My F*cked Up Fairytale

THE OTHER WOMAN - CHAPTER SIX

"If you needed something to write on, you should've immediately told me rather than wasting all this time distracting me," He tells me with the tone of an annoyed parent.

When I turn to give him a sharp glare, I see that he has returned back to his desk, now busy sifting through the various papers on the wood top. I scrunch my eyebrows together with silent confusion, only watching as he proceeds to pick up a piece of paper, examine it carefully, then shake his head and place it back down. This process repeats itself almost ten times until Dorian takes the whitest, most perfect piece of paper I've ever seen and extends it toward me. I simply look at it, then look back at him.

"I'm not doing your work for you," I swiftly reject whatever idea he has in roping me in to help him with his boring princely duties.

He rolls his eyes before pushing the piece of paper into my chest. "I would never trust a human to do my duties. The kingdom would go to ruins if I did." When I reluctantly take the piece of paper, he turns back around, then faces me with a quill pen in his hand. "You don't need to leave me when I can provide you with everything you wish for. Now, write to your heart's content, human. I'll be expecting you to show me whatever it is that you come up with though."

My confusion has shot through the roof, and it's not because of my heart but because of his strange behavior. It is nice, too damn nice for me to get used to. I'd rather he just continue to ignore me as he always does, or at least remain spiteful and sarcastic. That way I'd be able to think clearly enough to actually write something on this blank piece of paper, instead I'm stuck sitting in my chair, occasionally shifting about in it, as if that might help me write something. After I end up sitting sideways with my legs hanging over the arm of the chair, I come to terms with the fact that I have severe writer's block, all because I can't seem to ignore Dorian's presence.

I quietly groan, then shift my eyes over to him. He's paying no mind to me now. His eyes are trained on a long scroll beneath him. Every so often, he'll momentarily chew on his bottom lip, then tilt his head before writing a few words onto the scroll. Although he's not doing anything extraordinary, I find it entertaining to watch him do something as simple as this.

A smirk forms on my face as I switch my gaze between Dorian and my blank piece of paper that is slowly beginning to be marked up by my inky quill pen. Fifteen minutes later and I'm finally finished. There's more black ink on my hands than the paper, but I'm still fairly proud. Like a student that wants praise from their teacher, I go up to Dorian, displaying my work to him.

When he doesn't take notice of me, I clear my throat, announcing, "I have finished. Do you want to see it or are you too busy glaring down at that scroll?"

"That didn't take you too..."

His voice trails off as he stares at the paper in my hands. I know for a fact that he has fallen silent because he's astonished at my raw talent. That has to be it. Though, I soon discover that is not the case when he opens his mouth once more.

"I thought you were going to write something, not draw a picture of a deranged forest troll," Dorian comments with a look of disbelief shot toward me.

"It's not a deranged forest troll!" I shout defensively, pulling the drawing back toward myself to examine it before shoving it back into Dorian's face. "I drew you! Can't you tell? I mean, look..." I point at the fangs I drew in the smiling mouth, "...there's your pointy fangs. And, and..." My finger stabs into the inky lines that are supposed to make up tousled hair, "...your hair!"

He tilts his head, admitting, "I thought that was supposed to be horns."

My pride in this drawing has been thoroughly shitted on by the very muse of it. I huff, beyond offended as I look over the portrait once again. Now that I'm looking at it more critically, I do see the deranged forest troll. A sigh leaves me as I realize that I'm definitely not cut out to be an artist. I laugh in spite of myself, taking both of the top ends of the paper and pulling them in opposite directions. Only a small rip is made before the paper disappears from my grasp.