Hades' Cursed Luna novel Chapter 91

Eve

I am sorry but please, don’t move, Jules," I said, my charcoal poised over the sketchbook balanced on my knee. Jules sat on the stool across from me, her arms crossed over her uniform and her copper hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows caught every fiery strand, making it impossible not to marvel at how alive she looked. She was vibrant both inside and out.

"I’m not moving, Princess," she replied, her tone teasing. Her eyes sparkled, and her lips curved in a smirk. She always seemed to have that look—mischievous, like she knew something I didn’t. A secret that I was not privy to.

"You are," I insisted, biting my lip as I dragged the pencil down the page. "Just there. You shifted."

"I had to breathe," she shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Is that crime now?"

I huffed, though I couldn’t help but smile. "It’s only a crime when I’m trying to draw you. Your nose keeps... changing." I wanted to get every freckle right. They covered her nose. This was my first time doing a live art with a model in a long time. I waited to make sure it was the splitting image of Jules.

Her laugh rang out, warm and unrestrained, and for a moment, I paused to soak it in. Jules didn’t laugh like the rest—polished and condescending. Hers was wild and full of life, like everything about her. Over the weeks after me and Hades thousandth fall out, she had began infiltrate my heart. Even after her work was done with me, she stuck around, selflessly keeping me company.

"Maybe it’s your eyes that are changing, Princess," she teased, leaning forward slightly.

I narrowed my gaze at her, pretending to be stern. "Hold still, Jules, or I’ll make you wear a mask next time."

She grinned, her freckles bunching on her cheeks. "Oh, how tragic for you to lose this masterpiece of a face." Her remark reminded me of Kael. At least it was not all bad, I had friends now. Even if they were obligated to attend to me, the moments felt real. Like this one.

I bit back a laugh, my hand relaxing as I started sketching again. Her profile came to life on the page—the stubborn tilt of her chin, the smattering of freckles that danced across her nose, and the defiant spark in her eyes. Every line felt familiar, yet somehow elusive, like capturing the wind.

"Why do you keep doing this?" she asked after a moment, her voice quieter now. "Drawing me, I mean."

I glanced at the rumpled up discarded papers on the ground. This was my fifth attempt.. _{freewёbn૦νeɭ.com}

I didn’t answer right away. How could I explain it? How could I tell her that her face was the only one I wanted to draw because it was real? Because it wasn’t polished or masked by duty and decorum?

"Because I like it," I said simply, my voice soft. "And because... you’re my friend." I said almost shyly, ducking my head a bit.

Her eyes widened slightly, and for the first time since we’d met, she seemed at a loss for words. It lasted only a moment before she smiled, softer this time. "I am your friend?" She asked.

I swallowed, a lump forming in my throat. Something unknown gnawed at me and for a moment my tongue was too heavy to move, before finally said it. "I am if you are." I said hopefully. I was not going to rope her into something she didn’t want. Friendship had to be freely given, not taken or assumed because of circumstance.

Her smile deepened, reaching her eyes, and she leaned back against the stool, letting her hands rest in her lap. "Then I guess you are, your highness. It’s not every day someone calls me a friend instead of just ’the help.’"

The words stung, not because she said them, but because I knew they were true. Jules had probably spent her life being overlooked, treated as part of the background, like the furniture or the walls. A hated runt. And here I was, using her as my subject, while she quietly brightened my days without asking for anything in return. Her heroic actions defending me flashed in my mind, yet some uneasiness lingered. I hoped I was not making another mistake.

I set the charcoal down, ignoring the smudge it left on my fingers, and met her gaze. "You’re not ’just the help,’ Jules. Not to me. You make this place feel... less empty."

Her teasing smirk softened into something else—something vulnerable. She looked away briefly, as if the intensity of my words made her uncomfortable. "You don’t have to say that, you know. I’ve been here long enough to know my place."

"Your place does not matter to me," I said fiercely. I had been a prisoner before so I knew exactly what she was talking about. "Not all all. Come on over and see yourself.

Jules paused for a moment, her brow furrowing as if she wasn’t sure whether to believe me. But then, slowly, she slid off the stool and walked over to where I was sitting, the soft click of her boots against the stone floor the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. She peered over my shoulder at the page, her breath catching as she studied the lines.

"Wow," she whispered, her voice tinged with awe. "You really captured me."

"I tried," I said softly, my fingers lightly brushing against the sketchbook, as if afraid to smudge it. "I wanted it to be special because of what I plan to do with it. It’s a surprise."