“Surely there’s some arrangement we can come to?”

Camilla’s desire evaporated at once.

In its place, he was hit by the familiar prickling of anger.

She shoved at his chest and Envy stepped back, giving her space, surprised at how immediately he felt his own sense of loss.

“There will be no arrangement of any sort between us, my lord. I’d sooner make a deal with the king of demons himself.”

Irrational jealousy barreled through him at the thought of Camilla striking a deal with his brother Wrath, but he bit the iciness of his sin back.

“That can happily be arranged. Shall we leave for his residence now? Once you’re good and sated, perhaps you’ll be more agreeable.”

A low, soft laugh escaped her lips, the sound sending a bolt of awareness through him, one he did not care for as he found his gaze ensnared by her.

“Go home, Lord Synton.”

Camilla grabbed the hem of her skirts and marched down the tunnel toward her house, leaving him where he still stood.

“I’ve had quite of enough of your charms for one night,” she called back over her shoulder.

And yet he could not say the same regarding her.

Envy would do well to remember that Miss Antonius—with her pretty smile, soft curves, and lilting laugh—was not for him, though as her words replayed in his mind, his sin ignited once again. I’d sooner make a deal with the king of demons himself.

Like hell she would.

Camilla was his until the game ended, and he was not known to share.

CAMILLA SET HER paintbrush down, looking her canvas over with a critical eye.

An act that was more difficult than it should have been.

Normally she could see exactly what a painting needed, where to shade, where to highlight, where to add more depth or color. But today, it just wouldn’t come. She was still too damn exhausted to think clearly. After a night spent tossing and turning, kicking off her sheets, then getting tangled up in them, frustrated beyond measure, she’d been so tired she’d forgotten her ritual—her mother’s locket still hung around her neck. Yet this painting had demanded her attention from the moment she opened her eyes.

So here she was, in her gallery before sunrise, apron cinched at her waist, skin already speckled with paint she prayed hadn’t made its way onto the necklace after all.

Before her wasn’t quite a self-portrait, but a scene heavily inspired by her bath the previous night.

Despite her agitation, Camilla thought it was already rather lovely; it captured her as all the things she wished she could openly be. Soft, feminine, boldly powerful. Someone who owned her desire without apology, without pretending to humble herself for a world that oppressed.

She’d captured herself submerged in a claw-foot tub, one hand draped across her lower belly, knees bent, golden legs jutting up from the water. Flower petals floated on the water, hiding that secret place between her legs, which had throbbed with every sinful word that came from Synton’s lips the night before. In the painting, one foot was propped against the lip of the white tub, revealing flowers stuck to the silky skin of her exposed thighs.

Camilla’s mind flashed back to that bath. As she’d washed away the wretchedness of her evening, she’d understood that there was one thing the water could not cleanse—her memories of the filthy things Synton had said in his deep, velvety voice that had made her burn not with anger, but scorching desire.

And his own arousal…

God, he had been pressed against her, hard and wanting.

When he’d moved his hips, slightly grinding against her, she’d nearly seen stars.

Honestly, she ought to call upon a physician and inquire about a tonic—something was clearly amiss. Surely she ought to be traumatized by his bold and abhorrent behavior.

Also by the fact that he’d lied about why he wanted the hexed painting. He was clearly hiding something. Then when he’d demanded to know if anyone else had asked for a hexed object, she’d gone cold.

She’d forgotten about the note.

A request from a mysterious collector had come earlier that week, asking after an illustrated book of spells. The note was unsigned, had no return address, so Camilla had tossed it aside, not thinking about it again until now. What could Synton know?

Shall I fuck you against this wall?

He certainly knew more about that. Camilla ran the slick bar of soap down the side of her body, mimicking his featherlight touch. If she closed her eyes and drew up the memory, the heat of him still lingered.

Along with annoyance.

Camilla had been wrong when she’d thought Vexley was the most aggravating man she’d ever known. Synton now proudly claimed that honor, except—most maddeningly of all—she couldn’t stop thinking of him.

Shall I fuck you against this wall? First with my fingers, then my cock.

Camilla had been rendered speechless. Not by his crude words, but by her immediate internal reaction to them.

Yes. God, yes. She’d never wanted anything more.

In public Synton had been the perfect gentleman, seeming offended by Vexley’s crass behavior. How different he was when no prying eyes were near, how wondrously sinful.

His whispers felt like their own dark secret. And Camilla was certainly fond of those.

Then he’d gone and ruined everything by negotiating it as payment for her services. As if he could not simply desire her without a price being attached!

His stupid proposition made her feel lonely all over again.

When Camilla had debuted, just after her mother’s disappearance, she’d almost been like any other young woman of her station—charmed by the idea of some prince waltzing her across a ballroom, declaring his love.

In truth, everything had been horrid.

Her father’s eccentric behavior and her mother’s absence had made her a wallflower, standing in the shadows while her friends danced and flirted. It got worse her second and third Seasons, until she stopped believing in her fairy tale.

It had been a foolish dream anyway, one her mother had warned her against.

From the moment Synton strode into her gallery she’d felt drawn to him, a bit of that bright-eyed girl returning, longing to be wanted madly. More fool her, she supposed.

The bell over the door rang loudly, jarring her into the present. She glanced at the clock, startled to see it was now afternoon.

“What have you done with it, you thieving little chit? Did you give it to him?”

Vexley’s thunderous accusation broke the peace of the day and her muddled memories of the night before. Damn. The forgery.

Camilla twisted from her painting, stunned by the absolute fury on Vexley’s face as he advanced, hands clenched at his sides.

Instinct made Camilla want to run far and fast, but some little innate voice warned her to stand her ground, that Vexley was mad enough to give chase and it would be far worse for her if he caught her then.

Camilla kept her voice calm and even. “I’m not sure what you mean, my lord. What have I done with what? And who have I given it to?”

“Do not play coy with me today! You know precisely what I’m inquiring about.”

Vexley towered over her, a serpent ready to strike.

“Where is the forgery? I have spent the entire morning tearing my home apart and it is most certainly not there, so I’ll ask you once again nicely before I stop being a gentleman, where is the damned thing, Camilla? Did you give it to Synton?”

She blinked up at him, hearing the words but having difficulty understanding.

If Vexley believed he was acting like a gentleman, then she might as well declare herself the Seelie Queen of Faerie.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” Camilla’s pulse roared in her ears as she focused on the most important thing he’d said. Surely she’d misheard him. “Have you lost it? Or moved it and forgot?”