Chapter 32 The Black Knight
THE BLACK KNIGHT
DAMON
The canvas stares at me, blank and intimidating. I rub my weary eyes, sighing before I dip my brush and swirl the dark hue of green paint. I hesitate for a second before reaching out and marking the bare fabric.
My strokes are slow and methodical, each one building upon the last until something sensical emerges. It has to make sense. There must be an interpretation. A meaning. I brush on another layer of paint—and another, and another—and yet nothing makes sense.
I glance at the dozens of half-finished paintings leaning against the wall and back to the one in front of me.
Frustration grips me. They look the same.
Exactly identical. A jumbled mess of nothingness.
The only difference is the colors. The blacks, grays, and reds on my palette are untouched tonight.
But does that matter? Does that make any difference at all?
It feels the same. It feels hollow and empty and so fucking meaningless.
I slam the paintbrush down on the easel stand. God, this is ridiculous. Why am I even trying? For what purpose? It’s useless. It’s—
My body jerk as my phone rings. I glance over at the screen and a jolt of adrenaline shoots down my spine. Emery. Clearing my throat, I answer the call. It’s late. She should be asleep.
“Hello?”
“You’re awake,” Emery hums softly. “I…” She swallows, tone surprisingly timid. “I can’t sleep.”
My shoulders relax at the sound of her voice, at the subtlety of her vulnerability. She’s nocturnal. Hardly sleeps. I can see her fatigue most days in the office. It’s been weeks. But this is the first time that she’s called me. This means something. There’s meaning.
“Come upstairs,” I whisper, bracing for impact. “I’ll make tea.”
“Roof,” she counters, unwilling to step into my home. “Let’s meet on the roof.”
My gaze floats to the bullets of raindrops pattering against the window. “Have you looked outside, Emery? We can’t.”
She pauses. “Oh.”
“Come upstairs,” I say again, wincing as I add, “Please.”
I can hear her thinking. I can hear her weighing the pros and cons.
It might seem like a simple request. Join me while we both fight sleep.
But it’s more than that. These walls aren’t neutral grounds.
They’re foreign, unfamiliar, and represent intimacy.
And although my hands have explored every bit of her body, although my tongue has tasted every inch of her skin, although I have felt her in ways that bind us for life, we have yet to be intimate.
Truly intimate. The kind of connection that reaches into the deepest parts of hearts and overpowers the limits of our minds.
“Emery?”
“Fine,” she finally says, clearing her throat. “But only for an hour, okay? Just… Just an hour.”
I’d take a minute.
The kettle bubbles as I lean impatiently on the counter, two mugs set to the side.
I’m nervous, so pathetically on edge. Even though she’s coming to me, it doesn’t feel like a victory.
It doesn’t feel like I’ve won something.
If anything, she’s just giving me a chance.
An opportunity for potential. But she’ll like it here. She’ll see it’s nothing to fear.
The elevator doors ping open, and my stupid heart hammers as she comes into view. In the dim moody lighting, her striking beauty stuns me. She’s a canvas that needs no paint. In her bareness, she carries meaning. She makes sense to me in a way that nothing ever has. Or will.
“Tea?” I offer her the mug, closing the distance between us as she studies my apartment with a wary eye. “It’s peppermint.”
“Thank you.” She blows into the blistering water, smiling as steam bounces against her fresh face. “Smells good.”
“Let me show you around.”
Emery trails behind me as I give her a small tour of the penthouse. It’s awkward. The energy between us is uncomfortable. Like we’re strangers. Like we don’t even know each other’s first names. She pauses in front of the paintings and tilts her head.
“Ignore those,” I say. “It’s just a whole lot of…nothing.”
She nibbles on her bottom lip as she leans forward to the freshly painted canvas.
“It’s a lion,” she hums, pointing to the purple strokes. “That’s the mane.” Her finger shifts to the center of the painting. “Those are the eyes.” She glances toward me. “Right?”
I frown at her. “A lion?”
“No?” She focuses on the painting again. “A peacock then?”
A tinge of annoyance buzzes in my fingertips. “It’s nothing, Emery. It’s just…paint.”
She lifts up a curious brow. “Art is never nothing, Damon. Paint is only paint when it’s in a tube.
” Her gaze shifts down the darker, older canvases on the floor.
She walks along their stacked path. “Once paint hits a surface, then it’s always something.
” She pauses in front of another painting.
“Like this one. Maybe to you, this is just a blob of black paint, but to me, I see a bicycle. I see a path. I see the trees and the wind and an empty seat where a rider should sit but isn’t.
” She cranes her neck at me. “Everything is nothing until you give it meaning. If you say it’s a bike, then you see a bike.
If you say it’s a ship, then you see a ship.
” She gives me a gentle smile as if sensing my discomfort. “It’s all about perspective, Damon.”
“A patron of the arts, I take it?” I ask, struggling to identify the bicycle within the painting. Why can she see it so easily, and I can’t?
She quietly chuckles into her mug. “God, no. I took a few classes in university, and I hated it.”
“Did you fail?”
She casts me a playful scowl as she continues her self-guided tour. “I don’t fail, Damon. I passed with flying colors.”
“But you hated it?”
“You can hate something and still excel,” she sighs, stopping in front of the entertainment unit, her gaze flitting across the various framed photographs of my family.
