Chapter 12 Duncan
DUNCAN
As Elowyn disappears down the hall, something fractures in my chest.
Matter of fact, my entire body reacts. My arms tense, aching to fold around her. My feet barely stay rooted as instinct urges me forward.
That pull is dangerous. Familiar. The same lie that once convinced me I could save her, keep her, make everything right.
I know better now.
Refusing to be fooled again, I steel myself against the longing. Against the need to console her. I don’t follow, don’t call her back, or reach for the door before it closes.
Only when her agonizing sobs stop echoing through the gallery, do I head to my room.
Doubts infest my mind. Restless energy won’t let me be. Even after a hot shower and climbing into bed in a soft pair of sweats and a T-shirt, I’m not calm. Can’t sleep.
Two hours of tossing and turning later, I’m just as awake as I’d been this morning.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
Elowyn talking back. Elowyn coming. Elowyn crying.
Dammit.
The sheets twist beneath my fists. My cock is hard and heavy between my legs.
Unable to take this another second longer, I climb out of bed and go to my main studio.
There, I gather my camera and throw the strap around my neck. I take a tube of red body paint and a wet washcloth with me as well.
As I head over to her bedroom, I’m thankful for the decision not to hang mirrors in the hallways.
Denying that my feelings for Elowyn go beyond hate is barely possible as it is. If I see them reflected at me, I might break. Might admit to what I keep buried.
Because… Jesus, she wasn’t supposed to be brave. Wasn’t supposed to be strong, to face me. To accept challenge after challenge.
The walls I built around me were never meant to crack the way the did.
When I’m outside Elowyn’s bedroom, I close my eyes, get it together.
Then open the door.
Unlike me, Elowyn’s fast asleep.
The silver moonlight filtering through the window and the thin spill of light from the hallway illuminate her. She lies on top of the covers, curled on her side. Her eyes are fluttered shut, eyelids heavy.
She’s completely oblivious to my presence. Stepping closer doesn’t wake her either.
Nor does my shadow when I come to a halt at the foot of her bed.
While she doesn’t stir, something in me does.
It happens when, up close, I can see she went to bed in the outfit I made her wear.
Elowyn chose to go to sleep with me. Me.
As the realization sinks in, warmth spreads through my chest. My heart beats differently, stripped of its usual rage and bitterness.
My temples throb, warning me that getting attached is a bad idea. A terrible fucking one since it’s not just my dick reacting to her.
Silencing the voice in my head, I start heading to the side of the bed. Closer to her beautiful face.
I need this. Need…I don’t know what.
I just do.
On my way there, a paper crinkles beneath my foot, stopping me in place.
Though I have an idea what it might be, I want to see it for myself. I put the items I brought with me on the bedside table and pick it up.
A Polaroid photo, as I guessed. A torn one.
Casting my gaze around the room, I spot dozens of shredded photos. Most of them are piled closer to the bathroom, as if—despite her fury—she planned to clear them out tomorrow.
This, slowly breaking her, should be a good thing. I should be pleased.
I’m anything but.
A pang of regret slices through my chest. A sting I have no business feeling.
The acidic taste on my tongue, that’s the future we can never have. That’s my heart cracking down the middle.
For the last time, hopefully, I shove the pain aside.
After slinging my camera around my neck, I test Elowyn with a light nudge. Nothing. Tonight has been a lot. No wonder she’s exhausted.
I’m still gentle, though, taking care not to wake her as I flip her onto her back.
The gown loosens with the motion. The silk robe parts, gliding over stomach, pooling at her sides.
A scowl tightens my features. My jaw locks, the corners of my mouth dragging down.
I hate myself. Hate that she and I are in this position. But I don’t retreat.
I grab the tube from the nightstand, uncap it, then hover it right below her breasts, pressing my thumb on it.
Red blooms at the tip, thick and glossy.
The first letter I draw is—
I
When the line starts slanting toward her ribs, my thumb twitches with the urge to trace it barehanded. To fix it.
To fix her.
No.
OWN
Each letter comes out wrong. The O pools too full, the W breaks in the middle. The N is crooked, cutting across the curve of her stomach.
I blame it on the adrenaline coursing through my veins and all this goddamn ache.
It’s got nothing to do with the naked woman I’ve been jerking off to for years. The woman who holds my heart in the palm of her hand.
Nothing.
One more word.
YOU
Once the bottle’s capped and back on the bedside table, I step back. Cross my arms over my chest.
I’ve never used paint for anything other than restoring artworks. Never botched a project the way I ruined this.
But this is personal.
This is the goddamn truth.
She’s mine.
I lift the camera, angling it to capture her stomach and the bed so she’ll know it’s her.
Snap, and it’s ready. The print slides out warm, and I shake it, set it aside on the bed, and grab the wet washcloth.
Again, being careful not to wake her, I slide the washcloth over her stomach. I sneak glances at her face. Not a muscle moves.
On its own, my chest constricts the longer she stays sound asleep. She’s not just exhausted, she’s worn out by months and maybe years of stretching herself thin.
Shaking it off, I focus on my task. Thick streaks of red dissolve into pink. Droplets of water drip down Elowyn’s stomach, soaking her dress.
She still doesn’t stir.
The more paint I gather on the cloth, the harder it is to wipe away whatever’s left on her stomach. My movements slow, the circles tighten, but they’re no less gentle.
I can’t half-ass this. Have to remove everything in order to get my message across.
That’s how she’ll feel the pain I did in my gallery, when she was on all fours before me. When her eyes locked on mine.
Need poured out of Elowyn as she begged, despite herself, to be claimed.
It turned me on.
It broke me just as much, to realize how easy it was for her. Our closeness felt almost natural. As if nothing had happened between the moment when I kissed her and now. As if she forgot how long we’d been apart.
That’s why I wipe my mark from her skin. Why I’ll leave the photograph hanging on the wall. To hold a metaphorical mirror in front of her.
Maybe when she wakes up, she’ll understand what it’s like. To be haunted by the proof that something happened. To live with the emptiness it leaves behind.
Eventually, the U disappears, drenching the last clean spot on my washcloth in red.
I resist the urge to climb into bed with her.
Instead, I pluck the Polaroid picture off the bed. Going back to my destroyed collage, I use one pushpin to press the new photo into the wall.
Once done, I step away from the wall to pull the covers up her body. To an outsider, it might seem like I’m taking care of her.
I’m not.
Elowyn’s no use to me if she catches a cold.
That’s all this is.
Liar.