When Lucian's long, elegant finger ceased its tapping, Ruelle's traitorous eyes slowly rose to meet his. The veil was a foolish shield, yet without it she felt she might dissolve entirely beneath his gaze.
"How badly did you paint in the class to end up here?" Lucian asked, his eyes deceptively calm like a still sea.
Ruelle began to turn her head. "It was your—"
"Stay as you are." Lucian's voice was low. His instruction was soft and her body obeyed before thought could intervene.
"My what?" he asked mildly as he removed his coat, folding it once before setting it aside.
As he rolled his sleeves, the fabric drew slowly over his forearms, revealing pale skin and the faint line of veins beneath. When his fingers flexed, she looked away as if she had seen too much.
"It was nothing," Ruelle whispered, her fingers tightening in her lap.
