An hour after Morel storms away, servants swarm the painter's studio and gather his personal belongings. I watch silently as they carry away half-finished paintings and elegantly tailored clothes in the style of the Fae. They leave most of his supplies: sheets of sketch paper, paintbrushes, jars of linseed oil, and pigment powders.

A servant addresses me in a meek voice, "The Queen says we should leave you with anything you might need to finish your masterpiece. If there is something else you need, the Steward can get it for you. "

"Thank you," I reply with little emotion. I keep my gaze on the floor, my eyes still stinging with tears.

They march out of the room unceremoniously and I'm alone again. I remove the feathered ball gown and toss it aside, then wander into the adjoining bedchamber. Like Destan and my suite of rooms, there is an adjoining bathing chamber. In the bathing chamber I find a wardrobe that looks similar to the one in our rooms. I half expect to find it empty when I throw open the doors in search of something to wear, but it seems all the wardrobes in this castle are enchanted. An array of flowing silks and cotton in feminine colors are waiting for me. I don't even wonder if they will be in my size. I take the first nightgown I see and throw it over my shivering frame.

I return to the bedchamber and slide into the newly changed sheets and pull the quilt up to my chin. I don't feel like sleep. My mind races, but my legs feel to tired to pace the floor, my thoughts too scattered to sketch. I don't know what else to do so I stare at the exposed rafters of the tower. An ornate mural has been painted throughout the beams of the tower's rounded roof. The paint is faded and chipped. Figures dance through a wild scene that seems to have been painted in a style closer to the medieval period than the styles that are painted today.

I am suddenly struck by the magnitude of where I have ended up. I am in a separate realm with its own history. Its own magic. Its own people. I think perhaps, if I wasn't burdened with a mission, with friends waiting for my return, I could spend an eternity learning everything there is to know about this magical and dangerous and beautiful place. I can understand why Morel wanted to stay, but it doesn't temper the pain of his desertion.

My eyelids grow heavy despite my racing mind and I eventually succumb to sleep. In my dreams, Destan's voice cries out to me from the next room. I leap from my bed, expecting to find him either released or escaped from the dungeons, but he's nowhere to be found. A canvas sits on an easel. "Florette," Destan calls from within. I approach the easel to find a portrait of Destan painted by what looks like my own hand.

He watches me, pleading from behind the bars of a prison cell. Destan glances over his shoulder — to my shock, the painting moves as if I'm watching him through an enchanted window.

"Florette, please. You have to help me," he begs, the pain in his voice audible and heartbreaking.

"I am. I am trying, Destan," I say.

"You have to get me out of here." His tembre grows panicked. "You have to get me out of here!"

My heart races at the fear in his voice, the desperation. I search frantically through the painter studio for something to help me free him from the painting. Among Morel's supplies, I find a pallet knife. I grab it, rush back to the canvas, and slash it open. Instead of freeing Destan from the painting, a swarm of butterflies with blue and black wings fly from the gaping wound in the fabric. They swarm me and I close my eyes as their beating wings flutter against my face. I swat at them in desperation and a strangled cry escapes my lips.

When the brush of their feather-like wings stops, I open my eyes and find myself standing in the castle portrait gallery. The butterflies have landed on a portrait of the queen — Morel's painting. They form the shape of the dress the queen was wearing the night we arrived, fluttering gently in the dark. A sense of eeriness settles on me as I watch their wings open and close on the surface of the painting. The feeling of foreboding increases and suddenly the queen, from within her portrait, winks at me.

I awake with a jolt and sit up in bed. My skin is slick with sweat and I can feel the memory of butterfly wings fluttering against my cheeks. Heart thrumming in my ears, I throw off the covers and run to the studio as inspiration strikes.

A painting comes to mind, haunting, beautiful.

I grab a stack of parchment and sticks of charcoal from the desk and spread them out across the floor. I drop to the cold stones and sketch the queen on her throne with butterflies forming her dress. To the sound of charcoal scratching at the paper, I wonder how to capture what I had seen in my dream. The painting was like nothing I had ever imagined before — something I never dreamed was possible. But Alsaecia is a realm of impossible things.

I don't know if it can be done, but if the Queen's dress can be enchanted to resemble live butterflies and to emit an icy fog, then perhaps I can enchant a painting with lifelike movement as well. My heart races at the possibility. If I had not betrayed Morel I would have asked him if he had any inkling how to make this possible.

With a vague idea for the portrait and no way to proceed, I gather the sketches and set about making myself presentable to leave the studio. As intrigued as I am about enchanting a painting, Destan's defeated posture last night and his refusal to look at me weighs heavier on my mind.

Freshly bathed and dressed in a moss-green cotton gown that is belted at the waist with a blush ribbon, I find a servant to ascertain whether or not I may visit Destan in the dungeons.

They direct me to a female guard in burnished armor, who leads me down a winding staircase into the recesses of the castle. Like the rest of the floors above, the subterranean levels of the castle teem with life. We wind in and out of thick tree roots — no doubt the roots of the tree that grows up through the throne room. The maze-like halls are lighted by glowing plants and the air is filled with floating flecks of light and the scent of warm earth.

