Chapter 25
Twenty - Five
Atlas
With my art students dismissed for the night, I begin the cleaning process.
I set all their canvases to the side of the room to dry before wiping all easels.
Thankfully, my pupils ensure all their art supplies – paint, brushes, smocks – are all neatly organized and packed.
One less task for me this evening. Normally I would do a deep clean after the kids' class but tonight, I have a proper date planned with Shaye and I don't intend to disappoint her.
I'll do a quick sweep and that should do it.
The front door slams open. I flick my gaze up at the after-hours intruder and sigh. Ronan invites himself inside, rage written across his face. I half expect Nyx to run in after him, but my cousin is solo this evening which is odd.
"You know what's the most fucked up part of this entire wedding situation?" Ronan barks, prowling toward me, hair disheveled.
"Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable," I drawl, snatching the broom from the closet. "I wasn't doing anything."
"I don't even have a bride, and invitations have been sent to every kingdom!
" Ronan ignores my tone and tosses himself into a seat, nearly knocking over the wooden easel in front of him.
He grabs it before it hits the ground and apologetically places it right-side up.
"I keep getting stopped on the street with people offering me their congratulations.
I even had women at Prue's staring daggers at me as if to say why not them.
Sure, I've had my fair share of bedding women in this city, but they couldn't have assumed I'd marry them.
" He drags a ringed hand across his face.
His visit won't deter me from finishing my task to get to Shaye, but I can humor him with a conversation while I clean.
When I glance up at him, I notice the bags beneath his brown eyes.
They're so dark they could be mistaken for light bruising.
His cheeks are hollow as well and the concern he's not eating as much as he should be, replacing his meals with drinks at Prue's concerns me.
"You don't look well, Rone," I offer as kindly as possible. "How long has it been since you've had a proper night's rest? Or a hearty meal?"
Ronan spies me through his splayed fingers. "Really?" He frowns. "That's your response to everything I've just lamented? I don't look well?"
"Well, you don't."
"I shouldn't have come to you for advice," he groans, frustration ripe in his tone.
"Why did you?" I halt sweeping for a moment to stare at him. It's a genuine question. Ronan doesn't typically come to me with his problems. That honor is reserved for Nyx. Why is he here now?
"What?"
"I've never been in your position," I shrug. "What kind of advice can I offer you?"
Tears well in Ronan's gaze. "You know, I expect this kind of asshole behavior from Nyx. Not you." He spears to his feet, headed straight for the door.
"If it's any consolation," my words bring him to a halt, "I think what you're doing is admirable."
It takes a few seconds, but my cousin slowly turns to face me. A newfound anger marring his features. "I'm not doing anything," he hisses like a wounded animal. "I'm fighting my father every step of the way. I'm not ready to be married."
"Maybe not," I concede. "But are you ready to be king?"
He blinks rapidly, the question throwing him. "Why would I need to be ready to be king? My father is in good health."
I resume my sweeping, unwilling to be here longer than need be.
"A war is coming. You think your father is not going to lead his troops to battle once more?
Why do you think he's harped on you getting married for the last couple of years?
He is preparing you. He is preparing you just in case he doesn't make it home. "
Ronan swallows hard, swiping the back of his hand across his cheek. "He should stay here. He's not seen combat since the Great War."
"That is beside the point." I shake my head.
"He is our king. He has never sent his people to war and not led them.
It's not in his character. Nor is it in yours.
But he wants you to be ready. Ready in case you have to take the throne.
Having a partner by your side in the grieving and transition time would be invaluable. "
"You speak as if my father's fate is sealed," he grits his teeth, leaning his back against the door.
"Forgive me, that's not what I meant." I eye my cousin, regretting how calloused my words came across. "Of course, he will fight to return home and rule another thirty or forty years. But you are his heir. He has to prepare you. He might not come out and say it that way, but it's only logical."
Ronan opens and closes his mouth. His hesitation is brief. "So, you're saying I should shut up and just marry someone I don't know?"
"I'm not saying anything. I'm giving you a different perspective. Is marrying the worst fate?"
"What if I don't like her?" he asks, fearstricken. "Hell, what if she doesn't like me? This could end in disaster."
"It could."
"Damnit, Atlas. Is this how you give Shaye peptalks? If so, you suck."
I fill the duster with trash and toss it in the garbage can.
"There's no one in the city who has captured your heart or at least your attention?
" I ask as I place the broom back in the closet.
"Your father isn't a tyrant. He might be putting his foot down about you getting married, especially seeing this as the perfect opportunity to force you down the aisle, but he would be open to you having say in who you take for a wife.
He's asked you countless times to bring someone to him. "
"I haven't met anyone suitable to be my partner.
" Ronan pushes up from his leaned position, crossing to look at the paintings my students completed tonight.
There's a silence that stretches between us for half a minute before Ronan's shoulders hunch and he admits, "I'm scared.
What if I mess everything up?" He forces himself to meet my gaze.
"It's easy for you to say just get married and see what happens.
You're not the one being forced into matrimony for king and country. "
Righteous indignation flares in my chest. "I've given everything for my king and country.
Marriage might not have been demanded of me, but my body has been scarred and broken for my king.
My blood has spilled for my countrymen. And I suspect, before everything is said and done, I will sacrifice more.
