“But he hates me,” she argued, pacing the room in a lavender dress, so sheer it barely covered anything.
She hadn’t even seen him in days, just Rul and the odd servant to keep her company, and it felt like he was purposefully avoiding her.
“That’s not true at all,” he said as he lounged on the bed with a frown. “Why would you think that?”
Isabelle paused, rolling her eyes.
“You were there…”
The memory of the last time she’d been with Bellinor was seared in her mind, though there was no visual to go along with it, just her shameful admittance and his cruel words, the aggressive way he had ended the blissful encounter.
“Give him another chance?” Rul asked, holding his arms out to her.
She stepped up to the bed, letting him pull her into his lap and press kisses to her neck, a sensation that had once seemed so foreign, now familiar. They hadn’t spoken about all that had happened in the red room, but the emotion was palpable anytime they were together… which was almost all the time.
“He’ll appreciate the gift. I promise.”
“And what happens if you’re wrong?” she asked, cupping his face and running her thumb along his cheek.
Rul made a show of considering it, then smiled deviously.
“I’ll let you tie me down and have your way with me.”
She laughed, then pressed a kiss to his lips, trying to let herself trust him.
Isabelle stood outside Bellinor’s study, knocking tentatively and awaiting a response.
No servant had escorted her this time, and she wondered if that meant she was finally free to roam on her own. At first she had thought that Rul was her overseer, so to speak, keeping an eye on her during the days and nights, but now she realized that he simply enjoyed spending time with her.
“Come,” said a muffled voice from within, and she turned the knob, entering before she could second guess.
Bellinor was at his desk, exactly as he had been the last time she had visited him here. He was dressed in the same elegant style as always, the silky white shirt complementing the cool blue of his skin. The eyes on his wings stared at her, though the ones on his face remained glued to the book in his hands.
When he didn’t speak, she ignored her nerves, making her way around the desk and handing the canvas to him.
“Here. You can have it if you want.”
He took the painting and was silent for a long while, dark eyes tracing over every corner of the image. Certainly he would hate it–it was far from perfect–and she’d go back to her room and tell Rul she was right.
Bellinor wore a strange expression, tears glistening in his eyes and his jaw clenched tightly. Did he want to cry? Was her paintingthatbad?
“It’s lovely,” he said, though his voice was so low it was difficult to hear. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” she said quickly, eager to stifle the strange energy in the room.
He looked exhausted. There were dark bags under his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped, like he hadn’t slept in ages. Did demons require rest? She fell asleep in Rul’s arms each night, but he was always awake when she stirred.
Bellinor stood, walking past her and clearing a spot on one of the shelves, piling books on a table. He placed the painting there, and it looked like it belonged, as amateur as it was. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as he admired it, frozen in her spot by his desk.
“I’ve been absent because I’ve been working on something for you,” he said without looking at her, his wings fluttering behind him. “It will be ready soon.”
Isabelle swallowed the dryness in her throat.
“Oh. You don’t have to do that. I really enjoy the paints and–”
Bellinor cut her off with a glare, though he softened a moment later.
“I should not have… done what I did the last time I saw you. It is my way of apologizing.”
