Still Painting Her

Milley Pov 

"Tell me what you're here to find."

I stood beside Liam's desk with a fresh cup of tea on a tray. He hadn't touched the breakfast I'd brought earlier. The eggs had gone cold and the bread sat where I'd left it, while he spread sheets of paper across the desk, a pencil moving between his fingers.

"Nothing, Alpha."

"Not even a hint? A question about my health? Whether I can still shift? Whether my Pack is falling apart?"

"I was told to look after you."

"And you do that by standing there staring?"

I lowered my eyes. "I'll leave the tea."

I went to set it down, but he caught the tray before it landed. "Look at me when I talk to you."

I did.

"Who benefits from sending you here?"

"My Alpha, I suppose."

"At least that's honest." He let go of the tray. "Your Alpha made a fool of me in front of every Pack leader who matters. Offered you like I needed someone to wipe my chin. Now I'm supposed to believe he's worried about my wellbeing?"

"I don't know why he sent me."

"Convenient."

"I'm not a spy, Alpha."

"Then you won't mind Matthew watching you."

My fingers tightened on the tray. "No, Alpha."

He leaned back, almost disappointed. "No argument? No speech about your honor?"

"I have nothing to say."

"Progress." He picked the pencil back up. "Leave the tea and get out. And don't touch my desk. I'd like to know whose hands my papers have been through."

"Yes, Alpha."

I didn't look back.

---

I returned after midday for the dishes. The room was quiet. Liam sat by the window with a sketchbook on his knee, sunlight falling across the page as his pencil moved in short, sure strokes. He wasn't drinking and he wasn't shouting, and he looked so absorbed that I wondered whether he'd noticed me come in.

"Planning to stand there all afternoon?" he said without looking up.

"I came for the dishes, Alpha."

"Then take them."

I lifted the tray, and on my way out I noticed a cloth draped over a wooden easel. I should have left it alone. Instead, I glanced under the edge.

A woman stood against a blue background, dark hair falling over one shoulder. The painting was unfinished, but I could see the care in it, every line exact, even the smallest details. He had painted the light in her eyes so tenderly that for a moment I thought she might look straight at me. I leaned closer.

"Found something interesting?"

I straightened so fast the dishes rattled. Liam had shut the sketchbook.

"No, Alpha."

"Then why are you looking at it?"

"I was only..."

"I told you not to touch my things."

"I didn't touch it."

"Looking counts." He crossed the room and pulled the cloth back over the canvas. "Finish your work and get out."

There was something in the way he covered the painting that made me think he wasn't protecting it from me. He was protecting himself from having to look at it. I hurried out with the tray pressed to my chest.

Matthew caught me outside the kitchen. "Did he throw you out again?"

"Yes."

He sighed, as if it were the least surprising thing he'd heard all day. "His brother's coming. If you need his room, wait until they're done."

"Why?"

"Those two could start a war over the weather."

He walked off before I could ask more.

After a while I went back anyway. The floor around the easel was dusty and flecked with dried paint, and Liam had told me to finish my work, so I decided I could at least clean the boards without touching the painting. I was scrubbing a blue stain when someone knocked.

"Come in," Liam called.

The man who entered wore a dark coat with silver fastenings. He was a little younger than Liam, but the resemblance was unmistakable. His back was straight, his face composed, and even the way he removed his gloves seemed deliberate. Adrian Sprouse. I had heard Matthew mention him.

He greeted his brother before he noticed me. "Still making other people clean up after you?"

"Nice to see you too."

"Mother arrives tonight."

Liam's face changed. "Tonight?"

"Her carriage left this morning."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"I sent word twice."

"I never got it."

Adrian's eyes went to the pile of unopened letters on the desk. "Apparently."

Liam looked away. "How is she?"

"Still unwell. The healer wants her resting, but she insisted on coming."

"She shouldn't have traveled."

"You know Mother."

"Unfortunately."

Adrian's mouth twitched, but the amusement didn't last. "She asked about you."

"I'm sure you gave her a glowing report."

"I told her the truth."

"Then I hope you enjoyed the ride."

Adrian laid his coat over a chair. "She worries, Liam. You could at least spare her wondering whether you'll show up at supper."

"I'll be there."

"And stay?"

Liam gave him a cold look. "Want me to sign something?"

"I'd like to believe my brother can sit through one meal with his family."

"Believe what you like."

Adrian let out a slow breath, and his gaze drifted to the easel. The last of the humor drained from his face. He crossed the room and pulled the cloth aside, and for several seconds he said nothing. Then he turned to his brother. "You're still painting her?"

Liam's pencil snapped between his fingers. "Put the cloth back."

"After everything. You're still painting her."

"It's my painting."

"Of course it is." Adrian's voice stayed level. "I should have known you'd find another way to keep her here."

