21. Syn
21
SYN
Cleaning methodically, but quickly, I try to push the nerves aside. I have absolutely no idea what Declan requires of me, and that thought sits really uneasily on my chest. Finishing up, I turn the shower off and get out, drying off with a fluffy black towel, which I then wrap around me, tucking the end and staring at the dress I left over the side of the sink. Deciding to leave it there, I hesitantly open the bathroom door to see Declan standing, staring out of the window.
“You’re clean?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Better.” He turns. “Come with me.”
I know better than to ask where to, so I dutifully follow him as he opens the bedroom door and steps out into the hallway. Curious, I let him lead me to the room next door, and he pushes the door open. Ushering me inside, I see we are inside a studio with a hardwood floor, a chaise longue, different easels, and painting paraphernalia along the cabinets built into the sides of the room.
Declan takes my hand and draws me closer to the chaise. “Take the towel off and lie down on your front.”
Nervously, I do as he says, handing him the towel when he holds his hand out for it. His eyes rake over my body, but he turns away from me abruptly, leaving me to get on the chaise, face down.
“Are you going to paint me?” I ask.
He stares down at me. “No, I paint pain, not people.” He turns away again and whips the cloth off the canvas in front of him. I can’t see it from the side, but I’m wildly curious. I don’t think asking to see it will go down very well, though, so I remain quiet. I rest my head on my arms, wondering what I’m doing here if he isn’t going to paint me.
He doesn’t leave me waiting long. He crouches down and brushes my hair back. He reaches behind him and pulls out the thin blade from last night.
My breath hitches, and I instinctively arch my back to get up, but he places his hand flat on my back and pushes me down.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Much.”
“What are you going to do?” I whisper.
Declan smiles, it’s almost dreamy as he presses the top of the blade into my skin at my side, just under the swell of my breast. “I’m going to use you to paint a masterpiece, Synthia.”
“Excuse me?” I squeak.
“Your blood,” he murmurs and drags the blade down slowly, cutting into me. “It will be a thin cut. It might scar, but you can always look at it and remember me.”
“Wait. Declan.” Panicked, I try to move again, but he digs the point of the blade in deeper.
“Shh,” he whispers, pressing his free hand to my back again. “You are to bend to my wishes, Synthia.”
I whimper as he draws the knife edge down my skin, stifling the hiss as it burns. He rises and places the knife in the back of his waistband, under his tee, and picks up a paintbrush and palette.
Watching him with wary eyes, feeling my blood trickle warmly down my side, he bends down to dab the paintbrush in my blood before turning to his canvas.
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The metallic scent of my blood fills the air as I lie completely still, terrified to move. The paintbrush makes soft scratching sounds against the canvas as he works, occasionally returning to collect more of my blood from the thin cut along my side.
He remains completely silent. Focused on his work. I’m too scared to utter a single word in case he decides this cut isn’t deep enough. He squeezes slightly, and I wince, drawing in a deep breath and trying not to make a noise as he dabs the brush into the wound.
He works meticulously and methodically. I think he has forgotten I’m even here. I’m simply his paint, nothing more.
Closing my eyes as lying here, doing nothing, is making me tired after two restless nights. The haze of exhaustion drags me under. Every now and again, I’m pulled out of it as he squeezes the wound to extract more blood, and I flinch at the brush tip prickling the open wound.
Waking suddenly to the strong smell of antiseptic, I turn my head, wondering where I am. It’s dark out; the moon is high, shining through the enormous windows. I’m still in Declan’s painting studio. Moving to sit up, I moan as I pull on the tight wound, which has healed over slightly now and has been disinfected. The soft blanket falls away from my body as I rise and look around. I’m alone.
The studio is different in the moonlight—softer, less intimidating. My eyes drift to the canvas that holds my blood, moved further away, closer to the window. From this angle, I can only see its outline, not what he’s created.
Curiosity moves me forward. Clutching the blanket around me, I move quietly across the hardwood floor. The painting comes into view gradually, and when I can finally see it clearly, my breath catches in my throat.
It’s breathtaking. A landscape that somehow captures both violence and serenity. Mountains and valleys rendered in various shades of my dried blood, a small figure standing alone at the edge of a cliff. The loneliness radiates from the canvas, hitting me with unexpected force.
It’s haunting. Beautiful in a disturbing way.
I know he couldn’t have used just my blood to create it. Then I remember the gash on his inner arm, and I let out an involuntary sob. Reaching out, my fingers hover over the canvas, but I don’t touch it. I just stare at it for a long moment before I drop my hand and turn away.
Walking quietly across the cool floor, I slip out of the studio and head back to my room, opening the door to see the room bathed in a soft glow from the lamp near the bed. I let out a low moan as the smell of home-cooked food hits my nose. My stomach growls loudly, and I shut the door, crossing over to the trays laid out at the dressing table.
Lifting the fancy domed silver lids, I see beef stew with dumplings, fresh crusty bread and steaming vegetables. There are bottles of water and pop lined up, and I reach for a can, opening it and taking a deep gulp. The fizzy liquid burns my throat in the most delicious way. I pull out the chair and sit down, ravenous. I devour the stew, tearing chunks of bread to soak up the rich gravy, savouring each bite despite my eagerness to fill the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.
I finish my meal and set the tray aside, my hand drifting to the cut on my side. It’s not deep, but it stings when I touch it. He’d cleaned it meticulously and applied some kind of antiseptic that left the skin around it tingling.
Moving to the bed, I let the blanket fall and examine myself in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. The cut runs about four inches along my side. It’s thin but precise, like calligraphy on my skin. I trace it with my fingertip, hoping he was happy with my albeit, rather forced offering.
Turning from the mirror, I see the white silk negligée from yesterday, washed and dried and laid out on the bed. I slip it on, the cool fabric settling against my skin like water.
Despite my extended nap in the studio, my eyes are heavy again after replenishment, so I crawl into the soft, sumptuous bed, revelling in it now after a stiff and slightly scared night last night. Sighing deeply, I close my eyes, determined to get more sleep before I’m called upon to do who knows what to who knows who.