In Paris, what feels like another lifetime ago, I remember hastening my steps as I passed near the Bastille, its aura of suffering and hopelessness extending beyond its walls. These dungeons are not entirely unpleasant — they feel more like a rabbit warren than a prison.

We pass another pair of guards at the entrance to a large circular chamber. The chamber is bisected with a wall of metal bars with only a small door to pass through. On the other side, guards sit around a small table. Behind them, columns formed by thick tree roots flank archways that lead to more branching paths and what I expect are the actual dungeon cells.

A male guard rises from the table. "Another prisoner?"

"No," my guide replies. "She's here to visit Destan Bordelon."

The guard nods and unlocks the door for me. "This way," he grunts.

We passed a bevy of empty cells and come to a stop at the end of the tunnel. Destan is the only occupant in this wing. His cell is a small burrow, dug out from between two massive tree roots. Metal bars and a locked door hold him within. Destan sits on a low cot, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He doesn't lift his head even as our footsteps on the flagstone floor approach.

"May I go in?" I ask the guard.

At the sound of my voice Destan's head snaps up and he stands with inhuman speed. "Florette."

The guard opens the door and locks it behind me. "Call for me when you're ready to leave."

"What are you doing here?" Destin asks once the guard turns a corner in the tunnel and moves out of sight. He takes me by the arms and looks me over to make sure I am healthy and hale. Certain that no harm has come to me during the night, he pulls me into his arms.

"Destan..." I breathe a sigh of relief now that I know he hasn't been chained in an oubliette or some other horrid place thanks to my actions. He wraps me tighter and I snug my head against his chest. The steady lud lug of his heart sounds in my ear, a calming rhythm that somehow eases the tension from my shoulders. "I came to see that you were OK and to apologize for everything that happened. Last night... you wouldn't look at me and I feared the worst. I never should have said I love you in front of all those Fae. You didn't deserve that—"

Destan takes me by the shoulders and pulls me back so he can look into my eyes. The relief on his face is replaced by sadness. "Florette."

My eyes flutter closed. I wanted to hear him to utter my name again, but not in that tone — anything but that.

"Look at me, ma chère," he says with a tenderness that makes my legs tremble.

I open my eyes.

"You have nothing to apologize for. Absolutely nothing. It is I who should apologize. I am utterly ashamed."

"Destan—" I start, but he places a hand against my cheek, his thumb, he presses to my lips to silence me.

"Let me finish. I — I don't deserve you Florette. You have more courage in your little finger than most soldiers have in their entire bodies. And you used that courage to fight for me. Until last night I had convinced myself that my self-sacrifice was noble. But then you had to go and do something like strike a bargain with the Queen of manipulation. For me." A wry smile lifts the corner of his mouth and he traces the swell of my bottom lip with his thumb. His gentle touch sends a shiver down my spine. "I've never been wanted like that, never felt like I was worth the risk. But you are — I love you, Florette."

My lungs constrict at the tenderness of his gaze.

"And that terrifies me," he continues. "I have never had someone so dear to me — someone whose loss could so utterly ruin me. I shut up my feelings and told myself I was heroic in my self-denial, but I am not a hero. I am a coward."

"Don't say such things," I whisper against his finger. He moves his thumb to pinch my chin and turn my face up to his. "You are brave and selfless — more selfless than I am. It's something I have long admired in you. That is why I did what I did. Because after all you've given to The Order, to France, you deserve some happiness of your own. I know you would never claim it for yourself, so I am claiming it for you."

Destan shakes his head in disbelief, eyes twinkling. "That's because happiness has never been within reach... until you. Henceforth I will fight for you. Every day until I take my dying breath I will endeavor to deserve you." He lowers his face to mine, our lips a breath apart.

"Destan," I warn. "The mating bond—"

His nose brushes against my cheek and my skin burns beneath his touch.

"Didn't you hear me when I said I love you?" He tilts his head to the side and brushes a kiss just below my ear. The shadow of stubble on his jaw scratches teasingly at the tender skin of my neck.

My stomach knots. "I heard you—I just can't risk hurting you even more if I can't secure your freedom," I say, nearly breathless as Destan drags his lips along my jaw.

"You don't understand." He nuzzles my nose with his. "Every moment away from you is agony. Not because of my instincts, but because my heart is yours... because I..." He places both hands on the sides of my face and brushes a kiss just beside my lips. "Love..." He kisses the other cheek then stops a breath away from my mouth.

"You."

My heart races — my chest rises and falls as I try to gain my composure but the only thing I can think about is Destan's familiar scent that fills my nose. Cedar and something sweet and musky that I can't put my finger on. A moment passes as I try to convince myself to pull away. Destan waits for me to close the distance, his own breaths coming faster with his desire. At this proximity my mind can't form a coherent argument to stop me, so I claim his lips with mine — a slow kiss to the scar on his mouth.