The silence was so sharp I stopped scrubbing. Liam took a step toward him. "Careful."

Adrian drew the cloth back over the canvas. "I'm not the one who needs to be."

"Say what you came to say. Mother's coming, I'll be at supper. Anything else?"

Adrian looked at him for a long moment. "No. You've made your feelings clear." He turned for the door, then stopped. "Try not to spend the evening in front of that canvas. Mother should see her son, not the ghost you've chosen to live with."

Liam's face went hard. "Get out."

"Until tonight."

And he left.

I bent over the floor again and kept my eyes on the stain. I hadn't understood all of it. I knew only that the woman in the painting had hurt Liam somehow, and that his brother thought he should have stopped caring about her by now. I wondered what kind of person could make a man keep painting her long after she was gone.

Then Liam started toward the easel, and I reached for the cloth to tidy it before he got there. My elbow caught the edge of the wooden palette. It hit the floor with a crack that made me jerk back. Brushes scattered, and a jar of blue paint rolled under the chair.

Liam spun around.

I flinched before I could think, my arms flying over my head, my eyes squeezed shut. My body had already decided what came next: a mistake, a sharp voice, a hand raised to teach me not to make another. For a moment I heard nothing but my own heart.

Then nothing happened.

I opened my eyes. Liam stood beside the easel with one hand stretched toward the fallen palette. His gaze moved from the scattered brushes to me, taking in my raised arms and the way I had pressed myself away from him. He went very still.

I lowered my arms slowly. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

His expression tightened, and for a second I thought he was about to shout. Instead, he lowered his hand. "Did I hit you?"

The question caught me off guard. "No, Alpha."

"Then why are you shielding your head?"

I didn't know how to answer. There was no safe answer to a question like that. If I told the truth, I might offend him. If I lied, he might notice. My gaze fell to the floor, and I felt him look at me for another long moment while something in his face changed that I couldn't read.

"Who taught you to expect a beating over a spilled jar of paint?"

My fingers curled into my palms. "No one, Alpha."

His eyes narrowed. He knew I was lying. I could see it in the way he studied me, as though I were something that didn't fit the picture he had formed. But he didn't force an answer from me. Instead he crouched to pick up the palette himself, blue paint spreading across the floor and staining the hem of his trousers.

"Leave them."

I froze.

"I said leave them." His voice was sharper this time, but he didn't move toward me. He gathered the brushes himself and set them on the desk. "Get a cloth."

I hurried to fetch one. Neither of us spoke while I cleaned. I kept waiting for him to change his mind, for the anger I had seen in other men to take over, but Liam stayed by the easel, silent, his gaze drifting now and then toward the painting beneath its cloth. When I finished, I stood with the stained rag in my hands, waiting to be sent away.

He looked at the painting, then at me. "Stay away from the easel."

"Yes, Alpha."

I turned to leave.

"Milley."

I stopped so quickly the rag slipped in my fingers. He seemed irritated that he had called me back at all. His jaw shifted, and his eyes moved briefly to my bandaged hand.

"If you break something, tell someone. Don't stand there waiting for me to strike you."

I stared at him before I could stop myself. His expression hardened. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Alpha."

"Then go."

In the corridor I pressed the rag between my hands and tried to make sense of what had happened. Liam hadn't been gentle. He hadn't smiled or told me there was nothing to fear. He had still ordered me out and made it clear that his belongings were not mine to touch. But he had noticed my fear, and when he could have deepened it, he had chosen not to. I wasn't foolish enough to think one moment could change a man's nature. Still, I kept remembering the way he had asked who taught me to expect a beating, and for the first time since arriving, I wondered whether Liam Sprouse might see more than the servant my Alpha had sent him.

By evening, the Packhouse had changed. Servants hurried through the corridors, fresh flowers appeared in the dining room, and the long table was laid with a care I had never seen given to an ordinary meal. Adrian had returned to check the arrangements, Matthew was making sure the carriage entrance stayed clear, and Liam stood near the staircase like a man who regretted agreeing to any of it.

His eyes landed on me as I passed with a stack of folded napkins. "Milley."

I stopped. "Yes, Alpha?"

"Go clean my room."

"I already did, Alpha."

"Do it again." He glanced at the front doors, where servants were lining up to receive his mother. "Spotless. Nothing out of place. And keep away from the painting. If one brush has moved when I get back, you'll answer to me."

He turned toward the entrance before I could reply, and I hurried upstairs.

The room was already clean, but I checked the desk, straightened the books, and wiped the windowsills again. I worked around the easel without touching it, careful not to disturb even the edge of the cloth. When I finished, I stood in the middle of the floor and looked around. Not a speck of dust. Nothing out of place. I hoped it would be enough.

Downstairs, voices rose as the front doors swung open.

Liam's mother had arrived.

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