Page 56 of Lethal King

“What the hell is that?”

Tytus seems unimpressed by my reaction. Retracting his phone, he pinches the screen, zooming in before shoving it back in my face.

“How’s that?”

“I’m still not sure what I’m looking at,” I grumble.

“It’s a painting, dummy.”

“I know it’s a fucking painting,” I snap.

As if I’m not already on edge enough. Between my wild hormones, my shameful encounter with our fiercest enemy, and my completely inappropriate choice of dress, I’m in no mood for Tytus’ shit.

Old men have been staring at me since I walked in here. I have a deep desire to kill them all.

But Tytus doesn’t give up.

“What do you think of it? Gorgeous, right?”

“It just looks like it’s a bunch of lines,” I mumble, crossing my arms. I want to cross my legs too, but then I’d be flashing half the restaurant.

That’s exactly what they want.

Pigs.

Fuck. What the hell was I thinking, wearing this skimpy shit? I’m practically a sitting duck. If a fight breaks out, I won’t be able to do anything without showing the world my lace panties.

Fume blows from ears as I sink down into my cushioned seat, furious that my little hormonal plan to make an unaware Rian Kilpatrick jealous has already backfired.

Idiot.

And, by the way, no fight is going to break out, dummy. This isn’t that kind of meeting. Look at this fucking place. It might as well be a ballroom!

“Those aren’t lines,” Tytus corrects me. “They’re brush strokes. Masterfully placed.”

“Who cares,” I huff, scanning the crowd for any signs of potential trouble. But my stupid brain is right. The only criminals here are white-colored ones. No fight is coming. Even if I already want to smack our potential ally for being late.

“People with taste care about artwork this good,” Tytus beams.

“As if you have any taste.”

“How do I survive with the company I keep?” Tytus smiles, shaking his head. Pulling the phone back from my face, he admires the photo a little bit longer. “Maybe I should just kidnap the Kilpatrick princess, so I can have someone who really appreciates great art.”

That spikes my fucking interest.

“What the hell does Rian’s little sister have to do with anything?” I say, sitting back up straight.

“This is an original Melina Kilpatrick,” Tytus grins, tapping a thick finger down onto his phone screen. “And now it’s mine.”

“You stole a painting from the coronation?” I ask, flabbergasted.

“It was heavy, but I managed.”

“Why?”

“Because it struck me.”

“Well, you strike me as stupid.”