Page 8

Violet, Age 20

Chapter 5

“His memory is absolutely insane!” I freeze, fetching the tea from the cupboard when Pru appears at my side, narrowing her eyes as she inches closer to my face. I give her the side eye and then grab the chamomile and green tea. Chamomile is my favorite, and I drink two cups every night to fall asleep. Pru will fight me to stay awake. Her idea of a sleepover is a party in the bedroom where we stay up all night.

“Whose memory?”

“Cain’s!” I sigh to brush off the volume of her voice in my ear and continue to fill the kettle and get it on the already burning woodstove. “He loves you, you know.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I say with a laugh as I grab two mugs and drop the teabags in. The little hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I get a whiff of his cologne.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

“He soooo does, he’s obsessed, I swear it!” She crosses her heart and leans forward, once again scrutinizing my face. “He even got the freckles right. All of them, the location, the shapes, the pigment.” I swallow and tuck my hair behind my ears. My cheeks heat; I can feel the flush rising from my neck to my ears, and my hands and feet turn cold. Pru leans back, smirks, and gives me a once-over. “He’s filled his studio and sketchbooks with portraits of you. I snooped and spent hours studying them. Although I think maybe I should study him if all he manages to create is art of you. Oh, look! Speak of the fucker!”

I freeze when I look over my shoulder and see Cain in the doorway, leaning back on the frame with his legs crossed casually at the ankles. His herbal cigarette is unlit between his lips. And despite my best efforts, my gaze lingers there a bit too long.

“What are you doing, Prickly Pear?” His deep voice makes my heart jump. Pru’s smile broadens.

“Oh, just helping youuu out, you sadistic fuck.” She trots over to him, tousles his hair, and gives me a wave over her shoulder. “I’m going to the wine cellar to grab a few bottles for tonight!” and she trots out of the kitchenette. Peeling my eyes away from Cain, I turn to the kettle that’s now boiling.

“Can I get you anything while the water is hot?” My breath hitches when his hard chest presses to my back, and his fingers weave through my hair, twisting and twirling it around his fingers. A deep ‘mmm’ vibrates through his chest against my back and my heartbeat skyrockets. Tilting my head back, I rest it on his chest and meet his eyes. “What would you like?” He fists my hair, and I bite my lower lip to keep them from parting. My heart is thundering, and my stomach is twisting in the chaos growing inside of me. It’s criminal what his touch and gaze do to me.

“What you’re having.” I go to get another cup, but his savage hold on my hair keeps me in place. His lips press to my forehead. My chest rises and falls at a greater rate as my heart pounds so hard I swear he can feel it. As much as I love these stolen moments, they always leave me wanting more. They get me through the month sometimes, then there are times it hurts too much. And I’m too afraid to ask what the point of all this is, because I don’t want it to stop. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through.

Cain’s lips twitch in the smallest smirk, and he releases me as he takes a step back. He strikes a match and lights his cigarette with a long drag before blowing the lavender and mint smoke around me. I turn, grab his favorite size mug, and another steeper filled with the floral brew.

“So, are you going to ask me?”

“About what?” I lean against the counter and take a sip of my tea.

“About what Pru said.” I shake my head, quietly laughing.

“No, I don’t believe a word she says about that.” I take another sip. “I think she’s drinking so much that her hallucinations are getting more creative.” He takes another long drag, then blows the smoke up, releasing it slow and steady like a chimney. Then he reaches forward and gathers a lock of my hair between his fingers and gives it a little tug.

“You should believe her.”

I stare up at him as I process what he said. He must be messing with me. Sure, I know he doesn’t hate me like I used to believe. But Pru said he loves me. Besides teasing me when we are alone, there is nothing that would indicate he’s in love with me. Setting down my mug, I wrap my arms around my waist. “This isn’t funny.” When I go to tuck my hair behind my ear, Cain snatches my hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing the tops of my fingers.

“Come with me.” He squashes what’s left of the herbs in the sink and leads me out of the kitchenette, still holding the hand he snatched.

When we cross the threshold of this studio, I’m hit with the memories of the last time I was here. The same cot he threw me down on sits in the same corner. Where he kissed me until I was writhing beneath his weight, moaning, and showing him an intimate side of myself that I didn’t even know existed. Turning my focus to Cain, I pause. His lips twitch up in a smirk; he flashes his brow and licks his upper lip.

“Reminiscing?” It’s only now that I realize he caught me staring at the cot. I take a deep breath and let the embarrassment that I’m sure is showing through my flushed cheeks roll off my shoulders. He leans back against the wall and nods to the covered stacks of canvases next to him. I go, and when I remove the linen cloths, I’m met with the most stunning portraits. All of them are of me.

Pru was right; Cain’s attention to detail is spot on. I would say it’s like looking in a mirror, but these are better. The rich, warm colors bring a fire and passion that certainly don’t exist when I see myself. I’ve always seen myself as rather dull, colorless, as someone who’s dead on the inside but masquerades as someone alive. I flip through the canvases. Some are realistic, while others were created with chaotic abstract strokes. In some, I’m smiling, in others, looking longingly in the distance. I stop at one where I’m staring straight ahead. I’m wearing the cream dress that I wore to sing at the dinner theater six months ago, with a detailed floral bodice and flowing sheer sleeves. My hair drapes down over my shoulders in long waves; my eyes are so vibrant, the green looks like a pair of gems plucked right out of the ocean. It’s done in warm colors, giving a warm orange hue of firelight casting over me.

“These are beautiful, Cain.” I look up to find all his attention is on me, rather than his paintings. “Is this really how you see me?”

“Of course. This is you. You are beautiful.”

“Thanks for showing me.” I certainly needed a boost of confidence today.

“The next one is my favorite.” I flip to the next canvas, and heat rises in my cheeks as I take in the most erotic image. I’m lying on my back, my lips lagging to form a small ‘o,’ my cheeks are flushed, and my eyes are hooded as I look up at Cain. My neck is covered with purple hickeys that I enjoyed a little too much. It’s the moment from last year when I came to see him, and he threw me down. No doubt, it’s the moment he made me come.

One second later, Cain is at my side, savagely grabbing the skin on my neck between his fingers. I slam my hands over his and hiss.

“Now leave. Before I make you my favorite canvas.” He practically tosses me towards the door when he frees me, and I rub my hand over the assaulted spot. I can’t help but think about how he has marked me in the past. I spent days touching them and reveling in the reminder of how his lips were on me, claiming me. Reveling in how if anyone were to see them, they would know someone wanted me, at least at that moment. Is that what he means by making me his canvas? Are the bruises and the pain that I enjoy so much art for him?