So do I.
And I’ll find out what it was. Even if it kills me.
Chapter Seventeen
Calum–past
“You’re too serious, Calum.” Annabel is sprawled across the worn leather armchair, her legs tucked beneath her like a cat. She sips from a crystal glass of red wine, her lips stained the same deep crimson. Her gaze is lazy, predatory, as she watches me work. The easel creaks under the pressure of my brushstrokes, the painting taking shape with every drag and flick of color. “You always look like the weight of the world is crushing you.” Her voice is playful, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge.
I don’t answer, focusing instead on the canvas. It’s easier to lose myself in the rhythm of creation than to face her head-on. She shifts in her chair, the sound of silk against leather drawing my attention despite myself.
“Come on,” she purrs. “You can’t ignore me all night.”
I glance at her, the firelight casting her in hues of gold and amber. Her hair is wild, tumbling over her shoulders in loose waves, and her eyes glint with mischief. She’s a study in contradictions—chaos wrapped in elegance, shadow bathed in sunshine, recklessness cloaked in refinement.
“I’m working,” I say, my voice clipped. “You wanted me to paint. Let me paint.”
She tilts her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I wanted you to paint me, Calum. Not... whatever tortured soul you’re conjuring up over there.”
“It’s not tortured.” The words come out sharper than I intend, and her smirk deepens.
“Of course not,” she says, taking another sip of wine. “You’re just brooding, as usual.”
I bite back a retort, dragging my brush across the canvas in a harsh streak of black. The truth is, she’s right. The painting isn’t of her, not really. It’s her essence, her chaos and beauty distilled into color and form. But no matter how many layers I add, it’s never enough. She always slips through my grasp, a ghost of herself.
Annabel rises, her movements languid, deliberate. She crosses the room, the hem of her silk robe trailing behind her like smoke. Stopping beside me, she leans in, close enough that her perfume wraps around me.
“Show me,” she whispers, her breath warm against my neck.
I stiffen, my grip on the brush tightening. “It’s not finished.”
“It never is,” she says, her tone light but cutting. She steps around me, her fingers trailing along the edge of the easel. “That’s your problem, Calum. You’re always chasing perfection. But perfection doesn’t exist.”
I watch her, my chest tight with something I can’t name. “And what about you, Annabel? Are you perfect?”
She laughs, the sound rich and full of mockery. “Hardly.” Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the teasing facade slips. “I’m not as perfect as you think I am.”
The confession lingers between us, heavy and unspoken. I want to ask what she means, to peel back the layers of hersecrets and lay her bare. But I know better than to push her. Annabel gives what she wants to give, nothing more.
Instead, I set down my brush and turn to her fully. “If you want me to paint you, then let me paint you. Properly.”
Her brows lift, intrigued. “Properly?”
“Sit for me,” I say, gesturing toward the fire. “Pose.”
A slow smile spreads across her face, and she tilts her head, considering. “All right,” she says finally. “But only if you make it interesting.”
She moves to the hearth, the firelight catching on the silk of her robe. With a dramatic flourish, she slips it off her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. Beneath, she wears a simple black slip, the fabric clinging to her curves in all the right places. She sinks onto the bearskin rug, stretching out like some pagan goddess, her hair spilling around her like liquid midnight.
“Interesting enough for you?” she asks, her voice laced with amusement.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. “That’ll do.”
I pick up my brush again, my hands unsteady as I begin. She watches me, her gaze unwavering, and I feel the weight of it like a physical touch. The storm rages outside, but here, in this moment, it’s just the two of us. The world shrinks to the sound of my brush on canvas, the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic beat of the rain.
As I paint, the tension between us coils tighter, a live wire sparking in the air. Her teasing comments fade, replaced by a charged silence. She shifts slightly, her slip sliding up her thigh, and my pulse quickens.
“Calum,” she says softly, breaking the spell.
