“Why?”
“Because I understand someone created these paintings with feeling and intention. Not because they were expensive.”
He huffed out something like a laugh. “So, I’m a soulless buyer?”
“Precisely.”
He took one more step towards me, the air tightening around us.
“And what does that make you?”
“I’m someone who actually looks at them.”
He looked at me then. Really looked. And something heated flickered in his eyes. I spun away quickly, pretending to examine the Monet just so I didn’t have to see the expression he wore. He moved closer anyway, his presence warm at my back.
“Stay away from the windows,” he said softly, almost too gently.
“I am not going outside, Avgust.”
“Good.”
“This is out of order,” I said, pointing to the painting. “It should be paired with the one on the left.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re a series. They belong together.”
“Like people?” his voice dropped lower.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get poetic. It doesn’t suit you.”
A faint smirk touched his mouth. “So now you know what suits me?”
“I know what doesn’t, and pretending to care about art is one of them.”
We stared at each other again, this time with less anger and more spark, something sharp and wicked dancing between us as I refused to give it shape. He stepped around me, heading toward the hall. “Finish your food,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m not letting you starve on top of everything else.”
“You’re bossy,” I called after him.
“I am trying to keep you safe, Ilana.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“And you still hate it.”
“Sometimes.”
He held my eyes for one more second, long enough to make my heart stumble, then left me alone with the art and the hollow flutter in my chest.
***
Over the next few days, I tried to avoid him as much as I could, but the safe house wasn’t big enough for his presence to go unnoticed. Everywhere I turned, he was somewhere on the edges of my awareness. In the hall, speaking to guards. In the kitchen, grabbing coffee. In the living room, taking a phone call. He filled the space like a storm, even when I pretended not to look, and he pretended not to catch me looking.
I was in the library when Marta brought me tea, sitting down beside me. “You’re too jumpy around him.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she said. “But it’s normal. He is rather intimidating.”
