Page 137 of The Poison Daughter
Even though I know Gaven has made himself scarce so that we will eventually be able to make eye contact again, I keep expecting to see him there like a grumpy shadow. Instead, Henry is standing behind me, waiting to show off the gallery. He didn’t comment on the fact that my bodyguard hasn’t made an appearance this morning, and I hope he will assume that he’s taking time off, instead of the more likely scenario that he’s discreetly snooping around the house. Hopefully, he’s busying himself figuring out why we haven’t received any correspondence from my parents yet.
My body buzzes with restless energy. I want fresh air and the burn in my legs from a hard run, not a walk through a stuffy art gallery.
I reach for the handle to the gallery doors, but Henry snatches my hand back.
“Hold up.” He gestures to the enchanted lock next to the door.
It’s just like the one in the armory. I’m not a thief, but I’m curious what type of art requires a locked door. Even if someone here could steal it, it’s not as if they could sell it.
“Always with the blood,” I say. “Can I do it now?”
“I wouldn’t be a very doting husband if I let you—but yes. Now that we’re married, you can unlock this door.” He presses his finger to the sharp point of the lock, and a moment later, the bolt clicks. “Art takes blood.”
I wrinkle my nose, but I tuck away this new knowledge. Perhaps this explains why he won’t let me out of his sight. If I can unlock any door in the fort now, there’s no telling what secrets I could uncover, and the sooner I do, the sooner I can go home and get Aidia out.
“I mean it metaphorically, Harlow. Now, if you’ll indulge me.” He holds up a blindfold.
“You must be joking.”
He sighs. “Come on, Harlow. Don’t fight me. You’ll just turn me on.”
It’s against everything in me to just give in, but I’m walking a delicate line. I need him to think he can get to me. If I give in too easily, he won’t believe he’s won me over, but if I fight him too hard, he will never trust me.
I nod, and he ties the silk blindfold around my eyes, blotting out the world. He curls an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against his side. He smells like juniper and fresh snow, and I don’t hate it.
The door creaks open and Henry ushers me inside. He pulls the door closed, and a second later, the lock clicks into place.
Even with the blindfold and my eyes closed, I can see his aura grow wider as he steps into the space. It pulses lightly, probably along with his heartbeat.
He nudges me forward, and I awkwardly let him lead me into the room. I can tell by the echo of his footsteps that the floor is some kind of stone and the ceilings must be high.
I wonder if I’m about to see more haunting sculptures breaking free of marble like out in the hallway, or if there is more than one artist in their family line.
“I don’t like this sensory deprivation,” I whisper. “I don’t know if it’s supposed to be sexy, but I’m not a fan of stumbling around like an idiot.”
Henry hushes me, his breath ghosting over the back of my neck as he pulls me to a stop and turns me to the right.
His body is warm and solid, and I can’t stop thinking about how that body was naked and on top of me last night. The last thing I want to think about is the way my thighs wouldn’t stop shaking, or the way he knew he could get to me if he was gentle.
It’s unnerving to be known by your enemy. I’m supposed to be the one working him. Luring men is what I do.
“Are you ready?” Henry whispers into the shell of my ear.
I nod.
He removes the blindfold with deft fingers, and I blink, trying to get my eyes to adjust.
Gray sunlight pours in from skylights, forming perfect rectangles on the white marble floor. The wall in front of us is also white and adorned with three large paintings. I walk toward the square one on the far left. The gilded frame looks old and a bit worn by time, or perhaps the hard trip through the mountains or Drained Wood.
I take a step forward, focusing on what looks vaguely like a field of wildflowers. Then, the colors of the painting begin to move.
I squint. Surely it’s a trick of the light, but now the aquas, blues, whites, and greens are moving rapidly, blending together and forming new patterns.
“What in the Divine is that?” I rasp, my mouth suddenly dry.
It’s like no magic I’ve ever seen, and as startling as that is, I don’t want to look away. The colors morph and blend, and the texture changes from soft to something jagged.
Henry steps up behind me, his chest brushing my back. “It’s called mirror art. It shows how you’re feeling. Which looks like—” He casts a glance at the painting. “Prickly.”
