“I did this,” I said, “because I wanted to give you something that doesn’t take anything away from you. To give you a sense of comfort in this house so you feel like yourself again. I want you to be happy, Ilana.”
Silence settled between us, dangerous, warm, and unbearably charged. Her eyes softened, slow as dawn breaking across a frozen morning.
“Avgust…” her voice barely above a whisper, “thank you.”
For the first time, I could feel there was no sass or suspicion in her voice. But just the simple, plain truth. Something tightened deep in my chest, too sudden and too strong. I moved without thinking, closing the last few inches between us. I was not touching her. Not yet. But I was close enough to feel her breath catch again.
“You’re welcome, Ilana,” I said, softer than I meant.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth and lingered there for a few seconds, heat sliding across my spine. This spark between us could burn a city to the ground if either of us would just let it. So I stepped back first. Her lashes fluttered, as if waking from something she didn’t want to admit she felt.
“Use the room,” I said, forcing the steel back into my voice. “Whenever you want.”
She nodded once.
But her eyes held me longer than they should have. Longer than she realized. And as I left her there, surrounded by colors, possibility, and the only softness I had given anyone in years, I knew two things for certain.
She wasn’t ready to trust me. Not yet.
And I wasn’t ready to let her go. Not ever.
Chapter 9 - Ilana
Painting helped.
At least, it helped for the first few days. Maybe a few more.
The art room smelled like linseed oil and fresh canvas, the kind of scent that always managed to quieten my mind. The brushes glided easily beneath my fingers, mixing soft whites with warm yellows, hints of rose and pale peach turning into light. I kept painting light. Warmth. Hope. Everything I felt and did not feel at the same time. Something bright and soft and safe.
Something that looked nothing like my life.
Avgust had gone all out on the supplies. There was nothing missing in my new studio. Every supply I could think of was here, and the room was nothing short of a dream for someone who loved painting. My first instinct was to relive the trauma I had been through with the help of art, but I did not have the courage for that. Not yet. Right now, I simply wanted to escape. It felt good to create again and lose myself in color instead of fear. To breathe without thinking about shadows, weapons, strange men, locked doors, or—
Avgust.
I bit the inside of my cheek and forced the thought away. No. Absolutely not. I had already been spending too much time thinking about him, my hands itching to paint the crevices of his face. I dragged my brush across the canvas again, swirling brighter strokes, anchoring myself in the movement. Then the door opened, and my brush slipped as if on instinct.
The sound of him entering wasn’t loud. It was just the quiet click of the door, followed by the soft drag of boots on the floor, but it sliced through my concentration like a blade.
I didn’t turn. Couldn’t turn.
My pulse leapt, traitorous and immediate.
He didn’t speak at first but simply stood there, watching me, and I could feel the weight of his stare down my spine.
“What are you working on?” His voice was low and smooth, like a growl softened into something conversational. My fingers tightened around the brush.
“An abstract piece,” I said. “This was the last concept I was studying and working on before I graduated, so the idea came to me immediately.”
“What is it about?” he asked, standing too close.
“Feelings. My feelings displayed on a canvas. I am using softer colors to represent light because you say that warmth and happiness reflect me. I am just trying to paint myself without everything that has tainted me in the past few weeks.”
“That is brave of you, Ilana,” he whispered in the empty room while my mind shifted to his footsteps. Slow and controlled. Like a predator deciding how close he wanted to get.
“It’s meant to represent positivity.”
“Mm.” He was closer now. Too close. “It looks like you.”
