Wynter stares at me, speechless. Her act of defiance, her attempt to cage me on canvas, has not just been claimed as a trophy. It has been reframed as a legacy. A shared inheritance of darkness and talent. I have taken her rebellion and consecrated it.
I look at her, truly look at her. The charcoal dust smudges her cheek, her neck, the front of the dark green cashmere sweater. She looks like a warrior marked by her battle, and the sightsends another wave of possessive pride through me. She is mine. Her art is mine. Her defiance is mine.
I close the distance between us again. Before she can react, I take her hand. My clean, powerful hand closes over her smaller, dust-stained one. The contrast is stark, a physical representation of our dynamic.
“Come,” I say, my voice quiet but absolute. It is not a request.
I tug gently, and her body follows, her feet stumbling for a moment on the flagstones before she finds her rhythm. She doesn’t speak. She is too stunned, too overwhelmed.
I lead her out of the conservatory, away from her beautiful, terrible creation. She doesn't pull away. She can't. Her act of rebellion has become a chain, and I am holding the other end. And I am not letting go.
Thirty Four
Wynter
Hishandisamanacle around mine.
The warmth of his skin, the sheer size of his hand engulfing my own, is a terrifying, undeniable reality. Onemoment, I was a rebel, an artist channeling my rage onto a canvas. The next, I am a captive again, being led through the silent, opulent corridors of my prison. My charcoal-stained fingers are a stark contrast against his clean, powerful ones. It is the perfect metaphor for us: the wild, messy thing he has captured and now seeks to control.
I stumble behind him, my mind a maelstrom of shock and white-hot humiliation. He didn't just see the portrait. He understood it. He saw the obsession, the hours of focus, the unwilling admiration for his form that bled through my anger. And he didn't punish me for it. He praised me. He claimed my rebellion as a tribute, twisting my one act of defiance into a victory for his own monstrous ego.
The story about his mother… it was a calculated strike, a poisoned dart of intimacy designed to disarm me. And damn him, it worked. For a split second, I saw not a monster, but a man—a man with a past, a mother he spoke of with a strange, reverent tone. He used that flicker of connection to reassert his control, reframing my art not as defiance, but as a shared legacy.
He is not just a brute. He is a master manipulator, and the game he is playing is far more complex and dangerous than I ever imagined.
He doesn't lead me to the dinning room or to his office. He leads me down the familiar hallway to his suite—oursuite. The word lodges in my throat, a bitter pill. He opens the door and pulls me inside, the scent of him, of us, enveloping me once more. He doesn't stop in the bedroom. He leads me straight into the vast, marble-clad bathroom.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The last time I was in here, he was washing my body after he’d taken my virginity. The memory is a fresh wound, raw and painful. I instinctively try to pull my hand back, a frantic, desperate bid for escape.
His grip tightens, not painfully, but with an absolute finality that quells my struggle instantly. "Be still,cara," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.
He leads me to the large, basin-like sink and turns on the tap. The water that flows is perfectly warm, as if the very plumbing of this house anticipates his needs. He takes a bar of expensive, milled soap—the same one he used on me before—and lathers it in his hands.
"Give me your hands," he commands softly.
I am frozen, my mind screaming at me to fight, to scream, to do anything but obey. But my body is paralyzed by a mixture of terror and a morbid, helpless curiosity.What is he doing?
When I don't respond, he gently takes my hands in his, turning them over. He begins to wash them. His movements are slow, deliberate, and shockingly gentle. His large, powerful thumbs move in slow circles over my palms, working the lather into the charcoal stains, cleaning the grime from beneath my fingernails.
The act is so proprietary, so breathtakingly intimate, it feels more violating than a slap. He is not just cleaning me. He is erasing my rebellion. He is washing away the evidence of my fight, leaving my hands clean and pure, ready to be used for his purposes.
My mind screams 'monster,' but my skin, the traitorous skin of my hands, prickles with a different, treacherous message. It registers the warmth of his touch, the soothing slide of the soap, the sheer, focused attention he is giving this simple task. It is the most tenderly anyone has touched me since my mother died. The thought is so abhorrent, so deeply shameful, I feel a wave of nausea.
"You have her talent," he says quietly, his gaze fixed on my hands. "But her hands were always stained with paint. Turpentine and linseed oil. She smelled of it constantly. It drove my father mad." He rinses my hands under the warm water,his touch careful and precise. "He hated the mess. He didn't understand that creation is a mess."
He turns off the water and reaches for a thick, plush towel, drying my hands with the same meticulous care. My hands are clean now, the charcoal gone. I feel strangely naked, exposed.
He drops the towel and his gaze lifts to my face. "But you are not my mother," he says, his voice dropping lower, losing its reminiscent softness and regaining its hard, possessive edge. "You are a reflection of me. And I do not tolerate mess."
His hands come up to my face. I flinch, but he holds me steady, his grip firm on my jaw. He uses the damp corner of the towel to gently wipe the charcoal smudges from my cheeks, my forehead, my neck. His touch is no longer just gentle; it is possessive, claiming. He is polishing his prize.
When he is finished, he doesn't let me go. He turns me to face the massive, wall-sized mirror. He stands behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders, his body a formidable wall of heat and muscle at my back. He forces me to look at our reflection.
There we are. The dark king and his captive. Him, tall, powerful, dressed in an impeccable dark suit. Me, smaller, paler, dressed in the sweater he provided, my face scrubbed clean by his own hands. We look like a couple. A twisted, terrifying, but undeniable unit.
"Look at us, Wynter," he whispers, his voice a possessive purr in my ear. "This is what you are now. An extension of me. My beautiful, brilliant artist. My Snowflake."
He leans in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "You will create beauty for me. You will be a testament to my power. And you will learn to love the cage I have built for you, because it is the only place you will ever truly be safe. The only place you will ever be cherished."
