Chapter 9 - Ilana
Painting helped.
At least, it helped for the first few days. Maybe a few more.
The art room smelled like linseed oil and fresh canvas, the kind of scent that always managed to quieten my mind.
The brushes glided easily beneath my fingers, mixing soft whites with warm yellows, hints of rose and pale peach turning into light.
I kept painting light. Warmth. Hope. Everything I felt and did not feel at the same time. Something bright and soft and safe.
Something that looked nothing like my life.
Avgust had gone all out on the supplies.
There was nothing missing in my new studio.
Every supply I could think of was here, and the room was nothing short of a dream for someone who loved painting.
My first instinct was to relive the trauma I had been through with the help of art, but I did not have the courage for that.
Not yet. Right now, I simply wanted to escape.
It felt good to create again and lose myself in color instead of fear.
To breathe without thinking about shadows, weapons, strange men, locked doors, or—
Avgust.
I bit the inside of my cheek and forced the thought away.
No. Absolutely not. I had already been spending too much time thinking about him, my hands itching to paint the crevices of his face.
I dragged my brush across the canvas again, swirling brighter strokes, anchoring myself in the movement.
Then the door opened, and my brush slipped as if on instinct.
The sound of him entering wasn’t loud. It was just the quiet click of the door, followed by the soft drag of boots on the floor, but it sliced through my concentration like a blade.
I didn’t turn. Couldn’t turn.
My pulse leapt, traitorous and immediate.
He didn’t speak at first but simply stood there, watching me, and I could feel the weight of his stare down my spine.
“What are you working on?” His voice was low and smooth, like a growl softened into something conversational. My fingers tightened around the brush.
“An abstract piece,” I said. “This was the last concept I was studying and working on before I graduated, so the idea came to me immediately.”
“What is it about?” he asked, standing too close.
“Feelings. My feelings displayed on a canvas. I am using softer colors to represent light because you say that warmth and happiness reflect me. I am just trying to paint myself without everything that has tainted me in the past few weeks.”
“That is brave of you, Ilana,” he whispered in the empty room while my mind shifted to his footsteps. Slow and controlled. Like a predator deciding how close he wanted to get.
“It’s meant to represent positivity.”
“Mm.” He was closer now. Too close. “It looks like you.”
That made me whip around.
He stood not a foot behind me, tall and unbending, all strength wrapped in a powerful suit which was clearly custom-designed for him. His eyes skimmed over my flushed cheeks, my messy hair, my paint-stained fingers, and something in his gaze suddenly heated.
“I don’t look like a painting,” I said, voice soft and unsteady.
“If I knew how to paint, Ilana, I would sit in front of a canvas all day drawing every inch of you.”
My breath hitched.
I turned back to the canvas because looking at him felt reckless. It did things to me that I could neither name nor understand.
“You’re… annoying.”
He stepped behind me again, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his chest through my back.
“And you are terrible at ignoring me,” he murmured.
“I am not ignoring—”
“You haven’t looked at me for more than two seconds since I walked in.”
My throat tightened. He was right.
“That is because I am focusing,” I said, trying to sound clever but failing.
“No. You’re avoiding.”
To prove him wrong, I turned towards him too fast, just enough to smear paint on my cheek.
He caught it instantly. And before I could react, he lifted his hand.
Slow and deliberate. His thumb brushed against my cheekbone, and I froze, my skin tingling.
A low hum started under my ribs, making my knees grow weak.
He casually wiped the paint away, his fingers gentle, too gentle for a man who killed without hesitation. The pad of his thumb dragged lightly across my skin, slow enough that my breath trembled.
“Messy,” he murmured.
“It’s paint,” I whispered.
“Still messy.”
“This is my art studio.”
“Doesn’t change anything.”
His thumb lingered a second too long, and my pulse leaped again.
We were no longer talking about paint. We hadn’t been talking about paint from the moment he walked inside.
I stepped back before my body did something humiliating like lean into him or sniff his cologne.
I was tempted to sniff his scent. I missed it.
“Why are you here?”
“To check in on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re flushed.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“You’re flustered.”
“I am painting!”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Painting does not make you breathe like that.”
I wanted to throw something at him.
Instead, I set my brush down, grabbed a rag, and pretended to clean my hands even though they were already clean.
Anything to stop looking at him. Anything to stop thinking about how much my stomach was twisting and heat was pooling low in my belly.
But then he spoke again, the sound of his voice snapping every fragile barrier in half.
“Ilana.”
I looked up, and he held my gaze. There was no teasing in his eyes. Just intensity.
“How long will you continue to ignore me, Ilana?” he asked quietly, making my name sound like a prayer.
“I am not ignoring you,” I lied.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to—”
My throat tightened.
“I’m trying to stay sane,” I whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes. Something dark, warm, and devastating.
