step behind me. It was my own fault for letting my mind wander. Dior’s complaints about the lack of trade from central Radaan had worn thin. I understood her point, but after her sixth lament about lavender from their fields, I nearly suggested she hire a new overseer to source better seeds.

Her constant droning had set my thoughts adrift, my hand absentmindedly sketching that damnable image.

The drawing room felt miles from my quarters as my boots sped against the rugs, urgency driving me forward. My guards were nearly jogging to keep pace, their footsteps echoing in the halls. I approached an intersection, unsure whether to turn left or go straight. A wrong move would mean retracing my steps to ask for directions or worse—relying on my guards.

I spun around the corner—and collided with a wall of metal and cloth.

The canvas slipped from my grip as I tried to catch myself. Its corner caught the toe of my boot, sending it skidding out of reach. I yelped in surprise, and the man I collided with grunted under the impact, and someone’s strong grip seized my arm to steady me .

“Princess.”

The chains of Kallias’ mantle tangled in my hair, and I gasped as he pulled away to put proper distance between us.

“My hair!” I whimpered, stepping on his toes as I followed his retreat.

Greaves released his hold and took a step back, giving a brief bow for touching me.

Frantically, I worked at the gold chains. The loops felt endless, and my fingers trembled, only tightening the mess. “I’m sorry!”

“Wait.” Kallias grunted, shifting his boot beneath mine to remind me I still stood on his toes.

I mumbled an apology and shifted back, my head near his chest. His hands moved through my hair, pulling the chains free with gentle tugs.

“I should’ve slowed down. I apologize.” My voice stumbled as I noticed the deep green brocade of his overcoat. Gold embroidery of flowers and leaves traced the fabric, fitting his broad chest and tapering waist. The scent of spices surrounded me, and my stomach twisted with nervous energy.

“In a hurry?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. His fingers, long and callused, worked with precision. A sign of his noble heritage, but a testament to his work ethic.

My gaze dropped to his black boots, then to my light blue dress brushing the tops of them.

Too close. I stood far too close. Anyone passing by might see us like this—my reputation undone over a careless sketch.

“Princess.” His rough fingers released the final chain, and it fell against his chest as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you well?”

I forced a smile and stepped back. His touch fell away, but his brow remained furrowed, lips pressed tight with concern.

“I’m fine. I was just heading to my rooms. My apologies.”

“The third apology in as many minutes.” His face softened, the crease between his brows fading. “You’re forgiven.”

I let out a breath, trying to push the knot of nerves with it.

Then he bent down and picked up the canvas.

A wave of horror surged through me, and my cheeks burned. He straightened, glancing at the sketch as he passed it back to me.

“I didn’t know you drew.” His voice faltered as I reached out for it, and that familiar crease of confusion reappeared as he tilted his head. He brought the canvas closer, studying it with narrowed eyes. I prayed to every god I knew that the earth would open and swallow me whole.

“Just a sketch,” I managed, voice tight .

Greaves cleared his throat, and I caught the way he blinked, lips pressed together as though to hold back a smile. My face flamed, and sweat gathered along my brow.

“Just a sketch,” I repeated, more forcefully this time. “Nothing worth calling art.”

His piercing gaze locked onto mine, but his expression remained unreadable. Yet the weight of his stare carried a thousand questions.

Did he assume I’d drawn another man? Would he think me unchaste, disloyal? Was he worried about a bastard heir? If he knew I’d been close enough to sketch a half-naked man, as a princess–

“The battle for the foothills,” he said.

I blinked, confusion warring with panic. My fingers tugged at my skirts, and I tried a smile, but it faltered and disappeared.

“The scar across my chest is from the battle for the foothills in the northern mountain range,” he continued, handing me the canvas. “Nearly lost my heart that day.”

He watched me closely as I grabbed it and hugged it close, not caring if charcoal smeared my blouse. Did he find this amusing?

“I don’t know what you mean.” My throat tightened as I met his gaze, chin raised.

“I think you do.” His eyes flicked toward the guards, and his expression went unreadable as he straightened. “But you seem to be in a hurry. I won’t keep you.”

“Thank you,” I muttered, stepping around him. The words caught in my throat, and I moved with haste, letting the tension in my muscles carry me away. I didn’t say another word as I fled the scene, though I thought a great many curses.

