Her fingers toy with the corner of the page, her gaze tracing the lines of her own work as though she’s judging it harsher than anyone else would. “That’s why I wanted to go to NYU in the first place. The paranormal realm doesn’t value the arts the way humans do. Here, it’s politics, lineage, and survival skills.” Herlips press together for a beat, and then she tilts her head slightly, her tone softening. “Maybe it’s because human lives are shorter. They don’t have countless centuries to worry about, so they seek out beauty in the fleeting moments they’re alive. I think for them, art is proof of being alive and sharing how it impacts each person.”
The words hang between us, the moment heavier than I ever expected to find myself in when I followed the path toward the music earlier.
For a few minutes I can’t answer. I mull over her words and her outlook between the differences in our people.
The sun has dipped low enough that the last of its light pours through the windows, basking everything in an amber hue. The moment is surreal, but not because of the beautiful light in this sanctuary of arts.
It’s her.
The way she sits here, hazel eyes unguarded, speaking truths she didn’t have to share. The way she bares herself through the lines of graphite and the tremor of her voice, offering me a glimpse of her soul when the world’s already taken so much from her.
She is more beautiful than I’ve ever let myself admit. Not just because of her exterior, but because she’s still creating. Allowing herself to feel and finding ways to turn her pain into art.
My chest tightens until I’m nearly breathless, caught between awe and the ache of knowing how little I deserve to sit in this moment with her. Her gaze flicks up, catching me in the act of staring, but instead of rolling her eyes or shutting me out, she holds it.
For a long, quiet moment, we just look at each other. I mean really look. Not as the girl who was captured, not as the boy who stood by, but as two people trying to make sense of the worldaround us. Somehow in that silence, something shifts and it feels like we see each other a little clearer.
The words slip free before I can stop them, bubbling up from my heart. “Art comes in a thousand forms, Briar, but the most breathtaking piece I’ve ever seen is you.”
She scoffs, quick and dismissive, but the faint blush dusting her cheeks once again betrays her.
I shake my head, pressing on and needing her to hear it. “I mean it. You’re like a mosaic being rebuilt from the jagged pieces life has left behind. The way you still have this softness and appreciation for life buried beneath all that fire, after all you’ve experienced. It’s the kind of beauty that stops me in my tracks and makes me want to hold you and shield you. To make sure nothing ever gets to dim your light again.”
Her eyes shimmer, tears gathering before she can blink them away. She looks at me like I’ve cracked something wide open inside her, and when she finally speaks, her voice is a broken whisper.
“My mom’s favorite thing to pass on was something her grandmother told her, and she made sure to tell me growing up.Never dim your shine for someone who thinks they’re going to be burned by your greatness. The right person for you will put on sunglasses and bask in your glow.”
Her shoulders bow ever so slightly, as if the weight of that specific memory presses too heavy to bear alone. She’s opening herself to me–baring a part of her heart–and after everything I allowed her to endure in silence, I will be damned if I don’t reach out and attempt to console her now.
My hand lifts with a hesitance I hate, every muscle tense as though expecting her to flinch from the contact, but I press on and let my palm settle gently over hers. For a single suspended heartbeat I brace myself for rejection and for her to shake my hand off.
Instead, her fingers move, threading between mine with a certainty that steals the air from my lungs. The feeling of her skin against mine sears, and the smallest squeeze of her hand feels like forgiveness I don’t deserve.
She shifts closer, the curve of her body brushing mine before her head lowers to rest against my shoulder. The weight is light, barely there. Every muscle in me aches to hold her, to draw her fully into my arms, but I force myself to remain still, to simply exist in this fragile peace she’s chosen to share with me.
Together we sit, wordless and watching the last rays of the sun bleed across the horizon. Gold fades to crimson, then to the deep indigo of oncoming night, and still I do not move.
For the first time since before my mother was killed, silence doesn’t feel like a prison closing in. It feels like freedom and hope of new beginnings.
I draw in a steady breath, the promise already etched into my bones before I speak it aloud. “We’re going to get her back, Briar. Your mom. No matter what it takes, we’ll bring her home.”
I will give up everything to make that come true.
CHAPTER 31
BRIAR
The halls feel colder the deeper I go, stone walls narrowing as I follow the sloping corridor beneath the castle’s main levels. My steps echo too loud in the silence, like even the floor wants to remind me I’m alone with my spiraling thoughts.
All of them revolve around the three humans I chose to save and bring home with me.
I’ve been victim to the brothers prowling the castle and finding me in moments of need, in different ways.
I let Elias in physically because I needed something raw and overpowering enough to silence my grief. His roughness, his obsession, and the way he fucked me like I belonged to him was what I needed in the moment. The relief it brought didn’t last long, but it did zap a lot of my rage, leaving me to deal with the grief I was desperate not to feel. The silver lining in a fucked-up scenario, I suppose.
I let Callum in too, but in the exact opposite way. His tenderness and connection to his art had my walls dropping with ease. Then the vow he made to bring my mom home as we held hands pressed itself so deeply into my heart that it’s been on a permanent loop in my mind ever since.
Two different doors I never thought would present themselves, unlatched by my own hand.
