And in the desolate, silent ruin of my soul, a new and terrifying feeling begins to stir. Not love. Not acceptance. But a deep, chilling, and undeniable connection. He is the only person in the world who sees me, the real me. And he is the only one I truly see. We are a monster and his masterpiece, bound together by obsession, pain, and now, by blood and ink.
Forty
Wynter
Isitinhischair,on his throne, and stare at the two halves of my new reality. On the wall, the king I rendered in charcoal, a masterpiece of rage and unwilling admiration. Beneath myown hand, under the fine silk of the robe, the thrumming, agonizing proof of his ownership, a masterpiece of pain and possession.
You captured my soul on that canvas. So I put my soul on you.
The terrible, perfect symmetry of his words echoes in the hollowed-out chambers of my heart. He is not just a monster. He is an artist of cruelty, a connoisseur of obsession. He didn't just break me. He has curated me. He has taken the ugliest, most painful parts of my life—the stolen art, the physical violation, the loss of self—and declared them beautiful, declared them his.
And in this moment, looking from the man on the canvas to the man standing before me, a profound and terrifying shift occurs within me. The old Wynter, the one who dreamed of escape and a life of quiet freedom, is a ghost. She is a pale, flimsy thing that could never have survived this. The pain in my hip is a funeral pyre for her, and from her ashes, something new is stirring.
For my entire life, I have been prey. Prey to Evilin’s jealousy, to the world’s indifference, to Kaden’s power. I have spent every waking moment fighting, running, hiding.And what has it gotten me?A life of fear, culminating in this, being marked and caged like an animal.
Kaden offers me a different path. Not freedom, but power. Not kindness, but a devotion so absolute it is willing to scar and bleed for its claim. He doesn't want to extinguish my fire; he wants to pour gasoline on it. He wants it to burn for him.
Lean into the darkness. Burn with him.
The thought is not my own, yet it resonates with a truth so deep it feels like a prophecy. What if I stop fighting the current? What if, instead of trying to escape the fire, I walk into it? What if I become the one holding the torch?
A slow, cold smile touches my lips. It feels alien on my face. Kaden sees it, and a flicker of surprise, of intrigued satisfaction, crosses his features.
I lift my hand from my hip and gesture toward the portrait. "It's not finished," I say, my voice raspy but clear, devoid of the trembling fear that has defined it for so long.
He raises an eyebrow, his head tilting. "It looks finished to me."
"It's just charcoal," I say, my gaze locking with his. "It's just black and white. It has no depth. It needs color. It needs... blood."
I see the understanding dawn in his eyes, the dark, predatory glee. He is seeing the shift. He is seeing the birth of his queen.
"I will paint it," I continue, my voice gaining strength, a cold, hard resolve solidifying within me. "In oil. I will paint him again. For you. But I will need a proper studio. Not the conservatory. A real studio. With a lock on the door. One that I control."
It is a test. A demand. My first move in this new game. I am not asking for a weapon or a means of escape. I am asking for a domain. A small piece of his kingdom to call my own.
He watches me for a long, silent moment, his eyes boring into mine, searching for the trick, for the angle. He finds none. He finds only a chilling reflection of his own possessive, creative fire.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. It is the smile of a king who has just seen his heir apparent reveal her fangs for the first time.
"Done," he says, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "You will have your studio. You will have your lock. You will have anything you need." He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Create for me, Wynter. Show me the darkness in your soul. And I will show you how to rule with it."
He straightens up and extends his hand to me. It is not a command this time. It is an invitation. An offering of alliance.
I look at his hand, the hand that held the knife, the hand that tended the wound. It is the hand of my tormentor and my patron. My captor and my king.
I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, a familiar, possessive grip. But this time, it does not feel like a manacle. It feels like a pact.
He pulls me to my feet, and I do not stumble. I stand before him, the pain in my hip a dull, grounding throb, a reminder of the price of this new beginning.
"Evilin," I say, the name tasting like poison and power on my tongue. "She is still out there."
"I am aware," Kaden says, his eyes darkening. "She is a loose end."
"No," I correct him, my voice dropping to a cold, hard whisper. "She is not a loose end. She is a canvas. And when I am ready, I am going to paint my masterpiece on her."
The last vestiges of the frightened girl crumble and fall away, burned to ash by the sheer, unadulterated venom in my own voice. Kaden's responding smile is pure, predatory bliss. He did not break me. He has unleashed me. And together, we are going to burn the world down.
Forty One
