“Do you?”
I rolled my eyes.
“I worry about you, sometimes,” he admitted.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve built up this shell around yourself. This exterior made up of sass and wordplay. You wear your heart on your sleeve, but you’ve disguised it so that only those that are close to you can ever hope of seeing it. You show so much without actually showing anything at all.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “That your expert opinion, doctor?” I asked, cringing as soon as the words left my lips.
“Sam,” he admonished lightly.
“Sorry,” I muttered, looking away.
“I would fix this for you if I could.”
“Would you? Because that would be at the expense of your son.”
He looked troubled at this. He appeared to choose his next words carefully. “I don’t know that Justin is in this for the same reason you are.”
“I’m not in anything. That much has been made clear.” I almost told him about what Justin had said at the dragon’s keep, about feeling he was trapped in the shadow of his father and myself, that he’d felt forced to make a decision. But it wasn’t my place. I could not speak for the Prince. Whatever issues there were between them were just that: between them. Not me. The King had already told me he could do nothing to break the oath Ryan had sworn to Justin, much like no one else could break the oath that Ryan had to the King.
I really fucking hated oaths.
The King said, “I don’t—”
“Did you paint this?” an incredulous voice asked from behind us.
I turned and looked over my shoulder.
Ryan stood in front of the easel, looking horrifyingly amused as he studied my painting. I hadn’t seen him since the night of his bachelor party a few days before. His hair had been cut in advance of the wedding, looking more regal and coifed versus his usual floppy mane. He still appeared exhausted, but he was biting his bottom lip and I realized he was trying not to laugh.
I narrowed my eyes at him because the last time I checked, he was not an art critic.
“Yes,” I said. “It is a work in progress. You can’t judge it until it’s completed.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m not judging.”
“Uh. Hello. I have eyes and I can see your face. You are so judging.”
“No, no,” he said innocently, eyes wide. “I would never think to judge something of this… caliber. There’s a lot of… red.”
“It’s called puce,” I said.
“Ah. Because that makes it better.”
“Don’t be jealous of my talent. It’s unbecoming of you.”
He looked up at me, unable to hold back the smile any longer. “I don’t know that jealous is the right word. Horrified, maybe.”
“Horrified?” I said with a scowl. “There’s nothing horrifying about it!”
“You gave the King breasts,” he said. “Three of them.”
“Yes, well. It’s commentary on the state of postmodern feminism.”
“Uh-huh. And the chest hair he still seems to have?”