Her daughter had fallen in love with a demon prince—one of their mortal enemies—and the First Witch was so furious, she hexed several objects in hope of destroying the demons. The story claimed that the Hexed Throne was meant to entice the prince, then overtake him.

Camilla let her memory expand, releasing its boundaries, moving beyond its emotions, until her talent felt alive in her veins, rushing out to her fingers, into the brush, ready to leap beyond.

Deep in her mind’s eye, the throne spoke to her, told her the colors it needed, the shape, the very manner in which it ought to be revealed.

Camilla waited until the whole image had presented itself before opening her eyes.

Now, when she looked at the canvas, she saw the entire composition as if it had already taken its rightful place. She understood that this wasn’t how it worked for everyone, but somehow, this was how it had always worked for her.

She began. The background needed to be solid black to start—like the throne was emerging from deep within an abyss, a spark of life where nothing should survive.

And perhaps a bit of mockery for the Creator.

The throne held its own power now. Was its own god in its eyes. The witch who’d hexed it, given it power and life, was nothing compared to its glory now.

Oh, yes, the rumors of its being sentient were true. Except it wasn’t mildly sentient, it was fully aware, had as many thoughts and emotions as any other being. The Hexed Throne knew what it was and liked playing games, considered itself quite the game master, in fact.

Camilla passed no judgment, felt no emotion other than determination to bring forth the piece the way it desired to be seen. She had become a vessel for it to inhabit as it saw fit.

When she used her talent, dove deep within that well of creative power, Camilla lost all sense of time. Seconds or months could pass, and she’d remain blissfully unaware, conscious only of her brush.

Her father used to say talent like hers was a long-ago gift, perhaps bestowed on her family by some powerful Fae, and that when Camilla delved into its power, she shifted into the time of Faerie or the shadow realms.

It was dangerous, Pierre would remind her, to meddle with unpredictable forces, to stand between realms.

The idea that she might not be able to control her gift annoyed Camilla, even coming from her father. The depths of her talent might be a gift, but she’d worked hard at her craft. To understand not just what called to her, but how to give it life, how to make it her own.

Something Pierre Antonius had once known too. Before he’d crumbled in the end.

Camilla set her brush down, rubbing at the knot that had formed in her chest.

Her heart ached when she thought of her father. Time was so precious, human or Fae. She’d give nearly anything to have one more moment with him.

The abandoned canvas sent out a subtle pulse of light, a shadow-like heartbeat.

The throne did not want Camilla’s attention to stray. It was displeased.

It was the master of her universe now. And she would obey.

In an almost trancelike state, she picked up the brush, dipped it into the paint, and continued. From the darkness the throne had emerged, and now from the throne came the flames, burning bright, bold, insistent—

What felt like a moment later, she’d been roughly lifted off her feet. A hand firmly held her legs, and another pinned her backside while all the blood rushed painfully to her head.

Disoriented and half under the throne’s spell, Camilla needed another long moment to realize she’d been unceremoniously tossed over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Just as suddenly as she’d been picked up, she was dropped to her feet, the sound of a door slamming finally snapping her into the here and now at the same moment her back hit a wall. The impact wasn’t strong enough to harm her, but it did jolt her into awareness.

Camilla blinked until her abductor’s furious face came into view.

“What the bloody hell were you doing, Miss Antonius?”

Synton’s normally cultured voice was nothing more than a snarl, his expression bordering on savage as his gaze raked over her.

Cold air kissed her flushed cheeks.

The temperature had suddenly dropped, as if each fireplace in the estate had gone out at once. If Synton hadn’t been standing so close, she’d have rubbed her arms to escape the chill.

“Painting.” She glared back at him. “Or have you somehow forgotten our bargain in the last hour, my lord?”

He gave her a strange look, eyes narrowing slightly.

He stared for an uncomfortably long beat, his expression remaining as ruthless and hard as ever as he slowly looked her over again.

After another intense sweep of his focus, his stance relaxed, and he stepped back.

Marginally.

A flicker of warmth returned to her skin.

“From now on, you’ll only work on the Hexed Throne with me inside the studio too.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m protecting my investment.”

“That’s not—”

“Negotiable,” he interrupted, flashing a dark grin as her scowl deepened. “Willingly paint with me in the room, or I’ll handcuff us together until it’s complete, Miss Antonius. And I do mean the whole time it will take. The choice is up to you, pet.”

ENVY KNEW CAMILLA would be furious if he called her pet, but that didn’t stop him from doing it. Igniting strong emotions in her perversely amused him. He liked seeing her nostrils flare ever so slightly, liked seeing the uptick in her pulse and the narrowing of those moonlike eyes. He’d come to enjoy the second before she gave him a little bit of hell.

And right now, her clear-eyed aggravation was a relief. When he’d pounded on the door the first night and she hadn’t answered, he’d gone to bed thinking nothing of it, knowing how easy it was to get lost to creativity.

On the second evening, after Alexei had spent the day outside the studio and reported that she hadn’t emerged to eat or drink, Envy had grown suspicious.

Camilla hadn’t lied when she’d told him she’d only been gone an hour—he would have sensed it if she had. To her it had only been that.

Meanwhile, just over two days had passed in Waverly Green.

Envy wasn’t sure whether it was the game or the throne itself causing time to flicker, but whatever the cause, he would not be leaving Camilla alone again.

It didn’t surprise him in the least that this clue was proving more difficult than the last. Lennox wouldn’t give up his prize so easily this time.

Camilla tried to move out from beneath his arm and he blocked her passage, keeping her firmly against the wall.

“Now what?” she asked, fresh aggravation lacing her tone.

“It’s getting late. You’ll eat and drink something, then retire to bed. We’ll begin again after you’ve fully rested. You are of no use to me if you’re ill or half dead.”

Silence stretched between them.

Camilla’s eyes sparked with anger.

“Nowhere in our bargain do I recall agreeing to specified bedtimes, Lord Synton. I work until I’m satisfied. You may either join me or see yourself to bed alone. Clearly your senses have been addled if you believe you have any right to order me around.”

Envy looked her over, wondering what was so gods-damned appealing about this constant battle of wills. If this mix of intrigue and arousal was even close to how Lust constantly felt, it was a wonder he did anything aside from indulge his sin every moment of the day.

A muscle in Envy’s jaw tightened. He wanted Camilla to continue painting for selfish reasons, and he was far from tired. If she wished to continue, then so be it.

He stepped back and swept an arm out. “After you, then, Miss Antonius.”