“You were in control the entire time. With a single word, it would all stop. You aren’t odd for liking it. A lot of people enjoy control, especially during sex.”
“I never thought of it that way,” she mumbled, playing with a wet tendril of hair.
“You’re just coming down from the excitement. It’s normal to feel a certain way after something so intense. That is why we do this ...” I gestured to the tub.
“Bathe?”
“More like doing somethingniceafterward. To give you a safe place to break down, to ground you and remind you that it isn’t real.”
“Do you not feel anything, then?” Her eyes grew sad. “Since it isn’t real?”
“Of course I do. I was just as excited as you.” I laughed, tracing my hand over her knee, the bubbles sliding down her skin. “But it’s my job to remind you that if it were to escalate, in the end, you were always safe. You willalwaysbe safe with me, Petre.”
She stared for a moment, not saying a word. She stilled, some sort of sadness still burdening those brown eyes of hers.
Did I say something wrong?
She shifted in the tub, wrapping her wet arms around my shoulders and squeezing tight.
I returned the hug, soaking my clothes as I wrapped my arms around her waist. She huffed a muffled sob into my shoulder. I rubbed her back, tipping my head against hers, and just let her melt into my grasp.
“Let me get your nightwear,” I muttered. She freed me from our embrace first in acceptance of the offer.
She sank back into the bath, more relaxed than before, as I retreated.
Gathering her day clothes, they chimed. I hesitated before wrapping the chatelaine in her petticoat to stifle it. I glanced back to see she paid no mind to the noise.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Performer
For the first time, I couldn’t find Arkady at his studio.
My foot tapped involuntarily, accompanying an awkward slouch as I sat on his mattress. My fingers brushed over the fabric; dust collected and puffed into the atmosphere, shimmering in the morning light.
I reserved my judgment for his previous living conditions, try as I might. It helped to romanticize it a little. Arkady could make even the worst environments enticing.
I might be exaggerating—this was far from the worst.
The studio was becoming a familiar comfort. I could imagine myself reading a book up in the loft while the chimes of a chisel sang from below. Or the smell of clay and cold coffee on days when we stayed up until morning.
The window was irregular and large, quite old as it was. It was facing east, so the light would be this soft every morning. Oh, to be a muse, bare-skinned and bathed in the light. Nowhere to be contractually, smelling of earth and cologne, arms to pull you back into the warm nest of blankets among the chill from the poorly insulated hideaway.
I can’t say I snuck in to surprise him, but I found myself almost looking forward to seeing him. Before I knew it, I wore a smile as involuntary as a jacket in the cold, kept warm by the thought of him.
Yet, he was nowhere to be found.
Stupid, getting your hopes up. Don’t be a girl.
An empty paint can clattered along the floor as I stood, then I kicked it farther on my way out.
Even as I descended the stairs, the mass of sculptures made up a daunting crowd. I didn’t like to look them in the eye. They would tell him I was here.
Though, they became less intimidating with each visit. Soon I knew their poses, their expressions, even some names that had been inscribed on their pedestals.
One in particular was new.
It was a woman, lying on a slab in bliss. Her arms through her hair, moths coming from her chest and all over her hair and body.