My past. “I don’t particularly enjoy the act of interpretation.
” She narrows in on an older photograph of my father and me at the racetrack.
“But that’s not to say I’m not good at it.
” She glances at me. “What kind of car is that?”
“I hope you’re happy Quinton,” I slur, taking a swig from a bottle of whiskey. “She left. You hear me, huh? She fucking left me so…” My eyelids flutter shut, my left hand slipping off the steering wheel. “You win, okay? You fucking win.”
“It’s 2 a.m., Cavanaugh,” he groans. “Go to fucking bed, mate.”
“Fuck you.”
Flashing red lights blind me. My body slams against the seatbelt, the screeching of tires deafening. Glass breaks, burning rubber fills my nostrils, blood coats my tongue.
“Shit…” I choke out. “I just—”
“Damon?” Emery frowns. “Did you hear me? What kind of car is that?”
“Vintage Corvette,” I whisper, voice hoarse and dry. I take a small sip of tea. “It was my father’s. A collectible.”
“Do you still have it?” she asks. “I haven’t seen it in the parking lot.”
“No.” I turn my back to the entertainment unit, hoping to lead her away from all my mistakes. “It was stolen a few years ago. Probably halfway across the country by now.” I nod down at the sectional, a glass chess set on the coffee table. “Do you play?”
Emery casts a cheeky smirk. “Are you a sore loser?”
“Why?” I ask as we sink down into the leather cushions. “Are you implying I’ll lose?”
She clicks her tongue, rotating the board so that I’m white. It should be the other way around. “I’m not implying anything. I am stating it as a certain fact—you will lose.” She cocks her head. “So, I ask again, are you a sore loser?”
I shake my head and release an amused laugh. “I’ve never lost a game, Miss Jones. My answer isn’t relevant.”
She rolls her eyes. “Who do you play with? Hmm? Josephine? Javier? Both of whom are under your employment?” My gaze playfully hardens. She grins. “They probably let you win, Damon. It’s the smart thing to do.”
I perk up a brow. “You’re under my employment as well, Miss Jones. I suppose my streak will continue.”
“It won’t,” she chirps. “I’m not feeling very smart tonight.” She nods down to the board. “Well? Go on and make your first move. May the best pawn win.”
I pick up a white pawn and move it forward two spaces.
Emery smirks and makes her move. Interesting.
As we play the game, I soon realize that Emery is not an easy opponent.
She’s cunning and tactical. Deliberate and precise.
Every time I think I’ve nailed down her strategy, she surprises me.
She keeps me alert, attentive, and focused. She makes me want to try harder.
As the pieces move across the board, pawns dying, knights falling, queens rising, I forget about everything else. I forget about the past. My mistakes. My failures. I forget it all.
Until…until Emery has me backed into a corner. Then I see it. Failure. Defeat. Right there, looming on the horizon. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
Emery smirks, placing my king in checkmate. “Commendable effort, Mr. Cavanaugh.” She tilts her head, reigning in a laugh as I smack my king down. “Easy now. It’s just a game.”
I shoot her a half-hearted glare. “I don’t enjoy losing.”
Emery snorts. “You and the rest of the world. We can’t all be winners.”
“I’m not sure what’s worse, a sore loser or a boastful winner.” I cock my head. “Rematch?”
She grins, suppressing a yawn. “Maybe another time. I should go home and get some sleep. I have an appointment in the morning.”
I glance down at the fallen king on the board. I don’t want to end up like him. I refuse. “Stay with me,” I whisper, swallowing. “Stay with me, Emery.”
“I don’t think—”
“Don’t think,” I breathe out. “Just for a second, don’t think.” I stand up, offering her my hand. “Let’s go to sleep, Emery.” My tone is soft and pleading. “It’s time to sleep.”
Her hesitation is palpable, evident in the way her breathing turns heavy and her brows scrunch up.
But then I see it. I see an image within the chaos.
A semblance of meaning. Of resolve. Her facial muscles relax, shoulders dropping.
My heart races as she takes my hand, leading for the first time with her heart, not her head.
We float to my bedroom, and I can feel every nerve in my body pulsing with anticipation. Her hand in mine is comforting, but her fluctuating demeanor sends shivers down my spine.
As we crawl under the covers, I draw her close to me, and she rests her head on my chest. We lay there in charged silence, the weight of her unease heavy on my heart. I wrap my arms around her, hoping to bring her some solace, some peace but her restlessness never fully dissipates.
At some rare point during the late hours of the night, I drift off to sleep and dream of her.
It’s always her. She’s a blank canvas, covered in textured fabric.
I try to paint her. Add color. Add dimensions.
Add depth. But the paint doesn’t stick. It drips off.
All of it. Every single stroke. I can’t paint her. She won’t allow it. Why? Why can’t I—
Perspective.
I wake up in a jolt, panting. Fuck. Taking a steadying breath, I roll over to my side, expecting to hold Emery but find air instead. I jerk upright, staring at the empty space. She left. She—
In the corner of my eye, I see a handwritten note on her pillow.
I pick it up. It’s just one word. One word that has the power of a thousand epics.
I smile down at the cursive letters. Maybe I’m not meant to paint her.
She’s meant to paint me. I trace my finger over the message. There’s meaning. She’s given it to me.
Rematch