Phantom has found a way to strip back the mask that Joker wears to keep him safe in the world. These paintings expose Joker, but somehow, manage to hold him safe within their canvas arms.
I shake, staring at the paintings like I’m staring deep into Joker’s soul.
Joker has it so wrong.
Phantom is equally as obsessed with the Beta as the Beta is with him. Nobody could paint someone like this repeatedly with such understanding, unless they loved them.
Finally, I’m starting to understand thatlove…or pack bonds…doesn’t simply mean one thing. It can look different for each person.
And for Phantom, it looks like Joker laid bare in these paintings.
“These are remarkable.” I turn back to Phantom. “I can’t draw. As a kid, I was never allowed crayons or shit. The closest I come to drawing is when I make plans to assassinate someone and need to draw up the plans of a building or someone’s movements. That has its own type of creativity.”
Phantom gives me a long, considering look. Then he waves the brush, finally inviting me to join him behind the easel.
Finally, a brush sign that I don’t mind following.
When I step around to stand at his shoulder in front of the easel, I suck in a shocked breath.
I stare at the half-completed painting.
“It’s me…” I murmur.
In the painting, I’m just waking up from sleep. It’s that moment, which I love as well, when I’m tangled in the sheets, but I feel safe because I know that Phantom is in the bed with me.
Before I joined the Hunters, I spent my life with a dagger tucked underneath my pillow, waking up with a sharp jerk, instantly on the alert.
Of course, I still have my courting dagger from the Hunters under the pillow.
I haven’t forgotten all my survival skills.
But now, I wake with a soft slowness, of which I didn’t realize I was capable. I am not shocked awake by adrenaline but rather, with a wash of gentle contentment.
I am not weary, preparing to face a bleak day. Even though I am being hunted, while trapped in this safehouse, Iwantto wake up.
It’s a new sensation.
And Phantom has captured all of that in this half-finished painting.
My eyes prick with tears, as I study my own face. I barely recognize the soft smile and happiness in this woman’s eyes.
Who is she?
How long has Phantom lain awake, waiting to watch me wake up to capture this moment? To know it this intimately?
To paint me as exposed as he has Joker?
How can I doubt Phantom’s obsession and devotion now?
Phantom grabs my arm and drags me onto his knee. He gently presses the brush into my hand.
I try to push it back into his. “Oh no, didn’t you listen to my story about my lack of art skills? Once, Mars encouraged me to help him with his drawing, when he secretly sneaked into my basement. I meant to draw a dog, but it ended up looking like a rabid tiger about to devour the sweet picture that Mars had drawn of his mom. Possibly, it was my subconscious coming out. A psychiatrist would have a field day.”
Phantom chuckles but still guides my hand toward the painting with a look that saystrust me.
I lose myself in the depth of his green eyes.
I do trust him. I never expected that I could.
