Chapter 27
The Bride
T he days blur into a rhythm that feels dangerously close to domestic.
We share meals, sometimes sprawled across the couch, sometimes at the counter while Jack cooks like it’s the most natural thing in the world. To my surprise, he has quite a few culinary tricks up his sleeve.
He hasn’t chained me again. He hasn’t locked me back in the cage. And that’s somehow harder to digest. When he shackled me, I knew my limits, knew the rules of his game. Now… I don’t.
He just lets me drift through his house, making changes for me like I belong here. I catch myself choosing his mug for coffee like it’s mine, and the terrifying part is how quickly it starts to feel… normal. Like I really do belong. But I don’t. I can’t. This is his life, not mine.
Thoughts keep me awake, circling like vultures. Little things keep popping up. Like, I don’t even remember the last time I saw my phone. I’m not sure why I haven’t considered that until now.
The last time I saw it was at my apartment.
I wasn’t allowed to bring it to Governors Island for The Black Wedding, so it’s been gone for more than two weeks.
It’s still plugged into the charger on my nightstand.
Or maybe Shelby’s been by and has it. It seems unlikely, but she does have a spare key.
Ugh, thinking about h er sends my blood boiling, and I clench my fists. I still can’t quite wrap my head around her betrayal. It burns like acid in my veins, and I want to lash out at anything within reach.
How could she set me up like this? Even if Jack lords something over her, she should have found a way to warn me. It’s fucked up. And I know that until I talk to her, my thoughts will just keep circling around the betrayal of it all. Which is exactly why I’ve kept pushing it down.
Right, so back to my phone. Yeah, the device really doesn’t matter. Because I know the sad truth; no one’s missing me. The only person who would care knows where I am, and she’s the extent of my social circle.
For most of my life, I thought solitude was my choice. Now it feels like I’ve been buried alive in it.
The house is too quiet, and my body itches for movement. I slip out of bed and pad barefoot to the kitchen. I reach for a glass, fill it at the sink, and bring it to my lips.
That’s when I see it—a flicker of motion just beyond the window, quick enough to make me doubt it, but strong enough to set my pulse racing. Someone’s out there. Watching. I tighten my grip on the glass, but before I can lean closer, a sound rips through the house.
A scream. Deep, guttural, ripped straight from a nightmare.
The glass slips from my hand and explodes on the tile, water splashing over my legs as shards scatter across the floor. I don’t care. I’m already running. My chest heaves as I stumble back into the bedroom, heart hammering harder with each second.
Jack thrashes in the sheets, sweat slick on his skin, his voice torn and broken. “Ruby! I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” His arms lash out like he’s fighting invisible chains, and the sight freezes me in place.
I’ve seen him calculated, cruel, and controlled. But I’ve never seen him like this—undone, begging, the sound so raw it doesn’t seem like it belongs to him. For a second I just watch, trapped in the storm of it. Then I climb onto the bed and grab his shoulders, shaking him hard.
“Jack! Wake up!” My voice cracks, panic rising with every second he doesn’t.
His chest heaves, his face twisting in agony.
“Jack!” I shout again, shoving harder this time . His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, and then lock onto mine. For a moment he doesn’t breathe. Neither do I.
His whole body jerks as if he’s surfacing from drowning. The sheets are damp with sweat, his breathing harsh, ragged. I keep my hands on his shoulders even when his eyes clear, afraid if I let go he’ll fall straight back into whatever nightmare dragged him under.
“Ruby,” he rasps, the name torn out of him. It makes my stomach knot.
“She’s not here,” I whisper quickly. “It’s me. Eve.”
His gaze sharpens, and something unreadable passes through it—grief, guilt, relief—before he looks away, dragging a shaking hand across his face. “Dr. Death,” he rasps. “The name has never seemed more fitting.”
I still feel the tremor in his chest beneath my palms. For once, Jack Knight looks human. Breakable.
“You were dreaming,” I say quietly.
“Having a nightmare,” he corrects bitterly, letting out a humorless laugh. His throat works as he swallows, eyes still unfocused. “Some ghosts don’t need sleep to haunt. They just wait until you’re too weak to fight back.”
