Chapter 11
"Stop flexing."
"I'm not flexing." I am absolutely flexing. Have been for the past twenty minutes while she paints my arms. Something about the way she tilts her head when she's concentrating makes me tense. Combat readiness. Nothing else.
"You are. Your shoulders keep doing this thing." She demonstrates, pushing her shoulders back in exaggerated tension. The movement strains her corset. "Very dramatic. Very uncomfortable-looking."
I force my shoulders down. She goes back to painting, tongue poking out slightly as she focuses.
The late afternoon light through my newly cleaned windows—she showed up two hours early with soap and wouldn't start until every pane sparkled—catches her hair.
A strand escapes her bun, curling against her neck.
"Better," she murmurs. "Though you're still holding tension in your jaw."
"I always hold tension in my jaw."
"That's concerning. Do you grind your teeth? My landlord grinds his teeth. Says it gives him headaches." She leans closer to her canvas. Paint and lavender. Whatever she baked this morning. "I told him to try meditation but he laughed. Rude, really."
She's close enough that I can see the freckles dusting her collarbone. Count them, if I were that kind of man. Which I'm not. I run a criminal empire. I don't count freckles.
Seventeen. She has seventeen visible freckles.
"You're doing it again."
"What?"
"The shoulder thing. And now you're glaring." She sets down her brush, stretches. Her back arches. I study the wall behind her. "Do you need a break?"
"No."
"You've been sitting for an hour."
"I've sat longer for less pleasant reasons."
"That's not the recommendation you think it is." She's mixing colors again, frowning at her palette. "This green isn't right. Your shadows have this underlying warmth I can't quite..."
She trails off, lost in color theory. I watch her while she's distracted. The way her hips shift when she moves. Her paint-stained fingers moving with complete certainty. The soft curve of her stomach her corset can't contain.
She's nothing like the angular women I occasionally take to bed. All soft edges and dangerous curves. Built for comfort, not speed. The kind of woman who looks like she enjoys dessert and afternoon naps and other indulgences I've forgotten exist.
My shadows shift. I force them still.
"Oh, that's interesting." She's watching my shadows now. "They move when you're thinking."
"They don't."
"They absolutely do. Earlier when I mentioned your breakfast habits, they went all spiky. Like angry cats." She goes back to mixing, adding umber. "Very judgmental shadows. Probably get it from you."
I don't respond. She's right and I hate it.
She hums while she works. Some tune I don't recognize. Probably about shepherds or farmers or other people who don't murder for a living. The sound does something unwelcome to my chest. Tight and warm.
"Can you turn slightly left? I need to see how the light catches your jaw."
I turn. She makes a pleased sound that goes straight to my groin. Forty-one years old and getting hard because a woman appreciated my jaw angle. This is how empires fall.
"Perfect. Hold that." She's painting quickly now, absorbed. "Your bone structure really is extraordinary. Like someone carved you from marble but forgot to add the smile."
"I smile."
"When?"
"When appropriate."
"Which is never, apparently." She's teasing, but there's fondness in it. "I bet you were a serious child too. All intense stares and advanced planning."
"I was a child who survived."
The words come out harsh. She pauses, brush hovering.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Keep painting."
She does, but the humming stops. Good. Moments are dangerous. Moments lead to feelings and feelings lead to weakness.
"I talk too much when I'm nervous," she says quietly. "Drive everyone mad with it. My brother used to say I could talk the rain out of falling."
"You're nervous?"
"Of course I'm nervous. You're very intimidating." She glances at me, then back at her canvas. "All those shadows and sharp angles and general air of barely contained violence."
"But you're still here."
"Well, yes. The light in this room is exceptional." She adds a delicate stroke. "And you need documenting. For posterity."
"Posterity."
"Someone should remember you as more than the Shadow King." Another stroke. "Even if it's just one painting in a room somewhere, proof that you were human too."
The words hit somewhere I thought I'd walled off. My shadows reach toward her before I can stop them. She doesn't flinch when one brushes her wrist. Just smiles.
