Chapter 18 Painted Into A Corner
PAINTED INTO A CORNER
Azrion
Azrion was pacing when he heard Katarina knock.
He knew it was her because who else could communicate the frenetic fear that would be standing on the other side of the door with rapping knuckles alone?
The fact she’d ignored the bell rune was another clue, but that complication might be overcome tonight.
That was, if she would still agree to accompany him to Lykalia.
With a steadying breath taken and a practiced smile set, Azrion opened the door onto a long tube of gray fabric that pushed past him without so much as a hello.
“Welcome, darling. Yes, it’s nice to see you too. Do come in,” he said to the space she left behind on the portico, bowed with a sweep of his arm, and looked at her from underneath his elbow.
Katarina huffed from beneath the hood of her gray cloak, and it was the prettiest sound he’d heard all day.
Back to that, as I feared, he thought, but the truth was he’d never lost his fascination.
“I do want to thank you for coming after the other night,” he said more carefully as he eased the door closed, but when he turned to address her, she was sprinting away.
“Not another chase,” he mumbled as he followed through his home, fear growing that everything between them had been ruined by his parents.
He’d delivered multiple gifts to the post the day before by way of hiring random children as couriers, though the confusion of, “You want this delivered to the post?” nearly thwarted the apology flowers and sweets.
He would have liked to ask her if she enjoyed them, but the concern that she perhaps did not kept a stranglehold on his words until he reached his studio.
Katarina stood in the chamber’s center with her back to the door. Her hood had fallen away, and she was gazing at the paintings, though whatever she was thinking was still entirely shrouded.
“It’s all right if you don’t want to go to Lykalia. I understand after…”
Kat’s cloak slid down her body and pooled at her feet, and what was left standing before him was nothing short of a star given form in the body of a woman.
He had never seen so much of her, not even in the dress she’d worn to the Vumheri wedding.
Of course, that was by design, and even then Azrion didn’t have much faith she would accept it, but by gods he was absolutely astonished she’d donned the piece he’d sent her for Lykalia.
Her hair fell in long golden waves covering most of the generous dip in the fabric that would expose her skin, but her low back was on display, the hollow of her spine nestled into the warm hue of her flesh.
Bare hips curved out through the high slits on either side of the almost-sheer material as well, and Azrion felt like he was floating through a dream he would surely lose as soon as he woke.
She peered coyly over her shoulder so that only one blue eye fell on him, and he knew he must have looked stupid, staring with his mouth hung open and every thought out of his head except, Pretty.
“Does it look okay?”
“It?” Azrion shook some sense back into his head. “You look…well, I don’t have the words, darling.”
Her arms snaked around her middle as she turned toward him fully, but the move didn’t cover the neckline that plunged all the way to her navel or the swell of her breasts beneath the narrow strips tied behind her neck.
Silver details threaded through the sapphire fabric caught the lantern light like stars trailing away from her skin.
An entire night sky was depicted on the front panel of the dress, and she was blooming out of it like a goddess.
He had been right—sapphire and silver were her colors. He would have to remember to brag to Mhot.
“Don’t tell me I’m wearing this and you’re wearing that.”
Without looking—because how in the blazes was he meant to look away from her—Azrion tugged at the belt of his thick robe and shrugged out of it.
He wore nothing on top but jewelry on his neck, ears, and wrists.
His pants were loose and low-slung, not at all like the tight pieces he was used to, but traditional clothing was called for during Lykalia, and Azrion never thought twice about his body anyway—it was great.
But then he was standing in front of Kat half naked, and his tail curled itself around his own leg. “Is this acceptable?”
Kat nibbled on her thumb nail as her eyes darted down the length of him, and warm color dappled her cheeks. “Uh huh.”
Well, that was…fine.
“I assume you received my note along with your dress?”
“The one that said I could strangle you with it if I didn’t want to wear it?”