“It was quite a nice picture.”

“Scythe!” Both Edith and I hissed in unison.

The younger handmaiden flinched and gave a sheepish smile. Edith poked at the canvas, already burning in the hearth, scattering ashes back into the flames. I sprawled across my sofa, my arm over my eyes, waiting for my pulse to return to an acceptable pace.

“Perhaps you should refrain from drawing men.”

Edith’s voice hummed with a reprimand, but I didn’t dare lift my gaze. When I’d rushed in, demanding the sketch be destroyed, she had taken it without a word. Her stare alone could’ve withered grass .

I lay still, listening to the crackle of the fire, trying to ignore the weight of Edith’s words. The tradition of waiting three seasons to wed had already begun—enough time to prepare for the wedding, for Tallon and I to become acquainted, for us to prove we were trustworthy.

And, perhaps most crucial of all, for me to prove I wasn’t with child.

Purity mattered to royals. Reputation was everything. And yet, yesterday, I stared at the king in his undress, then approached him afterward—the guards had to have witnessed. Who had they told? Scythe remained silent, so the servants hadn’t spread the word.

But Kallias? He’d practically broadcasted that not only had I seen him bare, but I’d drawn him. Models posed for hours while trained artists worked. How long did they think I studied the sculpted planes of his torso? Had they imagined I mapped every dip, every curve, scrutinized the trail of hair that led down–

“Shall you wear a brown dress for the evening meal?”

I could always rely on Edith to pull me from my spiraling thoughts.

“Brown is so drab,” Scythe groaned, heading into my dressing room in search of something brighter.

“Princess,” Edith’s voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for me.

I straightened, pressing my lips tight. “I know.”

“Is there another man?”

My gaze sank to the floor. I rubbed at my cheeks, willing them to cool. The heat of the blush from earlier was still there, lingering.

Kallias’ blue eyes flashed before me, his tunic tangled around his wrists. His bare skin shimmered in the midday sun, his expression a mix of shock and confusion.

“No.” I cleared my throat, meeting her sharp gaze. “There’s no other man.”

I was bound for Tallon, no matter my feelings. He wasn’t hard on the eyes, but it was his spirit I loathed. I still had a chance at happiness, even if I had to force myself into it.

“You are a princess, Your Highness.” Edith sighed, sitting beside me. She took my hand, her touch warm and steady. Always so proper, never letting her affection as the nanny who raised me show too much. “He is young. Give the prince time. Your marriage does not have to be loveless.”

“I have tried, Edith.” Tears burned at the backs of my eyes, but I wiped them away. I wouldn’t cry over a boy I didn’t love. “He’s vile, and he doesn’t care about me, this alliance, or Radaan. He fights me and tests me at every turn, leaving his father to clean up his mess.”

Her expression softened. “He will mature. Nineteen is young for–”

“A royal.” The words snapped out before I could stop them. Immediately, I regretted the harshness in my tone, but I couldn’t take it back. “If he were anyone else, at nineteen, he’d be expected to have sired a son and be raising a family by now.”

“And you’d be called a spinster. You have matured too fast.” Her words cut through the anger, calm and steady.

I shot her a glare. “You’ve been listening to Scythe too long.”

“You’re ready for marriage, for children, to lead.” She sighed, her gaze never leaving me. “He is not. It will take him longer, but don’t hold that against him.”

I ground my teeth together, focus locked on the fire, resisting the urge to yank my hand from hers. There was no hope of a happy marriage with Tallon. I would do my duty, bear heirs. But I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking I could be happy doing so.

“Everyone keeps telling me to give him time.” I stood, moving toward the sounds of Scythe rummaging through my dressing room. “It seems time is all I have.”

I buried my emotions deep and lifted my chin. I was a princess, and I would act like one.

Scythe picked a shimmering bronze dress, a compromise with Edith, who had insisted on brown for tonight because of the moons’ cycle and the rotation of my wardrobe.

At dinner, every movement of mine caught the light, but throughout the meal, I avoided eye contact with both Kallias and his son.

When I excused myself, Tallon looked relieved, his usual smirk replaced by a lighter mood. I ignored him and went straight to my rooms.

No sneaking past my guards. No quiet escapes.

And certainly no balcony meetings with a man whose body still haunted my dreams.