Page 18 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows (Runaway Prince Hotel #5)
Chapter Fourteen
STARS WILL ALIGN
Théo
A loud, insistent knock at the door shatters the spell.
Seriously?
Zagreus frowns at first. Then his face lights up—delayed, as if the interruption had to elbow through the hazy lust clouding his brain.
“That’ll be him.” In a flash, he straightens up on the bed, gapes at me, and bolts to open the door, yanking a shirt from the closet as he goes.
Seriously?
This time, I’m the one mourning the loss of his body heat.
“Who the fuck is him ?” I spit between clenched teeth, hurrying to face the stranger who ruined my rekindling with my prince.
“Fuck him,” I hiss, strolling towards the whispering voices, brushing my lips where Zagreus put his before exiting the bedroom.
A tall man with jet-black hair, the palest skin, and a well-defined mouth steps inside.
Wearing black from head to toe, he’s drop-dead gorgeous.
Though he’s much less rugged than Zagreus, his perfect features carry the weight of a curse.
A large drawing tube and a backpack hang from one shoulder. His presence fills the room.
“Théodore, this is my friend, Nathan Price.” Zagreus claps the guy on the shoulder. “Nathan’s a gifted calligrapher and a talented painter.”
So, that’s what tonight’s about? I’m so fucking stupid!
We shake hands, and that’s when I notice his odd eye color. Golden in the center, surrounded by a dark halo. Weird…
“Am I interrupting?” Is he perceptive, or are we that disheveled?
The instant I grunt “Yes,” Zagreus replies “No.”
Seriously?
“Riiight…” Nathan huffs. He surveys us, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, then shrugs and addresses Zagreus.
“Sorry for the shitty timing. I caught an earlier flight, then discussed the fallout of the… Provincetown incident with Hecate. I’m glad she could interfere and put an end to this.
” He casts me a quick once-over and clears his throat.
“It took some doing, but I’ve got it! The damned book that kicked off this whole mess—” He halts.
It hits him he’s said too much in front of a perfect stranger, no matter how close he thinks I am to Zagreus.
Hard to tell if Nathan Price’s been filled in on my little visit to the Underworld?
Who cares? “What I meant was, Hecate will hand it over to you, so everything’s under control now. I owe you.”
“Nah! Your presence here means we’re even.”
Whatever… My irritation surges. With a vengeance. Too bad Zagreus’s guest zooms in on me. “You’re the thief turned baker?” he questions, his expression sharp and assessing.
How does he know so much about me when I’ve got nothing on him?
I growl a wordless reply, crossing my arms over my chest again. Zagreus’s words ricochet inside my mind. Redemption. Soulmate. Tartarus … I need more answers than that, and soon.
Smirking, Nathan takes matters into his own hands, as if he owns the place.
Dropping the backpack at his feet, clad in Chucks.
Without a word, he moves to the Chesterfield and opens the tube, unrolling a dozen canvases that he deposits on the small coffee table.
I grab one, then another, and a third. They’re all reproductions of Hidden Shadows ; it must have taken him hours to paint these.
Studying the muted colors and the indistinct figure in the center—which shifts more the longer I stare—I gawk.
Even to my experienced eye, they’re identical to the original. How on earth is this possible?
“You feel it, huh?” Nathan’s voice stays low and conspiratorial.
“You…” I hesitate. “You did this?” My shoulders unwind, tension draining from me as awe takes over.
His execution stirs something in me—the same pull I get whenever I stand in front of the original at the Princedelphia Metropolitan Museum—something restless and unspoken.
This Nathan guy somehow captured the essence of the infamous painting without ever seeing it in person.
For more reasons than I can count, this cannot be.
Throat parched, I shoot a puzzled glance at Zagreus, who watches me with a poised confidence that borders on infuriating. I can’t bring myself to hate Nathan. I put on my poker face, struggling to conceal how impressed I am—and it shows—and will my hammering heart to slow the fuck down.
“From my understanding, Théodore, this,” Nathan taps the image, “is your ticket out. These are my first replicas… They were just for practice, so they’re far from perfect.
” My trained eye will require more time with them because, from where I stand, the work is exceptional.
“Trust me, after I visit the museum, I’ll get to work.
Once I’m done, no one will be able to tell the original from its counterfeit. ”
Zagreus gives an approving nod.
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that two people have now insisted I should trust them—when I haven’t heard from the one person I do trust in far too long.
I remind myself to text Noé as soon as we’re done here.
