“My tattoos are in defiance of pain,” I tell him. “But I’m still cautious by nature. You know why.”
He glances at me, his blue eyes softening. “Someone with your trauma is bound to be cautious. But trust me, this will be fine.” He guides the boat into an inlet and ties it to the little wooden pier jutting out from the pebbled beach. Then he leaps out of the boat, spinning on his heel and offering me his arm with consummate grace. “Leave your bag on the boat in case the owners show up and we have to make a run for it.”
Even though I always feel kind of naked without my phone, I leave the bag behind and step out of the boat, breathless and wild because we’re doing this, we’re exploring someone’s island without permission. Our feet crunch the gravel path as we head toward the house.
“Who would want to live way out here?” I muse. “You’d have to travel forever by boat to do any shopping. What if you forgot something at the grocery store? And I’m pretty sure Amazon doesn’t deliver to islands.”
“Not this one, no.” Dorian mounts the steps to the porch and peers through the front window briefly. I follow more slowly, eyeing the litter of leaves along the wall and around the pillars. There’s a weathered rocking chair nearby, creaking slightly in the breeze.
Dorian tries the door handle, and it tilts downward without resistance.
“No need to lock up when you live way out here,” he says. “Let’s look around.”
There’s a brittle eagerness to his manner, a bright hurry to his movements. He’s hiding something. Some kind of surprise? Oh god, what if he bought me this house? That would be so sweet and so misguided.
“How can you be sure the owners aren’t home?” I ask.
“Did you see any other boats tied up at the dock?”
“No, but—”
“Just come on, Baz.” He breezes into the house, and I follow him slowly.
Inside, the place doesn’t smell musty or abandoned. In fact, it smells freshly cleaned. Dorian leads me into the wide front room, which is completely bare except for a couch, several floor lamps, two easels, and a long table laden with various types of paints, brushes, and related supplies. Pale-yellow sunlight pours into the room from a series of floor-to-ceiling windows.
On one easel stands the framed portrait of Dorian, painted by Basil Hallward, still in its acrylic case.
On the other easel stands a blank canvas of approximately the same dimensions.
A corrosive dread hollows my chest.
Oh, no, Dorian. No.
Dorian steps between the two canvases, his hair gleaming in the shafts of sunlight. An eager, pleading pain shines in his eyes.
“You see how perfect it is,” he says. “You have everything you need. The kitchen is fully stocked with food and drinks. There’s plenty of light, and best of all—privacy. No one but you and I need to know what happens here. If you accidentally kill me trying to put my soul into the new portrait, you can take the boat back and keep living your life like I never existed.”
“Dorian.” Sorrow and exasperation color my tone. “We talked about this. I said the only thing I’m willing to do is put your soul back into your body.”
“And I told you why I can’t agree to that.”
“Then we’re stuck,” I tell him. “And you bringing me here was a waste of time. You lied to me. To my face. Did you lie about Sibyl and the donations, too?”
“No, that was real.”
Well, at least there’s that. It helps a little…but not enough.
“Take me home.” I turn on my heel, ready to stride out of the house and head for the beach.
“No,” Dorian says softly.
The darkness in his voice makes me face him again. Every line of his lovely face is ice-hard, and his eyes gleam like frosty stars.
“What do you mean?” I falter. “Stop looking at me like that, and let’s go back.”
“There’s no going back, Baz. Not for you. Not until you do what I need you to do.”
The world congeals around me, time slowing into a hideous ooze of elongated seconds. And bleeding through the seconds is pain—a searing sliver of breath-stopping pain right through the pumping muscle of my heart. I’m bleeding internally, and his words are the blade.