Our burdens are not the same, but I know the pain of serving. "
"I'm sorry. I sounded callous." He retreats a step, hands up to quelch the tension. "Maybe I should allow my father to pick someone for me. I don't think I could do any better on my –"
"You're still here, Atlas?" Viella, Gustov's niece, bounds around the corner, hands full with supplies from the back room. "I thought you had a date with – " She stops in the threshold when she catches sight of Ronan.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she stammers, backpedaling. " I didn't realize you were still with a student. I can restock later."
Ronan steps toward her drawing her gaze. There's something in my cousin's stance that has my eyes bouncing between him and her.
"Don't go," I insist, motioning her to come closer. "This isn't a student. This is my cousin, Ronan. Ronan, this is Viella Fagan. She is one of the other art instructors. She specializes in watercolor." I point to a wall with a few of her mounted paintings. "I envy her skill with a brush."
She giggles. "Oh stop! You are far too kind and a boost to my ego.
If I could pick up a piece of charcoal and sketch like you, I feel as if I would be unstoppable in the art community.
" Viella once again locks eyes with Ronan and smiles.
Her eyes suddenly widen as if she's realizing who he is and places the supplies on a nearby desk.
"Where are my manners?" She wipes her paint-stained hands on her smock, curtseys, and extends her hand.
" It's very nice to meet you, Prince Ronan. "
Ronan doesn't move at first. He stares at Viella's wild brown curls and sea-blue eyes. From here, even I can appreciate the freckles smattered across the bridge of her nose and notice a glob of green paint smeared across her jawline.
It's become quiet. Too quiet. They are lost in one another.
I could slip out undetected. Maybe it was Fate that persuaded Ronan to come into the art studio.
He hasn't visited before. Call it kismet, call it coincidence.
But Ronan and Viella were meant to cross paths.
I know my cousin won't be his typically smooth-talking self.
This isn't Prue's. I've only seen Ronan tongue-tied in front of a girl once before when we were younger. I won't abandon him to his own undoing.
I clear my throat, jarring Ronan into movement. My cousin crosses toward Viella and takes her hand in his and smiles.
"It's nice to meet you too, Viella. You have a little paint…" Ronan lifts his free hand to her face and tries to thumb the paint off her face but only makes matters worse by smearing it up her cheek and onto his finger.
Viella stares at his now green hand and gasps.
"Oh, do I have paint on my face again? I'm so sorry.
Let me get a towel to clean you up." She grabs a clean rag from the supplies she brought in with her and meticulously wipes his finger clean before tending to her face.
"I swear I walk all around the city thinking I've cleaned up and when I get home look in the mirror, I realize I look insane.
There. All clean." She smiles up at him, and he reaches for the rag.
"May I return the favor?" He folds the towel so it's unblemished and when she nods he gently strokes her cheek.
They maintain unwavering eye contact with one another, as if I'm not even in the room anymore. Once her cheek is clear of paint, Ronan reluctantly lowers his hand from her face.
"Atlas is right," his voice is low. "Your paintings are masterful."
Viella's eyes brighten. "That means a lot to me. Thank you, Your Highness."
"Ronan." He corrects. "Please, call me Ronan."
She smiles. "Thank you, Ronan. I will cherish your compliment." As if remembering I'm still here, she breaks eye contact to acknowledge me. "You bear witness, Atlas. So, when I tell the other instructors and they don't believe me, you can set them all straight."
I exchange a knowing look with my cousin, prepared to nudge him in the right direction. "Perhaps, if it's not an inconvenience, Viella, you could find time to give Ronan a private art lesson?"
Ronan's mouth drops but before he can dig up some excuse, Viella readily agrees.
"I would be delighted! I didn't realize you were interested in the arts."
Ronan narrows his gaze at me before smiling down at her. "I am a great admirer."
She glances at the clock. "Do you have any plans the rest of the evening? I could spare an hour if you'd like before I close the shop."
"I fear I would be a poor student," Ronan clams up, scratching the back of his neck. "I haven't been blessed with artistry like Atlas."
She rests her hand on his bicep. "I always tell my students, anyone can paint, if they practice."
"And Viella is a wonderfully patient instructor," I add, stripping off my smock.
"Where are you going?" Ronan asks, a hint of panic in his face.
"I promised Shaye I would take her to dinner. Make sure you escort Viella home after your lesson." I wink.
"Oh, I wouldn't want to inconvenience – "
"It's the least I could do for you staying late to give me a private lesson," Ronan interrupts, remembering his manners.
Viella smiles. "Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no? Let me grab a canvas from the back."
The moment she disappears, Ronan whips to face me, confusion and fear in his eyes. I don't allow him to speak. I pat him on the back and whisper, "If the lesson goes well, ask her to dinner."
"Atl-"
"Her favorite spot is Red by the western canal."
Ronan grabs my arm. "I feel weird. Like words fail me. What do I say? What do I do? Why are my hands sweating?"
"Be yourself, Rone."
"That's your advice?" he scoffs. "You're really bad at this, Atlas."
"I believe in you." I press my smock to his chest.
"What's this for?"
"Wouldn't want to get paint all over those fancy clothes," I tease.
"Ready to paint?" Viella beams the second she returns, canvas in hand.
Ronan swallows hard, offering me one last look before smiling. He lifts the smock for her to see. "Ready."
"Have fun," I offer flippantly as I slip out the front door.
To be fair, I don't think they noticed my departure.
When I spare a glance through the bay window I can't help but grin as Viella already has Ronan sitting in front of an easel.
She stands behind him pointing out his brushes and paint.
He dips his brush into the paint, and she guides his hand up and down the canvas.
Maybe there's hope for Ronan yet.