I hesitate, then I ask the question I’ve been wondering about. “Is that why you drink so much?”
His jaw locks, and for a long moment I think he won’t answer. Then, almost too low to hear, he says, “I haven’t had a drop in days.”
“Tell me about her,” I say, adjusting myself so I’m sitting next to him on the bed.
“Ask me anything but that,” he rasps. He turns and pulls me down so I’m lying next to him, my head resting on his chest and his hand trailing up and down my back.
His heart beats so hard I practically feel the thump against my ear. It’s humbling to know he’s being so open about his vulnerability. It makes me want to soothe him. I turn my head and place a kiss on his naked chest, just above his scar.
“When did you start painting?” I ask softly.
His hand stills on my back. “How do you know I pa int?”
I freeze, realizing my mistake. “Umm…” I hesitate, then decide on honesty. Tilting my head upward I meet his gaze. “I found your canvases in the attic.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. “You’ve been exploring.”
“You left me alone,” I remind him. “I was bored.”
I expect anger, but instead, he just looks tired. “You liked them?”
The question catches me off guard. “Yes,” I admit. “They’re… raw. Honest.”
His eyes search mine, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me—doesn’t trust that anyone could see his work without judgment. That hurts more than I expect. I slide my hand higher on his chest, over the steady pound of his heart.
“Paint me,” I whisper.
His brows lift, suspicion flickering there. “Paint you?”
“Yes.” I push myself up on one elbow, holding his gaze. “If it’s honesty you put on the canvas, then I want to see how you see me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “That only works if you’re bare, wife. No fabric between me and the truth.”
Heat rushes up my neck, but I don’t look away. “Okay.”
This man has already seen every part of my naked body, in various poses, so it shouldn’t be a big deal to let him paint me in the nude. Yet it feels poignant.
He studies me for a long moment before sitting up, reaching for the lamp, adjusting it so the shadows carve across the room like strokes of charcoal. Then he gets out of bed, pulling me with him.
Jack’s touch is uncharacteristically careful as he peels his t-shirt over my head and pushes my thong down my legs. Cool air ghosts over my skin, turning my nipples into hard peaks. But he doesn’t notice.
He reaches beneath the bed and drags out a battered wooden box streaked with paint.
When he opens it, brushes, tubes, and palettes come into view. I can’t believe this was hiding in the most obvious place I never thought to look.
“Where do you want me?” I ask as he pulls out a stretched canvas, the surface already smudged with fingerprints and stre aks of old color.
He props it against the wall, then drags a chair forward and sets it against the wall. Next, he starts pulling out brushes and mixing colors, careful with how much he pours onto the palette. I marvel at the calm radiating from him while he prepares. It truly is a sight to behold.
Once he seems satisfied that he has everything, he comes back to me. “Lie back down on the bed.”
Jack’s hands are warm as he adjusts me. Cradling my jaw, he tilts my face toward the light. Then he drags my leg up higher, so it bends, exposing more of me.
His eyes go dark as he takes a step back and observes me. “Perfect,” he rasps, kissing my cheek before sitting down in the chair and hauling the canvas onto his lap.
The scratch of his brush fills the silence, broken only by the rough catch of his breath each time his gaze drags from the canvas to my body.
I hold the pose, though my thighs tremble from restraint, my nipples tight from exposure. His eyes eat me alive as much as his strokes capture me.
Finally, the brush slows, then stops. Jack sets it down, leaning back in the chair with the canvas balanced against his knees. His gaze lingers on me, then flicks to the painting.
“Come here.”
I push myself up, every muscle tingling and aching from being held in place. Then I pad across the floor, the heat of Jack’s gaze scorching every inch of bare skin. When I look down at the canvas, my throat tightens and my breath stutters.
Rather than being greeted by the me I see in the mirror, the woman on the canvas is the one he sees. She’s stretched out in shadow and light, every curve of her body alive. I raise my hand and move a finger close enough to almost touch the wet paint.
