Unfettered Vessel (Found & Freed: The Unfettered #6)

20. Chapter 20

Chapter twenty

Pink

T he museum’s grand facade beckons ahead as we walk side by side. The crisp evening air carries the faint scent of rain, and the soft background hum of city sounds is providing an almost musical accompaniment. I’ve always loved the quiet reverence of the museum. It feels like stepping into a sanctuary of beauty and thought, where the weight of the outside world fades away. But tonight, my thoughts aren’t excited about the exhibits or the history within the walls. My focus is entirely on Monty.

His presence is a steady, comforting warmth beside me. The way he glances at me, soft and attentive, as if I’m the only thing in the world that matters, sends a thrill through me that I don’t quite understand.

I think I should pinch myself to make sure this is real. I’m on a date with Monty. Again. It really is too good to be true.

The grand glass doors of the museum gleam under the streetlights. Monty opens one with a gentlemanly flourish, gesturing for me to go ahead. “After you,” he says with a small, teasing bow.

I can’t help but smile. “Such chivalry,” I quip, stepping inside.

The quiet hum of the museum wraps around us. The gallery space is a perfect blend of modern design and classic charm, with polished dark wooden floors and high ceilings adorned with subtle, intricate carvings. The exhibition focuses on abstract interpretations of human emotion. The first room features large, sweeping paintings that seem to pulse with vibrant energy. Colors merge and clash, creating a visceral sense of movement that seems to speak directly to the soul.

Monty walks beside me, his hands clasped behind his back as he studies the first piece. It is a chaotic swirl of reds and blacks, each brushstroke filled with raw intensity. “What do you think it’s trying to say?” he asks.

I tilt my head, letting my eyes trace the jagged strokes. “Anger, maybe? Or fear. There’s so much movement. It feels like someone trying to break free.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Or maybe someone trying to hold on. The darker tones seem to pull everything inward, as if grasping at something they can’t quite reach.”

I glance at him, struck by how effortlessly he understands these abstract expressions. “You’re good at this.”

Monty turns to me, his lips curling into a soft smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by how art reflects emotion. It’s like a glimpse into someone else’s soul.”

His words send a small flutter through my chest. There’s something so earnest about the way he speaks. It feels like every observation he makes carries a piece of his own heart.

We move from piece to piece, sharing quiet observations and trading gentle jokes. The gallery fades around us, the art becoming a backdrop to the easy rhythm of our conversation. At one point, we stop before a particularly striking piece. It is a massive canvas awash with shades of black and gray, overrun with streaks of a bright, vivid, pink that seems to shimmer in the dim light.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur. “It feels... hopeful.”

Monty stands close, his gaze fixed on the painting. “Like light breaking through darkness,” he agrees. “It’s... radiant. Just like you.”

The words hang in the air between us. They are soft and unassuming, but they hit me like a quiet storm. Warmth rushes to my cheeks, and I look down, trying to suppress the nervous smile threatening to break free.

Oh gosh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so romantic in all my life. I’m at a very real risk of swooning right into Monty’s arms.

“Sorry,” Monty says quickly, his voice laced with self-consciousness. “That might’ve been too much.”

“No,” I say, looking back up at him. My voice comes out quieter than I intend. “It wasn’t too much.” It was wonderful. I could get used to compliments and affection, I really could.

His eyes search mine. For a moment, the air between us feels charged, heavy with something unspoken.

Monty breaks the tension with a soft chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Shall we move on?”

I nod, grateful for the reprieve. But even as we walk to the next room, the warmth of his words lingers, filling me with a strange, fluttery sense of anticipation.

We reach the end of the exhibition sooner than I’d like, and we find ourselves in the museum’s small café, sipping tea and sharing a slice of chocolate cake. The conversation flows easily as we trade stories and laughter.

“Do you paint?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. He seems to know a lot about the subject. But then again, Monty seems to know a lot about most things.

Monty shakes his head with a soft laugh. “No. I’ve tried, but my attempts are laughable. My talents are more practical than creative.”

“Practical like cooking?” I tease, because I’m not going to mention alchemy in public.

Monty grins, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes my chest feel warm.

“Exactly,” he says, and then he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say more. “Though I do have a story about a particularly disastrous attempt at… let’s call it culinary artistry.”

“Oh, you have to tell me now,” I say, laughing.

Monty chuckles and leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “When I was younger, I decided to host a dinner party. It was meant to be a casual gathering, just some acquaintances and family. I thought I could handle the cooking myself. I’d watched the chef at home plenty of times and thought, how hard could it be?”

I’m already grinning. “Famous last words.”

“Precisely,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I decided to make a roast. Simple, classic. Except I overestimated how long it would take to cook. By the time the guests arrived, the kitchen was filled with smoke, and the roast… Well, let’s just say it was more charcoal than meat.”

I laugh, the image of Monty frantically battling a smoking oven far too vivid. “What did you do?”

“I improvised,” he says, his tone dry but amused. “I sent someone out to buy bread, cheese, and wine and declared it a rustic picnic dinner. Everyone was too polite to complain.”

“I’m sure they thought it was charming,” I say, still laughing.

“They were gracious,” he admits, his smile softening. “But that was the day I learned the importance of knowing one’s limitations.”

“And now you’re a culinary genius,” I say, recalling the expert way he made me breakfast in bed in his tiny campervan kitchen.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, but the pleased flush on his cheeks tells me he doesn’t mind the compliment.

The café quiets as the evening wears on, the other patrons filtering out until it’s just the two of us. The dim lighting casts a soft glow over Monty’s features. I find myself watching him more than I intend to, caught up in the subtle curve of his smile and the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs.

As we step out into the night, the air is cool and crisp. The sky is a deep velvet dotted with stars. We walk slowly, neither of us in a hurry to end the evening. The streets are quiet, the city softened by the late hour.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say as we reach a small park near the museum. “It was... wonderful.”

Monty turns to face me, his expression warm and open. “The pleasure was all mine. Truly.”

We stop near a bench. The faint glow of a streetlight casts a soft circle of light around us. My heart thrums in my chest, but this time, it’s not nerves. It’s anticipation.

Monty takes a small step closer, his gaze steady and searching. “Pink... can I…?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice steady.

He leans in, and this time, I don’t freeze. I meet him halfway, my hands finding their way to his shoulders as his touch anchors me.

Our lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss, and the world seems to melt away. It is gentle and sweet, full of the promise of something new and wonderful. Monty’s hand rests lightly at the small of my back, grounding me in the moment as warmth blooms in my chest.

His lips are soft and tender. Brushing over me oh so tentatively. Almost cautiously. I was his first sexual partner, so this is probably his first kiss. The realization of that is making me giddy. It makes me feel special. As if I am someone worth waiting for.

The kiss deepens. I press myself closer to his broad chest. The heat of his body seeps into mine. His hand on my back becomes more confident, more sure, but still so achingly careful. A support, not a restraint. An offering and not a demand.

I have never been kissed like this before. Some of the men who used me in the harem slobbered over me, but it was nothing like this.

Oh heavens, I’ve just realized. This is my first consensual kiss. I’m giving my first kiss to Monty, just as he is giving his first to me. This is a special moment, truly shared.

His first kiss. My first kiss. Our first kiss.

When we finally pull apart, Monty’s eyes search mine, his expression a mix of awe and joy.

“Was that okay?” he asks softly.

“It was perfect,” I say, my cheeks flushing with happiness.

He smiles, his face lighting up in a way that makes my heart soar. As we stand there beneath the streetlight, the night feels infinite, full of stars and possibilities.