"See? Very reactive."
"That's not—"
"Oh, wait. I need to fix your collar. It's casting the wrong shadow." She sets down her brush, wipes her hands on her paint-covered apron. "May I?"
I nod. Words have abandoned me.
She approaches carefully. Smart. Her fingers are gentle as she adjusts my collar, barely touching skin. But it's enough. Heat races down my spine. My shadows curl around her wrists.
"There." She's close. Gold flecks in green eyes. "Much better."
She doesn't move back immediately. Just stands there, hands near my throat, staring at me. Her lips part. Her tongue darts out.
I'm going to kiss her. The thought arrives like a diagnosis. Terminal. Twenty years of control dissolving because she's standing here with paint in her hair and I can't—
My hand moves without permission, finds her thigh through fabric. She makes a sound—soft, surprised—but doesn't pull away. Something cracks in my chest. I trace upward, palm burning through her skirts, following curves I've memorized. She's warm. Real. Here.
"Ruvan..." Just my name. But the way she says it—
My fingers find her waist. She sways toward me. I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel—
The door explodes.
I'm moving before wood hits ground. Shadows wrap around Olivia, yanking her behind my desk as water floods the room. Tide Runners. Should have smelled salt and seaweed before they got this close. Would have, if I hadn't been distracted by freckles and soft curves.
"Stay down." I shove her under the desk as another wave crashes through my doorway.
Six of them. Two more coming through the window she insisted on cleaning. Water swirls around their feet, forming weapons. Sloppy but effective.
Time for the Shadow King. The man contemplating kisses dissolves. Much simpler.
My hand still burns where I touched her.
"Bold of you to attack my personal study." My voice drops to the register that makes grown men piss themselves. "Stupid, but bold."
The lead Tide Runner—scarred face, missing eye—grins. "Heard the Shadow King's gone soft. Figured we'd test it."
"By all means. Test away."
They attack simultaneously. Sloppy. I dissolve, reform behind Scarface, drive shadow through his kidney. He drops. My palm still tingles from her warmth as blood sprays. Water magic requires concentration. Hard to concentrate drowning in your own blood.
Two more rush. I catch one's water whip, yank him into my knee. Cartilage explodes. Grab the other's throat. Neck snaps. Under the desk, Olivia makes a small, hurt sound.
"Is this the test? Because I'm failing to see the challenge."
The remaining attackers hesitate. Good. Hesitation kills more than courage.
Something crashes in the hallway. More of them.
"Boss!" Grimm's voice, followed by someone meeting walls.
My study is ruined. Water, blood, probably destroying the carpets Olivia insisted I needed. The painting—propped safely in the corner, untouched. Small mercies.
"Ruvan?"
Olivia's voice, small from under the desk. Right. The civilian who just watched me kill without hesitation. Who's realizing what kind of monster she's been feeding vegetables to. Whose thigh I was caressing sixty seconds ago.
"Stay there. Don't move until—"
The wall explodes.
Not the door. The entire wall where weapons hung. Water pressure shatters stone, sends me into my bookshelf. Professional work. Someone trained. Someone planning while idiots died testing reflexes.
I roll. Ice spear drives into floor where my head was. Extract myself from philosophy texts I'll never read. Face the real threat.
She's young. Twenty-five maybe. Tide Runner blues clinging to distracting curves. Pretty in that sharp way that makes stupid men drop guard. Her water flows in perfect control.
"Shadow King." She inclines her head like we're at dinner. "Apologies for the mess. We needed to verify rumors."
"Consider them verified. Now leave before I mail pieces of you to your leadership."
"See, that's the thing." She steps through ruined wall, water flowing around her. "Word is you've lost your edge. Gone soft. Letting civilians wander. Eating vegetables. Very concerning for those of us in the murdering business."
I hear Olivia shift. See the Tide Runner's eyes flick toward the sound. Calculate angles and exactly how much of this woman I need intact for identification.
"Fascinating theory. Want to test it?"