I wordlessly trace the strokes in the air, committing each one to memory. I’m in awe of witnessing the way Jack sees me. It’s intimate, powerful, and truly humbling. Every part of me is turned into something raw and defiant. Devastating. Beautiful. Terrifying.
My nipples are flushed in a tender pink, my cunt caught in strokes of shadow and light, more suggestion than detail—but en ough to make my stomach tighten.
But what really gets me are my eyes. They’re not just gray—they’re soulful and… I don’t even know how to describe it. I’m both an enigma and known. A powerful foe and frail.
“You made me…” My voice falters. “…look like I matter.”
“You do.” His reply is rough, dragged from somewhere deep. And I believe him. Because of every stroke, every careful color blend, I believe that I not only matter, but that I’m coveted.
Something reckless takes over. I drag my finger through the thick orange paint on the palette, then swipe it straight across his chest.
Jack jerks, eyes flashing. “You want to play dirty, wife?”
Before I can answer, he’s on his feet, carefully leaning the painting against the wall. While he has his back to me, I dip both my hands into the palette—orange and pink slicking my palms before I press them hard to his bare skin, painting his shoulders and back with my handprints.
He lets out a playful growl and reaches for me, but I sidestep him. “Why am I the only one naked?” I complain.
He bares his teeth at me in a predatory smile as he lowers his boxer briefs, freeing his very erect and pierced cock. I lick my lips, momentarily distracted. That’s all the time he needs to advance on me, grabbing handfuls of my ass.
“Then let’s play,” he rasps.
I slide my paint-slick hands down his back, clutching his ass and hopefully leaving perfect handprints. I’m just about to reach for his cock when I think better of it.
“Wait,” I murmur. “Isn’t paint bad for the skin?”
He chuckles. “Normally, yes. But this is actually cosmetic-grade body paint.”
I arch an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?”
Shrugging, he explains, “I bought some when acrylics started giving me allergic reactions.”
That’s so not the answer I expected. It’s so normal and anticlimactic.
“It does mean the paint isn’t the best. It cracks and fades easily, but it’ll do for now.”
I pout, not happy that my pretty painting isn’t o f the forever variety. “Oh, okay.”
Grabbing handfuls of my ass, he pulls me flush against him. The paint I’ve just smeared all over him easily transfers to my skin.
“Don’t worry,” he says, voice low and filled with gravel. “I’ll use proper acrylics or oil one day, wife.”
“Good,” I say, loving the sound of that.
His cock twitches against my stomach. “But tonight,” he rasps, “I’ll paint you with more than colors.”
His mouth claims mine, hard and consuming, while his hands slide between my ass cheeks to cup my cunt from behind. I gasp when his fingers find my wet opening.
“Fuck,” he groans, swirling my clit. “You’re my masterpiece.”
I claw at his shoulders, leaving streaks of color across his muscles as he pushes me backward onto the bed. The sheets stain instantly beneath me, handprints and smudges marking where I writhe under him.
He looms above, body streaked with color, cock gleaming with pre-cum at the tip.
“Jack…” I choke on his name as red-hot want courses through my veins. “Fuck me. Now.”
Either he hears the deep need in my tone, or he reads it on my face. No matter the reason, he doesn’t keep me waiting. He lines the head of his dick up against my opening and slowly thrusts into me.
He growls low in my ear as my hands find his ass again, pulling him deeper. Our bodies slap wetly, every thrust driving the mess between us into something primal. The sharp scent of paint mixes with sweat, musk, and sex until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.
I arch under him, crying out as another wave builds inside me. His hand catches my throat, tilting my face toward the canvas propped on the wall. The woman painted there looks wild, defiant, terrifying—and I realize we really are one and the same.
“You’re fucking everything,” he groans.
I let out a sound that’s half moan, half sob. Because I think I finally get it now. The emotion spreading through my chest is… love. And if I’m honest, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who feels it.
The way Jack painted me isn’t how you paint a str anger, or even your enemy. Only someone you love can make you put pieces of yourself, of how they see you, into the paint. And that’s exactly what Jack did.
I open my mouth, almost letting the three little words slip from my lips. But then I clamp my lips together. I refuse to be the one to say it first.