He nodded. “Unless you’ve decided to do both, which I’m still open to mind you, I appreciate your willingness to indulge in one of our practices. These are traditional garments, so everyone who attends will be wearing something similar.”
That made her shoulders come down away from her ears. “And Melora will be there?”
“Hmm? Oh, probably yes.” And that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Azrion had in fact told himself that if he hadn’t won her back by Lykalia, the festival would repair their relationship for good.
Kat fidgeted, the colors in her eyes darting down herself and then back to him. “Do all demons have…”
Oh, gods, is something sticking out? Azrion gave himself another quick glance downward, but it was only the top half of him on display. “A tail?”
She shook her head.
“Horns?”
Another shake.
“The unbridled desire to commit atrocities?”
The whites of her eyes went wide, then she seemed to realize the joke and clicked her tongue. “Tattoos.”
Azrion placed a hand over the circle inked on his chest, his arms covered in more swirling lines and symbols.
They had been part of him for so long, he’d forgotten they were even there.
“Many demons do, and those that choose to take part in Lykalia almost certainly have at least decorative tattoos. I promise I won’t embarrass you by looking like this. ”
“So I’ll be even more naked than everyone else.” She swallowed, hands sliding up her bare arms as she held herself. “Oh, I knew I should have taken Kaly up on the offer years ago to get my own.”
Azrion brightened. “Do you want me to call on Oz? I’m sure he would be willing, and in fact, I can whip you up the perfect design—”
“No, no, I can’t.” She looked around the studio as if for a place to hide.
“Sure you can!” Azrion held out his arms, grin wide. “And there’s no better place to get one. We—”
“I’m afraid of needles!”
Azrion opened and closed his mouth. “You know—”
“How ridiculous that sounds coming from a seamstress? Yes.” She burned an even brighter red as she shrank in on herself.
“Well, that is a shame,” he said, pacing up to her slowly as an idea came to him. “But I can still give you one. And it won’t hurt at all.”
She squeezed herself tighter, distracting since it pressed her breasts together, but her glare pierced right through him. “With magic?”
“With paint.”
Kat’s face went funny, the skeptical dip to her brows lifting as her lips parted in contemplation.
Azrion curled a finger, leading her to the window seat. He collected a few tools on the way then sprawled himself on the cushions. “Sit.”
She perched on the edge of the seat beside him, back stiff and knees pinched.
Her profile was beautiful if severe, arms tense with her fists balled on her knees.
The dress’s front panel wasn’t wide enough to completely cover her lap, so her skin spilled out close enough to touch.
Azrion’s fangs made an inappropriate appearance—to speak of unbridled desire, but then a little nip wouldn’t be that atrocious, would it?
The look she wore seemed to suggest anything pointy coming near her in that moment would end up broken in two, so he put all those thoughts away.
“Now this won’t be permanent, of course, but it will last all night.
” He focused on arranging his finest detail brushes and picked out his blackest black, the one that dried quickest and stained his skin if not washed off immediately.
“And it’s going to take a few minutes, so perhaps you’d like to sit comfortably? ”
Kat didn’t move.
“Well, maybe you don’t want to, but I would prefer if you were comfortable.”
She huffed but shimmied her hips and slid about an inch backward, and whether she knew it or not, the slit in her dress slid up too.
“Good,” he husked and took in the rest of her. There was certainly a lot of skin to work with, and it was a shame really that he had to use a brush and not his fingers. “Now where would you like me to start? Maybe something on your arm or your side or your…” He pointed with the brush to her chest.
“Um, what are you going to draw?”
“Anything you like.”
As Katarina thought, her body sank a little more deeply into the cushions. “Could you do a moth? I know it can’t be detailed like on those teacups, but maybe just the outline?”
He grinned. “Absolutely. I’ll need a wider space, though, for the wings.”
Kat inspected her limbs then pulled her legs up onto the bench between them.
“Calf it is.”