The tenderness of our lips pressed together breaks down a wall between us and releases something deep and wild. We crash into each other as waves of everything I have felt for Destan, all the desire I have buried deep in my bones, comes rushing to the surface. His hands slide up into my hair, tugging me in closer to him.

Destan's tongue brushes my lips and my legs tremble beneath me. He seems to sense my unsteadiness, wraps his arms around my waist and lifts my feet off the floor. I throw my arms around his neck and deepen our kiss.

I want to memorize every inch of his lips, the warmth of his hands that spreads through the thin fabric of my dress, the sound of his ragged breaths. I sneak a glimpse of him, his eyes shuttered. The thick dark lashes resting on his cheeks make my heart swell until I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye.

I gasp when I see a figure watching us outside of the cell. Destan breaks our kiss and his head snaps toward the interloper. Prince Oberon peels away from the shadows, an oily grin on his lips. "Please, don't stop on my account."

Destan sets me down and subtly places himself between Oberon and me.

"What do you want?" Destan asks.

Oberon chuckles. "Lower your hackles, Destan. I mean you no harm." He raises his hands in surrender, but his words don't ring with believable sincerity. "I just wanted to talk before the two of you do anything else rash."

"What do you want to talk about?" I move to Destan's side and intertwine my fingers with his.

"It seems our interests are aligned," Oberon says. "You need the help of a full-blooded Fae for your little uprising, and I need my mother to agree to send me to the mortal realm with you before the two of you convince her you're too entertaining to lose from her court with all your lingering looks and public confessions of love and devotion."

"Why are you so desperate to return to the mortal world?" I ask.

Oberon bites his lip. "Destan isn't the only Fae with a weakness for mortal women — such beautiful, fragile, helpless things."

I stiffen. "I resent your implication."

"So do I," Destan adds.

Oberon shrugs off our objection. "Regardless, I'm here to offer my full cooperation and support should you need it."

My stomach sours when I realize Oberon might be just the ally I need. If anyone would know how to enchant a painting it would be a Fae prince. "Perhaps I could use your help with something I had in mind—"

"Florette," Destan whispers. A low warning.

"And you shall have it," Oberon says. "But let's not discuss it here. Come find me when you're finished kissing your mate. I can't stand it down here." Oberon shivers and makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.

I glance at Destan who seems equally confused about what has made Oberon so uncomfortable.

"Is something bothering you?" Destan asks.

Oberon's brows lift in surprise. "The iron bars don't make your skin crawl?" He eyes the metal that holds Destan prisoner with contempt.

Destan watches Oberon with confusion. "No. Why? Does iron bother full Fae?"

Oberon swallows and takes a step further away from the bars. He looks a great deal more than bothered. His gaze darts between Destan and I. He straightens and shakes his head as if to clear away a pain there and a confident mask of composure slips back over his features. "When you have need of me, Florette, all you have to do is ask." He turns and saunters away.

"What was that about?" I ask Destan once Oberon is out of earshot.

Destan shakes his head. He brushes a hesitant hand against the bars, and pulls his fingers away unharmed. "I have no idea."

"They're not enchanted are they?" I take Destan's hand in mine. Finding it unscathed, I bring his fingers to my lips and press a kiss to them.

"No. Not that I can tell. I think it has something to do with the iron — a weakness perhaps."

"Something it seems he regretted revealing."

Destan fixes me with a look of concern. "Do you really need his assistance with your painting?"

"Perhaps, I had an idea — and I don't even know if it's possible— but I want to enchant my portrait of the Queen."

"Enchant it?"

"Like one of her gowns."

Destan's eyes widen with curiosity. "Interesting. I'm sure it's possible, but I wouldn't know how to begin."

"Me too." I sigh and keep his hand held up to my lips. "But I shall do my best to figure out how to create such an enchantment on my own."

"I don't need to tell you that I don't trust Oberon."

"I know. Neither do I. But I may need his help."

Destan smiles, a grin that lifts up his lips on one side, and tugs me to his chest. He wraps his arms around my waist and lowers his mouth within an inch of mine. "Then it's a good thing I would trust you with my life."

"A good thing, indeed. I'll return as soon to update you with my progress." I signal for the guard to come unlock the cell.

"Don't worry about me." Destan nuzzles his nose against mine, his voice lowered in a way that makes my skin tingle from my fingers to my toetips. "Just focus on creating that masterpiece I know you're capable of. There's no need to hurry back."

"Are you certain?" I slide my hands over the muscles of his chest and up the back of his neck. My fingers twine into his locks of thick, black hair. I pull his lips down to meet mine and kiss him with a breathless fervor he won't soon forget.

The grating of a key in the lock ends the moment and breaks our kiss. A guard unlocks the cell door and it swings open with a keening groan. Destan watches me leave, lips parted in shock, chest heaving. He runs both hands through his hair, his composure completely undone.

The guard locks the door behind me, but before we can turn to leave, Destan reaches through the barred door and catches me by the wrist. His blue eyes have gone almost black as his pupils widen with desire, his gaze devouring me. "Hurry back."

My stomach clenches at the husky growl of his voice. I answer with an equally playful grin. "I'll try."