Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The Painter’s Muse
Lyssena
Lyssena woke up warmer than usual, cocooned in her new, impossibly soft bed, wrapped in layers of luxurious blankets and surrounded by an indulgent abundance of pillows that cradled her on all sides like a nest built for royalty.
It was everything she could have asked for, waking up like a true princess, swaddled in comfort, her body sinking slightly into the plush mattress.
The fact that everything around her was black—the sheets, the curtains, the soft shimmer of shadow curling at the corners of the room—didn’t bother her in the slightest.
If anything, it made her feel . . . special.
She was a splash of color, a living contrast in a place carved entirely from shadow, and somehow that made her feel more seen, more alive.
She let her thoughts drift, wondering what her family might think if they saw her now, saw her lying in luxury, protected and cared for, watched over by a being who had given her more than they ever had.
But they didn’t deserve Erevos’s kindness.
A god—whether he claimed to be one or not—so merciful and strange and gentle, would never waste his grace on those who had betrayed her, who had judged and discarded her in the name of appearances and greed.
Perhaps she was greedy, too. And yet . . . that didn’t bother her.
There was something strange blooming inside her, a sense of freedom that wasn’t about distance or location, but about the ability to act, to think, to speak, to look Erevos in the eyes and not feel shame.
It was a freedom that made her feel like she could breathe for the first time.
No one was telling her to rise early, to scrub the floors or polish the furniture until her fingers ached.
Though she admitted to herself that there were times she enjoyed cleaning, especially when she was angry.
She loved muttering to herself, venting under her breath as she dusted the corners of rooms no one else would bother to notice.
But now, as she blinked her eyes open fully, that familiar, comforting ritual was replaced by her god.
Erevos was lying beside her.
It was the first time she had ever seen him in a truly resting position, his long body still and strangely peaceful against the dark of the bedding, and something about the sight filled her with a gentle warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets.
It felt . . . nice.
It felt domestic, and Lyssena loved domesticity.
“You’re awake,” Erevos said, his voice deep and manly, and Lyssena turned on her side to face him, her hair falling in a soft wave over her face.
He was watching her with those dark, unblinking eyes—hard to read, as always, like purple glass reflecting a world she couldn’t see—and for some reason, Erevos looked . . . larger than usual.
Maybe it was the angle. Maybe it was the strangeness of seeing him reclined. The bed was enormous, but Erevos, lying still and massive in its side, seemed almost larger than the space allowed.
“We say good morning,” she said with a sleepy smile, then added, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Erevos repeated, his wide mouth stretching into a grin that revealed far too many teeth once again, and though she was getting better at seeing them, she still wasn’t entirely used to the way they gleamed in the low light.
She cleared her throat, her smile faltering just a little. “Lots of impressive teeth.”
“I know,” he replied, and his grin only widened, as if he took pride in her observation.
He lay propped on one muscular arm, his dark body coiled like a great feline at rest, and when Lyssena let her gaze drift lower, she noticed—quite suddenly—that one of his legs was crossed over the other, his knee slightly raised, and his foot hanging loose in the most casual, peculiar way.
She blinked.
And then she laughed.
Where on Earth had he picked up that pose? She would never have imagined Erevos lounging like that, like a bored aristocrat or an over-posed statue.
Erevos followed her gaze with curiosity and asked, “What amuses you, songbird?”
But Lyssena was already rolling onto her back, clutching her sides as she laughed even harder, breathless with delight.
“You,” she gasped between fits of laughter, “You’re lying like . . . like a painter’s model! From the big cities!”
It was true. She’d seen those kinds of paintings sold in the market stalls of her village, smuggled from the cities and kept in leather-bound folios, whispered about behind hands.
Women painted in provocative poses, lounging in elegant beds or on chaise lounges, their bodies draped in silk or bare entirely.
It was unheard of, scandalous, utterly bizarre in her little village, and now here was Erevos, her terrifying godlike companion, doing the very same thing without even realizing it.
After a good minute of laughter, Lyssena finally began to calm, her chest rising and falling with the soft aftershocks of joy, her smile lingering as she wiped away the tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes.
She turned her gaze back to her god that was still reclined, still utterly motionless, still in that same absurd pose.
“It is very comfortable,” Erevos said at last, voice low and matter-of-fact, and Lyssena mimicked him, leaning on one arm, bending her knee, and letting her foot dangle just as he had.
It was, she admitted to herself, indeed very comfortable. But when she adopted the pose, Erevos did not laugh.
He stared.
And though she couldn’t fully explain the difference between looking and staring when it came to eyes like his, she had come to understand it all the same.
It was in the stillness, in the sharpness of his focus, in the way the air itself seemed to tighten around her when he observed her like this.
Erevos was not a man—nor a god—of many words, but he expressed so much with his eyes.
They were repressive things, devouring in their attention, as if every time they landed on her, they peeled back another layer of her skin and soul.
Lyssena had also begun to notice that Erevos didn’t have much body language at all.
When he stood, he stood straight. Never leaning, never slouching, never curling into himself like humans did.
He never blinked, never wrinkled the nose he did not have, never shifted weight from foot to foot.
He was always composed, always still, always caught in some divine stillness that made him seem carved from stone or shadow or both.
But now—here, in this new posture, and with that long, unwavering stare—Lyssena could feel something different pulsing just beneath the surface. Her Erevos felt warmer, not so distant. Her Erevos?
Erevos wasn’t hers.
Certainly not.
How could a god belong to anyone? But then again . . . he had said he wasn’t a god at all.
And she remembered his question from before—What is a god, Lyssena?
“A god is . . . ” she began aloud, voice quiet, like she was answering a riddle. “Someone who can do anything. Someone who can grant wishes.”
At that, Erevos reached for her hand, large and dark and warm, and pulled her gently toward him.
She glided without resistance, suddenly half on her back, half on her side, her body close enough to feel the radiant heat that pulsed from his chest, her eyes wide with surprise.
She didn’t know why he had pulled her closer, but he was so big, and so warm, and so . . .
“What do you wish for?” he asked, his voice soft but impossibly deep, rumbling through her like distant thunder.
And now it was Lyssena who stared.
She stared into the endless purple of his gaze, stared at the way his mouth moved just slightly when he spoke, the barely-there twitch of motion that made him seem almost human.
“I wish for . . . ” she exhaled, the breath catching slightly on its way out.
She didn’t know what to say. Did she wish for him to kiss her?
The thought was absurd, and yet, why was it the first one that came to mind?
Erevos was a deeply masculine presence, too masculine for his own good, with his towering frame and low voice and the way he moved so gently despite the sheer force of him, and Lyssena found herself growing more and more confused.
He had seen her bare and had not reacted at all. Not a glance, not a shift, nothing.
And still, despite that indifference, despite that restraint, she kept thinking about it.
Even in this strange, godless place.