A Dowry of Blood (A Dowry of Blood #1)(31)

“Of course, my friend,” the artist said with a chuckle. “Of course.”

I had no idea whether he believed you, but I saw that it didn’t matter to him either way. A true libertine, then.

“I’m freezing, Gregori,” the model complained. “Either tell your handsome friend and his ladies to take a seat while you paint or give me back my coat.”

“Mind your manners, Alexi,” the painter grumbled. He shot a sidelong glance to you as he picked back up his brush and palette. “These young actors, they’re all the same. Heads as big as the moon. Please, sit.”

He gestured to a few mismatched folding chairs and we sat, Magdalena looping her arm through my own. She squeezed gently as Alexi resumed his post. Back arched, neck angled gracefully, eyes shadowed by thick lashes so blonde they were nearly transparent. He was one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen. And he couldn’t have been more than nineteen.

Desire and foreboding curled together in my stomach.

We watched in patient appreciation as the painter worked, you occasionally pointing out some lovely piece of statuary in the studio to Magdalena, who nodded her approval. Your eyes kept creeping back to Alexi, however, in tiny flickers that would have been invisible to someone who didn’t know you as well as I did. You stole glances to him like tiny sips of wine with dinner, and he did his best not to color under your gaze. When he caught your eyes with a disaffected toss of his head calculated to look natural, the electricity between you two went through my heart like a needle.

Of course. I shouldn’t have believed you would do something generous without your own motives hiding in the shadows. I pressed my lips into a thin, white line, anger sparking in my chest.

I would not allow you to do this to us. Not again.

“Take a turn with me around the studio, husband,” I said, voice light as I rose to my feet. I fixed you with a look that told you I would not accept any refusal, and held my arm out expectantly. You arched an eyebrow but obeyed, winding our arms together as you led me in a slow circle along the edge of the studio. I’m sure our antiquated manners must have looked strange to Gregori, with his radical ideas about equality between the sexes and a society without hierarchy, but I knew my place. I knew the circumstances under which I could request a private word with you, and I knew how to leverage them to the greatest effect.

I waited until we were out of earshot to levy my complaint.

“You want him. The model. I can smell it on you. Like a sickness.”

“So do you,” you countered. “So does Magdalena. Why should that change anything?”

“Don’t make this about me. This is the piece of art you intend for us to take home, is that it? You found a boy. A vulnerable, poor boy and you, what? Picked him out? Made him promises?”

“I did no such thing.”

“You’re lying,” I said through gritted teeth. “God, how many lies have you fed me during our life together? I can scarcely tell them apart from the truth anymore.”

“Keep your voice down,” you ordered, voice deathly quiet. “You’re working yourself into hysterics. Look at me, Constanta my love.”

I met your eyes. So very black, like I could fall into them and never find my way out again.

“I haven’t deceived you,” you said levelly. “Not knowingly, at any rate. Alexi was an accident. But a happy one, don’t you think?”

You inclined your head towards the model, who was laughing and flirting with Magdalena. She had drifted towards him and was clutching her purse in her hands as he made her giggle. Her eyes were bright, and there was color in her cheeks. She looked more alive than she had in years, and it was all because of this golden-haired boy with a clever tongue and eyes warm as summer.

“Look how much joy he brings her,” you murmured, your mouth as close to my ear as the snake must have been to Eve in the garden. “She’s smiling again. When’s the last time you saw that?”

“Too long,” I admitted miserably.

“Perhaps we could all be that happy,” you pressed. “Together.”

“He’s too young,” I said, in one last valiant effort to be the voice of reason. “He’s barely more than a child. You would steal the rest of his life from him.”

“Look around you. What sort of life is this? When’s the last time you suppose he had a good meal? If we leave him he’ll starve.”

You cupped my face in your hands. Your thumbs made little circles around my cheekbones so tenderly that I almost began to cry. You always knew how to thaw my heart right when I had resolved to freeze it against you.

“We’d be doing him a great kindness, Constanta,” you said, your voice soft. “He has no one else.”





I should have said no. I should have stamped my foot, or began to cry, or icily demanded we leave right away. But I didn’t. I loved you too much, my lord. I craved you like maidens crave the grave, the way Death burns for human touch: inconsolably, unrelentingly, aching for the annihilation in your kiss. I had no practice saying no to you.

And then there was Magdalena, so much like her former self that it brought tears to my eyes. And this boy, so thin and so beautiful, and so, so young. Alone in a city torn apart by revolution without a mother to make sure he was getting home safely every night. I didn’t know how much he made posing for paintings, but it was probably barely enough to buy bread. With us, at least, he would have a chance at happiness.