We’re used to the distance, and silence never means forgetting.
But I miss him. If I’m being honest, I haven’t had the guts to reach out—too afraid he’ll ask questions I’m nowhere near ready to answer.
Questions about what I feel for the man standing across from me.
A man? No, but close enough to fool my instincts.
He's a Greek god, for fuck’s sake.
I suck in a shaky breath, not convinced I fathom the full scope of what he is. I always loved mythology, but I missed out on plenty about the Underworld… and Zagreus’s infamous father.
Oblivious to the war going on inside me, Zagreus tosses me a reassuring grin. “Welcome to the team.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh or throw a tantrum, but one thing’s for sure—I'm in way over my head.
The salty tang of the ocean breeze mingles with the subtle scent of blooming flowers as we saunter down the narrow, cobbled streets toward the museum.
June is right around the corner, and the late morning fog has burned off, leaving a crisp, sunlit afternoon in its wake.
The gulls overhead squawk, drifting in wide arcs above the rooftops.
Zagreus strides ahead, hands buried in the pockets of his impeccable, outdated jacket, and I half expect Sonny Crockett’s sidekick—Ricardo Tubbs—to appear beside us any minute; another one of Zagreus’s favorite characters he managed to introduce me to through a handful of reruns, even though he favors Crockett’s style.
Pretending I’m not ogling the curves of his sumptuous ass, hinted beneath the linen of his pants, a teasingly appreciative smile creeps onto my face.
Who would have guessed a Greek god would introduce me to the unique ambiance of that 80s show?
I can’t help grunting my frustration at the long jackets of the era, hiding more than I’d like.
Nathan ambles behind, pausing every so often to admire the ivy-covered facades of the old buildings. I’m in the middle, nursing my post-shift coffee, its warmth seeping through the paper cup and into my palms.
“This city’s so pretty,” Nathan remarks, stopping to inspect a wrought iron lamppost with intricate scrollwork. “Less boisterous than Provincetown, for sure. Have you ever been there?” I shake my head, sipping my coffee. “Maybe Zagreus can take you there this summer.”
I have no clue what the future holds for us. Is there even an us? First and foremost, I need to complete my assignment and fly back to Monaco.
Zagreus glances back over his shoulder. “Soon enough, we’ll see what’s in the cards for us.”
This isn’t the place to get into it, so I steer the conversation to France. Turns out Nathan’s been there before, and even speaks the language. Can he be any more annoying?
Before long, the streets open onto a wide, tree-lined avenue, and at last, the grand limestone facade of the coastal Princedelphia Metropolitan Museum looms ahead.
Its tall windows glint in the sunlight, banners advertising the latest exhibition—“Echoes of Forgotten Kingdoms”—fluttering in the breeze.
Inside, the museum is cool and hushed, the gentle sound of footsteps and whispered conversations echoing beneath the vaulted ceilings. Nathan slows to scan the polished marble floors, the intricate molding, and the rich tapestries hanging in the main hall.
We weave throughout the exhibition, passing glass cases filled with gilded goblets, ceremonial daggers, and ancient scrolls. He halts often, his gaze roving over each artifact as if mere proximity could uncover its secrets.
At last, we reach the painting. It’s displayed in a shadowed alcove, set apart from the other pieces, its centuries-old provenance and rumored divine origin, and recent resurfacing lending it a palpable gravity.
The canvas is modest in size—twice the Mona Lisa —but commands attention just as forcefully.
“Damn,” Nathan breathes, stepping closer.
Hidden Shadows is a storm of dark, brooding blues and grays and splashes of scarlet, the brushstrokes chaotic and raw.
At its center, a lone figure stands on the shore of a roiling river, their face turned toward a dim, golden light breaking through the clouds.
The image is both despondent and defiant, as if the figure refuses to surrender to the encroaching darkness.
“It’s haunted,” Nathan whispers, half to himself. “But… it’s holding out… for hope?” He declares, focusing on Zagreus. “Amazing job.”
The mighty Greek god drops his gaze at the compliment. Crossing his arms, he offers a faint nod without revealing much. “Fits the theme of the exhibition. The rise and fall of empires. Finding light in the rubble.”
I know he rarely bares his soul—if he even has one, as he loves to remind me—but his modesty speaks volumes about how much the painting means to him and how determined he is to reclaim it.
I remain silent, letting the weight of the painting settle over me once more. It’s gorgeous, and yet there’s an unsettling edge to it—daring you to see past the surface.