Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Time blurred into a strange duality. By day, the mortal world grew colder, twinkling lights and the cheerful, distant sounds of Christmas carols filling every shopping center.
Each decoration felt like a taunt, a ticking clock counting down to…
what? The end of the year? The end of my chance with Skye?
But by night, I lived in a perpetual, sun-drenched summer within the painting.
My world was reduced to salt-kissed air and the man who held my heart.
The cake had been a key, a proof of concept, but my self-doubt was a lock I couldn’t pick.
A frantic search through my old art supplies had only yielded dried-out paints and brittle brushes, a pathetic arsenal for someone trying to rewrite reality.
That night, we’d simply curled together on the beach, sharing the renewed cake, my head resting on Skye’s chest as I listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, trying to memorize it against the coming dawn.
The frustration of it followed me into the waking world. I listlessly wove through the supernatural market with Sylas, a bored shadow at my side, when I saw it: an art supply shop.
I hesitated, but hope bloomed in my chest. “I’ll just be a minute,” I said, pointing to the shop.
He quirked a sculpted brow but followed me inside.
I beelined for the clearance bin, taught from a young age not to waste expensive supplies on mediocre talent, and fished out a small pack of serviceable but cheap brushes.
The rows of acrylic paints taunted me from the main aisle; the price per tube had tripled since I’d last bought any.
A single container of cobalt blue now cost the same as a month’s worth of ramen.
I hovered between a tube of turquoise blue and shell green, holding them up. Which captured the exact stormy-sea hue of Skye’s eyes? Both were a shade too bright, too artificial. I’d need to mix them with something darker… but who could afford a full palette?
“There’s a box,” Sylas announced as he held up a lavish set of 56 colors, its price tag screaming triple digits.
“That’s… more than I need,” I said, my accountant’s soul recoiling. Or deserved. My pathetic skills didn’t warrant a full set.
He ignored me, tossing the paint set into a handbasket he’d procured from nowhere. “And you’ll need these.” He added a massive roll of brushes—an entire arsenal of filberts, rounds, and liners that probably cost more than my monthly electric bill.
“Sylas—”
“Do you even own an easel?” he interrupted, his gaze scanning the store before landing on a sturdy wooden folding model.
“No. You don’t. I’d have seen it. Your apartment is the size of my closet.
” He hefted the easel under his arm with a finality that sent my blood pressure spiking.
“One for the office and one for home, yes?”
I blinked at the growing pile of supplies. “This is too much. I don’t need any of this.”
“Of course you do.” Sylas added a handful of glittering gel pen packs to the heap. “Xavier will be thrilled with the detailed records.”
“He has detailed records. I file them myself.”
Sylas let out a low growl of frustration. “I mean records with soul, kitten. Not just names and dates. The story. The how. Do you think a mating bond is a transaction to be logged? It’s a song to be remembered.”
I stared at him, utterly lost. “A… what?”
“Writing isn’t your medium. Fine. It’s not mine either.” He swept an arm over the overflowing cart. “But this is. So, we’ll stock what you need to record the things that actually matter.”
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, but he was already moving, adding a dozen more items to the cart, and paid with Xavier’s black card without a second glance.
As we stepped back into the crowded market, laden with bags, the unasked question burned on my tongue. “Sylas… why?”
He didn’t break stride. “I think watching you draw might be the only thing that actually soothes Xavier.”
“But I’m not very good.”
Sylas shot me a sidelong glance that was equal parts amusement and impatience.
“By whose standards? And since when has that ever mattered to magic?” He offered no other comments, but as I clutched the bag holding the paints, I knew.
They weren’t just giving me hints anymore.
They were equipping me for a war only I could fight.
Perhaps telling me directly would hinder my ability to break the curse, but either way, I let out a long breath and decided I’d find a way to paint Skye free.