Throne of the Fallen

“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.