“No, um.” Kat moved herself closer, her leg sliding along his so that their knees were touching. “I was thinking here.” She traced over the broad expanse of thigh that she angled toward him by leaning slightly away.
“The perfect canvas,” he murmured, but Kat didn’t seem to notice the licentiousness that dripped along the words.
She settled deeper into the pillows piled on the window seat and hitched a finger under the peak of the dress’s slit, lifting it even higher.
Her hip was exposed, swelling downward to the roundness of her backside and displaying the entirety of her thigh.
His tongue flicked against a fang, and thank all the gods for the pain of its sharpness, reminding him he was an artist first and an irreversibly lovesick demon second.
Her skin glistened under the last of the moonlight coming through the window.
He envisioned the moth taking shape before he began.
Its wings spread out over her thigh like a cloak, the patterns on them protective details, and then a flower grew beneath it, each petal adorned with runes for courage, beauty, love.
All for herself, of course—love for herself.
There, it was done. And now all he needed to do was actually paint.
On her skin.
Damn it, whose idea was this?
With the speed of cold honey, Azrion dipped his brush in the paint and then let it descend.
It knew where to start—right in the middle as far from any ticklish bits as possible—and what to do.
His hand was merely a channel for the image in his mind, but when the bristles finally touched down, Kat yelped.
He pulled back immediately. “Surely you’ve pricked yourself on finer points than hiriivi hair, darling.”
“Sorry,” she said, covering her face. “It’s just cold.”
Azrion lifted the brush to his mouth to exhale a hot breath over the bristles.
She watched from between her fingers. “That probably didn’t do much,” he admitted.
“But perhaps the thought will get you to stay still? If not that, the fact that if this smudges, you’ll be left with a stain for a few days.
Unless your idea of the perfect tattoo for Lykalia is a… big blob.”
She gripped the edge of a cushion as if he really were going to stab her hundreds of times with a tiny needle. “I’ll stay still.”
He focused again on the canvas that was a thigh that he really had to think of as just canvas if his lines were going to come out straight. It was a unique color with an intriguing curve and a back side that—well, no, no good would come of thinking of that.
But he brought his brush to it once again, and this time Kat only sucked in a sharp breath without movement.
The brush slid across her skin like it was made for his paint, the color sinking in evenly and remaining right where he put it even as he drew down the slope of her thigh.
Artistry took over as he dipped back into the black, and the image formed under his brush and eyes, but not quite as he imagined.
It wasn’t just one moth but two, a wing from each overlapping, and beneath them a sprawling moon flower blossom to share.
He needed more canvas, so he followed the curve of her thigh and slid his free hand beneath it, twisting her skin toward him gently.
The details came next, and Azrion bent close to sketch out the patterns that would be inactive runes, but he was taken out of the work when he breathed in the smell of her.
He’d been intoxicated by Katarina’s smell before when she pressed herself close and when she’d kissed him, but this was different.
He was unprepared for the desire that came with it, for the heat and the hunger.
He had thought when they kissed that was the pinnacle of lust—he’d never felt something so strong before—but now he was suddenly overcome with the urge to pounce on her, to cover every inch of her with his lips instead of his brushes, to paint her skin with his seed rather than pigment.
But…but that would smudge his work.
Azrion swallowed and let his gaze flick up to her face just once.
It was a mistake, but one he wouldn’t ever regret. She was staring down at him with a look he’d never seen before, and though he was surely imagining it, he thought in that moment she wanted him too.
“Don’t move,” he said, and he willed his brush to keep going, to paint the runes into the patterns of the wings, to do the best he could because that was what she deserved—not the messy squiggles of a demon overcome with the desire to mate.
When he was done, he wasn’t sure he could let go of the thigh he’d cupped.
Under his hand, her skin was like fire, and that was probably better than the chill she’d felt earlier, which was a terrible reason to begin kneading his fingers into her flesh, but that was happening anyway, and then a bell rang out through the house.
“Carriage is here,” he announced, and dropped his brush into the pot of paint.