40. Chapter 40
Three days alone in the middle of nowhere does strange things to a person.
The first morning, I was angry. Pacing and muttering to myself like if I said his name enough times he might materialize out of spite.
By the second night, the anger dulled into something heavier because I had read his files. It had sat in my chest and pressed down until breathing felt like work.
By the third day—
By the third day, I was bored.
And bored is a dangerous thing to be.
I stand in the sunroom with my arms crossed, staring at the blank canvas propped on the easel ahead of me. Light pours in through the wide windows, spilling over the forest beyond in greens and golds that are alive. Birds darting between branches like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
The audacity of it all.
Alex gave me everything I could need to paint and it is all still here from the last time I painted. Sighing, I cross the room, dragging a stool behind me and pick up a brush.
I don’t sketch anything out, just as I hadn’t with the first painting in this room. I go straight for the black with heavy, thick strokes that eat the white of the canvas whole. I drag the paint across with force, bristles scraping rough like they’re protesting.
I find I really don’t care.
I reach for the orange next. Not the bright, playful kind. It’s deep and violent, mixed with umber and red until it looks like something that devours. I layer it in jagged streaks, letting it bleed and clash.
Beautifully dangerous flames.
They rise fast under my hands, licking upward in sharp tongues that twist and curl. I paint them reaching, hungry and uncontrolled. And beneath all that hunger is the shape of a house I’ve never seen or known.
Subtle at first, just lines emerging through smoke. A roofline buckling with windows that are blown out hollow. I don’t bother making it modern or pretty, I just make it seem old.
Wooden siding with narrow windows. A structure that looks like it’s been standing too long and knows it’s about to lose. I add thick smoke that coils into the sky, swallowing everything above it. The flames wrap around the structure like arms, pulling everything inward.
Then I stop.
I stare at it and know exactly what’s missing.
People.
Not faces or bodies, but just silhouettes.
Two dark shapes emerge in the windows, one fairly larger than the other.
I paint them so that neither can escape, and my hand trembles as I do so.
I don’t create gore or spectacle, but the presence is there.
Just the unmistakable truth that someone is still inside and that it will forever be where they rest.
And then everything is finished.
I step back deeper into the room that smells like oil paint and feels so much like satisfaction. I’m not sure how much time has passed other than the sun has begun to dip, for quite some while.
The painting being framed by the dying sun is a brilliant thing.
It’s not a metaphor or accusation, but me telling Alexander that I see him without ever opening my mouth.
So, I leave the canvas exactly where it is—centered and impossible to ignore—and wash my hands slowly in the kitchen sink.
Paint stains clinging to my cuticles as I grab a rag to get them completely clean.
I’m in the middle of a sandwich for dinner when I hear the car. The tell-tale tune of gravel crunching outside that is loud in the quiet. My stomach flips in anticipation as I shoot to my feet, just in time to watch the door slide open.
He offers me a soft smile and my eyes dart to the sunroom, which of course he follows. His curiosity must get the best of him, neither of us exchanging words as he slips within to see what I have done.
I follow him into the room and look to him, not particularly fond of what I find.
The longer he looks at the painting, the less controlled he becomes. It’s not inherently noticeable, but it’s a tightening in his jaw, a stillness that feels coiled instead of calm.
Something tells me I might have fucked up.
“You chose fire.”
I swallow. “It felt honest.”
He turns his head to look at me over his shoulder, and I still at the sharp way they land on me. Alert and very unamused.
“What were you hoping I’d feel?” He asks, barbed.
Oh, so I’ve finally found what makes him tick.
I push away from the doorway, stopping just short of him. “Whatever it is you’ve been trying not to.”
He turns fully then and the space between us crackles.
“That was deliberate,” he says quietly.
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “So was leaving me alone with your past.”
Something breaks behind his eyes.. I wouldn’t say it was explosive or loud, but just enough. He turns back to the painting and stares at it for a long moment.
Then, without warning, he reaches for it.
I tense, expecting him to tear it down or rip it apart, but he lifts it off the easel with controlled precision and carries it toward the stone hearth.
“Alex,” I start.
He doesn’t look at me as he sets the painting inside the fireplace, props it carefully against the grate like it deserves a ceremony. I gasp as he strikes a match and tosses it in. I jerk forward as the painting catches flame.
“Alex!” I bark as the canvas curls and blackens as the fire climbs, devouring the image piece by piece. Orange eats orange. Smoke twists upward, thick and bitter.
I watch the house collapse again, this time for real. And not once does Alex look away from it. He just stands there, watching it burn until there’s nothing left but warped wood and ash.
“You crossed a line,” he rasps out.
“Funny. That's exactly how it felt when you kidnapped me from my life.” I counter.
“This was personal.”
“My point exactly,” I snap.
He turns to me and opens his mouth, then closes it.
“How does it feel?” I ask quietly. “To have someone dig where it hurts. To have your past dragged into the light and set on fire.”
His gaze flicks back to the ruined canvas, then to me.
“That was not your right.”
I laugh and throw my hands up. “You kidnapped me, Alex!”
Silence crashes down between us as we face off right there in the living room.
“That doesn’t give you permission—”
“To understand you? Because you sure as hell didn’t ask my permission when you decided to dissect my life.” I interrupt.
He stiffens, because of course he sees the hypocrisy. It’s right there between us in big bold letters, a neon-fucking-sign.
“This is different,” he articulates carefully.
“Is it?” I press. “Or are you just not used to being the one on the table?”
His breath hitches as my words find their mark perfectly.
“You asked me once what scared me. You asked me what I felt and you demanded answers.” I gesture toward the ruined painting. “Congratulations. Now you know how it feels.”
For a long moment, he says nothing at all. He just stares at me like he can’t figure out if he wants to strangle me or not. I’m not foolish enough to put it past him.
“I didn’t expect you to go that far,” he admits finally.
I lift my chin and shrug. “Seems like a miscalculation on your part.”
A corner of his mouth twitches, it’s not in amusement or approval though. Something else. Something I think looks suspiciously like respect with a wee dash of wariness.
“You wanted me to bleed,” He observes.
“No, I wanted you to feel. You taught me there’s a difference.” I correct him.
“You won’t do that again.”
I snort, meeting his eyes without flinching. “If you don’t want to be shot, don’t leave me alone with loaded weapons.”
Something finally shifts between us. It isn’t quite resolve or us being healed, but it is definitely a settling of sorts. A reminder to him that I am not without my teeth, even if he sought to defang me before dragging me here.
He steps past the wreckage in the fireplace, past me, and heads toward the sink. I watch him as he washes his hands of the act.
Touchy subject, indeed.