Before he could respond, I blurted out. “Can I ask you something?”
His posture shifted, alert. “Go on.”
“I want to send a message.”
His expression sharpened instantly. “To?”
“My eldest brother,” I said, offering no other details.
His jaw worked. “Why?”
“To let him know I am alive,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Not to tell him where I am and nothing about you either. I just need him to know that I am okay and I have decided to stay somewhere else for a little while so none of them panic.”
“Panic leads to questions.”
“I know.”
“And questions lead to problems.”
“I know,” I repeated, firmer.
He stepped closer again, slow and unforgiving. “And what are you offering me in exchange for this, Ilana?”
“I’m not—”
“Yes,” he said, voice dropping. “You are.”
I swallowed. “I just want one text.”
“And do you know what that might do? It might wake up your brothers, who are clearly asleep about your absence. I still don’t understand why you care about them when they are doing nothing to find you.”
“You don’t know that,” I said defensively, even though I knew he was right.
“Oh, but I do. If they were looking for you, the news would have reached me one way or the other.”
“I still want them to know I’m fine.”
“And what are you willing to do for it?”
His voice didn’t leer, taunt, or demand anything indecent.
I could sense that it was nothing but a test. A question that had nothing to do with payment.
But the tension between us was thick, hot, and undeniable, twisting the question into something else entirely.
Something I could not comprehend at all.
Something that crawled under my skin. Something that made my pulse tremble with fear and delight.
I looked up at him.
And for one second, just one tiny second, I stopped fighting myself.
Stopped denying it. Stopped pretending I didn’t feel what I felt.
Without waiting anymore or stopping to think, I closed the distance between us and kissed him.
For one breathless second, nothing existed but the feel of my mouth pressed to his.
A pulse of something wild in my chest. I’d meant it to be quick.
A reckless, impulsive kiss that would buy me time, buy me a message, buy me space to breathe.
But Avgust wasn’t the kind of man you touched without consequences.
“Ilana,” he whispered the moment I pulled back, and his hand slid behind my waist, strong and deliberate, pulling me right back into him.
A low sound rumbled from his chest, and he kissed me back, as if he had been waiting for it.
His mouth was hot against mine, decisive, deep, turning my soft attempt into something fierce and all-consuming.
My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight as if that could anchor the rush of heat flooding through my body.
His other hand found the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheek with startling tenderness right before his lips claimed mine harder.
I gasped.
He swallowed the sound with his mouth.
As the kiss changed into something warmed and hungrier, I found myself kissing him back against reason and every logical argument I’d rehearsed.
My hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping tight, letting myself feel the strength coiled beneath his suit, the heat of his skin through fabric.
His tongue brushed mine, and I nearly melted.
And then suddenly—
He stopped. Just like that. It wasn’t cold or abrupt, but it felt as if something was being torn away from me.
Something I desperately wanted, especially since I could still taste him on my lips.
He placed his forehead against mine, breathing heavily as he still held me, but before I knew it, he withdrew touch as if I had scalded him.
“One text,” he said. “Just one.”
My breath caught. “You mean—”
“Yes,” he replied, cutting me off.
I swallowed, pulse hammering in my throat. “Thank you.”
He pulled back, eyes darker than before, sharper, heated with something I didn’t dare name.
“Don’t thank me,” he said, voice still tight. “I’m not doing this for your freedom.”
“Then why?”
“I’m doing this because you clearly want it, and lately it is becoming difficult for me to deny you things.”
“Thank you anyway.”
He extended his hand. “Give me the number.”
I did. He typed the message slowly, each word considered, each punctuation intentional.
I’m safe. Don’t worry. I will remain off-grid for a few days because I am going on a mini vacation. Will call soon. Ilana.
He held the screen in front of me. “Appropriate?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Perfect. It’s perfect.
” It was cryptic enough to alert Kliment that something was wrong.
I never talked like this, and I never went on mini vacations without informing someone in person.
This was my only hope. If he got this message, he would immediately know that something was definitely wrong and might come looking.
Avgust hit send, keeping the phone back in his pocket without another word. Before I could say anything else or thank him for what he had just done, he turned around and walked towards the door.
His voice came low, controlled, a command wrapped in restraint.
“Don’t kiss me again unless you are ready for what comes after.”
My heartbeat stuttered painfully.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Avgust didn’t even wait for one.
He left the room with a tension in his shoulders so palpable I almost felt guilty for causing it.
Almost. But the heat still thrummed through my blood, my lips still tingled, and my body still remembered the press of his mouth against mine.
The door clicked shut behind him. And I stood alone in my art room, every brush, every canvas, every streak of light on the wall suddenly feeling too warm, too alive, too charged.
Because I had kissed him.
And he had kissed me back like it mattered.