“Please. That's why I brought you here.”
With another smile tossed my way, she starts to make her way around the room, examining the finished paintings hanging on the walls, and the rows of unfinished ones on the floors.“You’re prolific, Court. There’s so much here. So much I’ve never seen before.”
I nod and run a hand through my hair, looking at the ground rather than at her. “Yeah, I paint a lot. It helps with… everything, really. But not all of them are fit for public consumption. Some are just for me.”
I can feel her looking at me, but I resist the urge to look back. I’m… worried, I realize. About her reaction to this, to seeing the real me.
“The paintings of me, they weren’t just for you?”
At the question I do lift my eyes, but there’s no anger or hurt on her face, only curiosity. “I thought about it, about hoarding them for just me but I… I wanted you to see them. To know that I adored you, that I still do. I wanted you to feel it, even with the distance between us.” I shrug, giving her a small smile. “That series was my love letter to you, Pixie. I had to send it. Otherwise what would be the point of writing it?”
“Court,” she whispers, taking one step toward me. Then another. I stay where I am, feet rooted to the floor, letting her come to me at her own pace. Even though I want to stalk to her, sweep her up, wrap my arms around her, and never let her go.
But this has to be her decision, on her terms. I don’t want to force my desires and wants onto her. She has to choose us.
And as much as I want her to, I don’t think she’s there yet.
Or maybe I’m wrong, I think dazedly when she reaches me and doesn’t hesitate to burrow into my chest, wrapping her arms tight around my waist and… hugging me. My own arms move on instinct, locking down around her, as my body curls itself over her small frame, wanting nothing more than to keep her right here forever.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, nose nuzzling into my shirt. “Thank you for the letter. It… it was beautiful. They were beautiful.”
Once one of my paintings sold for one and a half million dollars. It was this giant piece that was pure color and movement, the strobe of lights at a club, the crush of bodies on the dance floor, the chaotic energy of a night out, drinking. I thought at the time that nothing could beat that high. That someone was willing to spend so much to have just one of my paintings.
But hearing Florence say that, that she thinks something I made is worth looking at, that my paintings are beautiful? Fuck, nothing will ever beat that feeling. Pride swells and for some reason it makes me nervous, embarrassed almost, just like I felt when she first stepped into this room.
It's unfamiliar and I want to shy away from it, cover it with a joke or some flirty quip. But that’s what the old Courtland would have done, and I’m trying to be a new Courtland, one that’s worthy of the girl in my arms so I murmur softly into her hair. “I still have them. People reached out, wanted to buy them, buy the whole series, but I told them no.” Ren pulls back and I have to resist the instinct to keep clutching her to me. She doesn’t go far, anyway, just enough to look up at me with an unvoiced question in her eyes that I answer in a rasp. “They’re yours. They belong to you. You can keep them, or sell them or burn them, for all I care, but they are unequivocally yours to do with as you like, just like I am.”
A tear slips down her cheek and I catch it with my thumb. “Kills me to see you cry, Pixie.”
“Then stop being sweet to me.”
I bend and brush a soft kiss against her mouth. “Never.” I kiss her again. “You deserve all the sweet in the world, omega.”
I feel her lips curl into a smile and her fingers curl into my shirt at the same time. “I want the paintings, “She tells me. “I want to keep my love letter.”
“Done. Just tell me where to send them, and I’ll do it.”
There’s a flicker in her eyes, a moment of doubt, of sadness, and I curse myself when she pulls away from me. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
I frown after her as she moves around the room again, slower this time, trying to parse out what she means by that. But then, it’s not really all that hard. She still doesn’t know whether she’s staying or going. If she’s going to choose us or return home.
I imagine even if she has picked us, she’s not sure if she wants to stay in Bravonne. The country isn’t exactly a great place for omegas at the moment, and will be even worse for her, being bonded to an Ashbourne prince.
Whatever she chooses, wherever she ends up, I’m going with her. I should have made that clear from the beginning, like Piers did. He’s made his choice, I can see it every time he looks at her, love and determination bleeding through his eyes and our bond.
I’m only here because she is. If she refused to come to Bravonne, to give us this time as a pack to try to figure things out, I would still be in Granton living out of a suitcase.
I open my mouth to say as much, to tell her all of that, but then snap it closed, feeling more than a little vulnerable already. All of this is new to me, all these feelings and promises and instincts.
Bringing her here was a huge step, a huge feat. And I’m honestly not sure I’m ready for more. Not today. But soon.
Florence pauses again in front of my newest set of canvases, head tilted like she’s trying to figure out the theme of them, what I was trying to say, but they’re unfinished and so is the message.
“Gonna have to start from scratch,” I say motioning at the near black canvases.
“Why?”
I shrug again. “I started these when we were separated. When you weren’t with me. When I was feeling hopeless and like a right arsehole for the way we treated you. While I may still feel like an arsehole, I’m not feeling quite so hopeless these days. Don’t think I’d be able to finish them.”
