Maxim’s upper lip twitched, which was the only bit of emotion I’d seen from him. “Ryder is waiting for you.” Without another word he left, leaving me alone in the bedroom of a man I didn’t know. Brought here by a man who had betrayed me.
Great.
Everything was not okay.
My lifewason fire.
Chapter 50
Violet
In horror movies, basements always seemed to follow the same rule: something terrible was going to happen.Nightmare on Elm Street. Evil Dead. The Conjuring.Every film was a warning, and yet there I was, descending the stairs to the sound of Ryder muttering.
“Fucking”—crinkle—“stupid”—crinkle—“suit.”
Surprisingly, despite the house’s opulence, the basement was just that: a basement. Low ceiling, buzzing fluorescent lights, and a cold concrete floor. Almost disappointing, really… until I found Ryder half-naked and attempting to pull on plastic overalls.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Ryder turned, his face flushed from where he was clearly wrestling with the suit and losing. “Oh, hi.” He tried to stretch the clearly too small plastic onto his shoulders, almost ripping it. “You know, just trying to be romantic.”
“Romantic?” I echoed, looking past him to the sheet he’d laid on the floor, beside what looked to be a wallpaper pasting table that displayed over ten different spray cans.
“It was either this or flowers.” Ryder shrugged, shoving his hand through his hair.
Was… was Ryder blushing?
Oh my God.
“You haven’t… you need to… oh, just let me,” I said, stepping closer to pull the zipper all the way down before helping him slide the overalls over his shoulders. Ryder pressed his lips into a thin line but didn’t stop me as I fastened it closed.
“This one’s for you.” He handed me my own plastic overalls, which I slipped in without the same struggle. “I thought maybe you needed this.”
“Needed this?” I repeated, raising a brow.
“I don’t know… expression?” His arm swept out towards the brick wall. “Somewhere for you to vandalise.”
“I don’t vandalise!”
“Agree to disagree.” He grinned, picking up a respirator mask and passing it to me. By the time I’d pulled mine over my head, Ryder already had his on, waggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.
I laughed, really laughed, for the first time in months.
“There’s no ventilation,” I said.
Ryder shook his head, handing me one of the spray cans. “Stop overthinking, blondie.”
I took the can and turned toward the wall. It was red brick, the texture harsh when I pressed my hand to it. But from the first hiss of paint, it felt… cathartic. With every stroke, every burst of colour, it stripped away a little more of the tightness coiled inside me.
Painting was how I remembered to breathe. How I kept from falling apart when the world felt too heavy.
And I’d neglected that.
“Stand here,” I said to him, pulling him from the childish-looking drawing he’d been attempting in the corner.
Ryder raised a brow, staring at my burst of colour. Hestood in the centre, and I immediately began to spray around him, smiling behind my mask at his expression.
I’d painted soft curves and floral lines. Beautiful, delicate things growing out from his hard silhouette in a sweep of wings and horns. As if he was an angel from hell.
