The room glowed with soft lights, coming from a wide window that faced the forest. The hardwood floors were newly polished, and clean tables stood beneath mounted lamps. Canvases leaned against the walls with brushes sorted by size placed on a circular table. The boxes were filled with tubes of paint in ranges of color she didn’t even know she needed yet.
Everything was there: an easel, aprons and sketchbooks.
Everything she would ever ask for, before she even thought to ask.
A studio which was hers and hers alone.
Finally, she found her voice. “What… is this?”
“Your art studio,” I said simply.
“No,” she shook her head, stepping inside as if she didn’t trust her own feet and eyes. “No, this… this is not real. Why would you—”
“You like art and enjoy painting.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“You needed something of your own, and now you have it.”
She stared at me like the world had turned itself upside down.
“This is…” she swallowed. “This is too much.”
“It’s not enough,” I corrected.
Her chest rose, fell, and rose again as she touched the edge of a table with trembling fingers.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why would you do this?”
“Ilana, I am already keeping you trapped here,” I said. “You shouldn’t spend your days staring at walls, waiting for something bad to happen. You need a way to breathe until the danger is over and you can begin your life again.”
She took another cautious step, still stunned and wary. Then she turned to me, her expression changing from soft to hard to both somehow.
“What do you want in return?” she asked quietly.
My jaw tightened. “What?”
“This.” She gestured to the room. “The supplies. The whole thing. You must want something in return from me. Right?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re lying.”
“No,” I repeated, slower. “I’m not.”
She folded her arms, not defensive this time, but afraid to be wrong. “Everything in my life has mostly always come with strings. You don’t do something like this without expecting something back.”
Cold fury surged up inside me, not at her, but at whatever the hell had taught her to think like this. I stepped closer, slowly and carefully, meeting her gaze head-on.
“If I ever want something from you,” I said, voice low, sharp, unwavering, “it will not be your body.”
Her mouth parted. She blinked hard.
“And it will not be payment. Or obedience. Or leverage. I don’t need those from you. And I definitely don’t need it all in return for something. That is not who I am, and I will never ever put you in a situation like this.”
She trembled softly, her breath hitching as her fingers curled into her palms.
“Then why—”
