I glance up, my brush freezing mid-stroke. “What?”
She bites her lip, a rare moment of vulnerability flickering across her face. “Come here.”
I set down the brush, crossing the room to her. She sits up,her eyes searching mine, and for once, there’s no trace of mockery or deflection. She reaches for me, her fingers grazing my cheek, and I’m undone.
I kiss her, the movement raw and desperate. She responds in kind, her hands tangling in my hair as she pulls me closer. The fire roars behind us, its heat a pale imitation of the inferno between us.
I settle her back on the rug and nestle my hips between her thighs. My hands hold her cheeks as I kiss along her collarbone, sinking my teeth into the soft flesh of her shoulders and biting down hard enough to leave marks. She squirms and sighs, moans of pleasure sneaking from her lips.
“Do you want me to stop?” I utter against her skin.
“Never,” she replies before her lips attach at my neck and suck in slow, sensual movements.
“Good. You’ll never leave me, will you?” I murmur.
“Never,” she says.
I thread my fingers into her hair, gripping tightly so she’s unable to turn away from me. “I think you like it when I own you like this. Do you like when I overpower you? When you can’t move and I can do whatever I want?”
“Yes.” She groans, head nodding imperceptibly as she arches her hips into mine. “I love it.”
“I love you,” I whisper against her lips, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
She stills, her breath hitching. For a moment, I think she’s going to say it back. But instead, she turns her head to the side, denying me her lips.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
She shakes her head, a small, bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Nothing. It’s just... sometimes I think you see me as something I’m not. Something I can never be.”
“Don’t do that,” I say, my frustration bleeding into my tone. “Don’t brush me off.”
She looks up, her eyes shining with something I can’t decipher. “You don’t understand, Calum. You never have.”
Before I can respond, a noise outside draws our attention. A shadow moves past the window, barely discernible in the storm. My heart lurches, and I rise, crossing to the window. Peering out into the rain-soaked darkness, I see nothing. Just the wind and the waves, the storm’s fury unabated.
“Probably just the wind,” Annabel says, but there’s an edge to her voice now, a crack in her armor.
I nod, but unease settles in my chest. Turning back to her, I find her slipping back into her robe, her playful demeanor firmly back in place.
“Paint me again tomorrow,” she says, her smile forced. “Maybe then you’ll get it right.”
As she retreats to the bedroom, I linger by the window, staring out into the storm. The shadows shift and dance, and for a moment, I think I see someone standing there. Watching.
Jonathan.
Chapter Eighteen
Calum
The studio feels colder tonight, the dampness from the ocean clawing its way through the walls. The smell of turpentine and linseed oil hangs heavy in the air. The canvas on the easel is a thing of torment, half-finished, half-alive. Annabel’s face stares back at me, her eyes wide and unyielding. They burn with accusation, as if to say,You think you know me? You never did.
I’ve lost track of the hours spent in this room, slashing brushstrokes into existence. My hand moves as if guided by something other than myself, a compulsion I can’t explain. What started as a simple portrait of Annabel—a quiet homage to her memory—has twisted into something grotesque. Her delicate features remain, but shadows pool in unexpected places, warping her beauty. And the eyes. God, the eyes. They follow me even when I look away.
A storm brews in the background of the painting, one I don’t remember adding. Waves churn violently, gray and white foam crashing against jagged rocks. The ocean looks hungry, asif it’s trying to swallow her whole. My hand must have painted it, but it feels foreign, as though someone else held the brush.
I take a step back, the floorboards groaning beneath me. The room feels tighter, the air too thick to breathe. I tell myself to stop. Just for tonight. But I can’t. Not until I understand what the painting wants.
I pick up the brush again, my fingers trembling. The bristles are stiff, laden with paint. I dab the palette, mixing black with the faintest touch of crimson. The color of regret. Or blood.