She smiles. "Love to."
The water comes fast. Trained speed. Real skill. I dodge, dissolve, reform. But she's already attacking where I'll be, not where I was. Professional. Expensive.
We dance through wreckage. Water versus shadow. Her sprays create rainbows. Pretty if they weren't lethal. My shadows slice through reforming water. She's good.
Too good for standard enforcer.
"Who sent you?" I catch her wrist, shadows racing up her arm. She breaks free with a whip that takes skin off my cheek. "The Tide Runners don't move like this on their own."
"Does it matter? Maybe we got tired of the Shadow Guild controlling all the fear."
Lie. This is targeted. Someone knew I'd be here, in my private study, vulnerable.
I need to end this. Guild's in danger. Olivia's under a desk. And this bitch is in my way.
No more dancing.
I let her water spear catch my shoulder. Let her think she's winning. Pain's irrelevant as I surge forward, shadows exploding outward. She tries to shield.
Not fast enough.
Shadows punch through water, wrap her throat, lift. Her eyes widen at her mistake.
"Here's what happens next. You die. Your friends die. I find whoever sent you and make their death last days. Your guild learns why the Shadow King held territory twenty years."
She tries to speak. Can't. Shadows crush her windpipe slowly.
"Or." I loosen slightly. "Tell me who paid for this suicide mission and I make it quick."
She spits blood that sizzles against shadow. Defiant. Admirable.
"Fuck. You."
"Wrong answer."
Her neck snaps like wet kindling. I drop her, already assessing. Bodies. Water. Blood. One painting untouched.
One civilian definitely touched. Traumatized. Reconsidering every choice that led to being under a desk while I murdered a strike team.
"Olivia."
No response.
"You can come out."
Nothing.
I crouch beside the desk. She's curled small, knees to chest. Eyes huge, fixed past my shoulder. Probably on the corpse with the broken neck.
"Hey." Soft voice. Spooked animal tone. "It's over."
She blinks. Focuses. There's blood on my face, my hands. Not helping.
She's looking at me like I'm a stranger. Like she never worried about my vitamin intake. Never adjusted my collar. Never said my name that way that made me want to be human.
Blood still warm on my hands. She's small under that desk. I've ruined everything.
"You killed them." Not accusation. Observation. But I hear the subtext.
"Yes."
"All of them."
"That's how I handle people breaking into my home." I offer my hand. See blood. Withdraw it. "We need to move. More might be coming."
She takes shaky breaths. Then, because she's Olivia and incapable of normal reactions: "Is your shoulder okay? That looked deep."
I stare. She stares back at the hole in my shirt. Blood seeping.
"You watched me kill six people and you're worried about my shoulder?"
"It needs cleaning. Water magic injuries get infected. Harbor bacteria." She uncurls slightly. "We should—"
Another crash below. More attackers or my people handling stragglers. Either way, this room's no longer safe.
"Up." I grab her arm, haul her out. She stumbles against me. Soft, warm, alive. "Stay close."
"The painting—"
"Leave it."
"But I'm not finished—"
"Olivia." I turn her to face me. "Armed killers. Artistic concerns wait."
She looks at bodies, blood, dripping water. Then reaches up, wipes blood off my cheek with paint-stained fingers.
"You're hurt in multiple places."
"I'm fine."
"You're not, but we can argue later." She squares her shoulders. "Which way?"
Every instinct says shadow-travel her somewhere safe. But I need to assess damage, check who else is compromised. Can't do that remotely.
"Behind me. Always. I say drop, you hit ground. I say run, you run. Clear?"
She nods. Her hand grabs my ruined shirt. Holding on.
More screams below. Joss expressing displeasure through knifework. At least lieutenants are handling things.
I guide us through carnage that was my organized life. Should have known. Should have prepared.
Should have kissed her when I had the chance.
Problem for men who survive the next hour. Right now, guild to protect. Civilian going into shock once adrenaline crashes.
The Shadow King has work.
She still hasn't let go of my shirt.