“Then paint Anaïs. Or the twins. Curses, Pénélope,” he snapped. “Paint Tristan. With your talent, they’d probably hang it in the gallery of the Kings.”

For weeks my chest had felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark so that it could explode. But this moment felt like the powder keg had been tossed on a bonfire.

“How dare you suggest I paint him? How dare you!” I knew I was the one who screamed the words, but they sounded like they’d come from someone else’s lips. Like some wild and maniacal girl had taken control of my body and my voice.

I let her.

Marc took a step back, but it wasn’t really him I was angry with. Turning on my heel, I stalked toward Tristan, his blank, unreadable Montigny face fueling my fury. “Of course I should paint you! Why should I, or anyone, paint anything else? Our world is cursed. Everyone is sick or twisted or dying from the iron and the darkness. Every last one of us, except for you!”

“Pénélope, stop.” Anaïs stepped between us. “Don’t do this. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

But what she meant was, please don’t say anything that would turn him against her. After everything, she still wanted to protect him. Still wanted to be with him. It had to end. “Move.”

She shook her head, and I knew I couldn’t force her. Anaïs was stronger than me in every possible way.

Tristan touched her arm. “Let her say what she wants to say.”

Anaïs hesitated, then reluctantly stepped aside. But she’d accomplished what she intended. My anger faltered, because I knew that dragging their broken betrothal out into the open wouldn’t matter to him. He was a black-hearted Montigny snake who cared nothing for anyone or anything but power. All I’d do was hurt the one person I cared about more than anything: Anaïs.

“Born perfect into a decaying and dying race,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Gifted with the beauty and grace of the kings of old and a power not seen since King Alexis himself. How can the broken ones like us compare with you and your… radiance?” I spat the word at him.

Something flashed across his face. A trace of… guilt? Then he sighed. “I’m sorry that fate was not kinder to you, Pénélope. I’m sorry for the part I played in the hurt that was done to you. But I had no more control over how I was born than anyone else.”

“I know.” My lips felt numb, and I turned away. For Anaïs’s sake, I’d always kept silent in the face of his cruel behavior, but what did it matter now if he learned what I truly thought of him? The twins had come down from the wall to stand next to Anaïs, but my eyes were all for Marc. Tristan was his cousin and closest friend, and he was loyal to him to a fault. All of them were, and I knew that what I intended to say would all but assure my eviction from our circle of friends.