3. Macabre Doppelgänger
MACAbrE DOPPELG?NGER
LEV
L eviathan Marks collected people like paintings, but it wasn’t as sinister as it sounded. The trick was to search for that haunted look.
Broken souls made the most beautiful art, and lovers. With any luck, Asher Blakely would be the crown jewel of his collection.
Lev had discovered Blakely after stumbling upon a portrait of an older man looking at his hands. The man’s face was leathered with wrinkles, and the artist had etched guilt and self-loathing into each weary crease. Even the way he wrung his hands captured his regret.
The painting of the guilty man had been like looking into a mirror, because Lev was guilty. He wasn’t a martyr mistakenly blaming himself for a death he had no control over. He’d killed a man.
There was so much blood on his hands that every time he painted with red, he thought of him .
After discovering Asher Blakely, Lev had devoured every painting. The lad was brilliant, a rare, once in a lifetime find, talented with oil and acrylics, his watercolors as alive as the ocean.
His pieces ranged from erotic to ethereal, but Lev fancied his darker work, the grim pieces burdened by fear and loss, as if he’d used shadows for paint, and bled melancholy and rage from his brush.
There was something dark and sad and broken inside of Blakely, and Lev wanted to poke it with a stick and see what happened next. Would he bite?
Lev couldn’t wait to knock down Asher’s walls and rummage through his thoughts until he figured out where such haunting art came from.
Lichenmoor Hall still slept. Lev sat at the dining table with his sketchbook open in front of him and a cup of tea beside it.
The lit crystal chandelier turned the world outside the windows black. He sensed the man hiding in the darkness on the other side of the window in front of him more than he saw him.
“Go away, Silas.”
A figure appeared behind his reflection in the window. He spun in his chair and found Asher, hazel eyes wide, black hair tousled, one hand clutching the doorframe as blush bloomed on his cheeks.
Asher’s hands and feet were too big for his slender frame, like a puppy that hadn’t grown into his paws yet. Yum. He wore the same black hoodie from the night before over gray joggers.
Bloody hell. Those joggers left nothing to the imagination. He lifted his gaze from the imprint of Blakely’s cock. He had no business looking at him that way. Shagging a twenty-five-year-old sounded exhausting.
Lev closed his sketchbook. “You’re up early, Mr. Blakely. Couldn’t sleep?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” Asher rubbed the back of his head .
Lev stood. “I’m delighted to be interrupted. You must be hungry. Come, let me feed you.”
The blush on Blakely’s cheeks flushed a darker rose against his light brown skin. Lev’s mouth salivated at the prospect of crafting his color palette.
“This way.”
Would Asher follow? Most people worshipped Lev like a vengeful deity, the art god everyone claimed him to be. But not Asher. The clever exchange they’d parried last night was the most fun he’d had in ages.
Lev strode toward the kitchen, and there it was—the creak of a floorboard, then footsteps ghosted behind him. At one time, an entire squadron of staff had toiled away to prepare food for lavish parties in the kitchen, but it was far too large for Lev’s solitary existence.
He passed Asher a glass of fresh orange juice from the fridge. “Start with this. The damp and mildew are murder on the immune system. Not to mention all the bubonic plague knocking about.”
At Asher’s horrified expression, Lev laughed and added, “I was joking.”
“What a relief.” Asher yawned once, twice, and thanked him, then brought the glass to his lips, and tipped his head back, stretching the column of his neck.
Lev busied himself with the kettle. His only interest in Asher was artistic, regardless of how seductive the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple was as he drank.
Asher was far too talented an artist for Lev to consume like the others. Coaxing raw je ne sais quoi from his shell would be Lev’s sacrifice to the art gods.
“How do you take your tea?” Lev asked.
Blakely’s nose twitched. “Not at all.”
“How woefully stereotypical, pretty American.”
Blakely rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing more stereotypical than an Englishman with a penchant for tea.” His tongue was sharp but his tone was playful.
“I have espresso. How does a Caffè Americano sound? It’s espresso diluted with water.”
“I know what it is.”
“Forgive me for assuming.” Lev crossed to the shiny espresso machine. “Allow me to introduce you to Desiderio. He’s a persnickety fellow, but makes the finest espresso I’ve tasted this side of Italy.”
“You named your coffee maker?” Dimples winked at the corner of Asher’s mouth. Not a smile, but Lev would take it.
“Desiderio is far more than a coffee maker.” Lev removed the beans from a ceramic canister and dumped them into the grinder. “Naming the appliances keeps the loneliness at bay. The refrigerator goes by Frederick.”
He pressed the button on the grinder.
Asher startled. “Why are you up so early?”
“I do my best work before the day begins.”
Blakely nodded. “Me too.”
“Milk?”
“Yes, please.”
“Such manners.” Lev passed him the mug.
Asher took a small sip, and hummed.
“It’s not too hot, is it?”
Asher swallowed. “No. It’s perfect. Delicious, actually. My nonna brews espresso for the family every morning, but it’s very strong.”
“I imagine tending cattle requires more caffeine than painting.”
Asher’s brows lifted.
“I told you I’m a fan,” Lev said. “Though I must admit I mostly follow you for your animals.”
While Asher had never shown his face on social media, in between art-related posts, he’d shared photos of cows frolicking in the daisy-dotted fields of his family’s cattle ranch, a black and white American Paint horse named Holstein, and his Italian grandmother’s cooking.
“Is there anything you’d fancy for breakfast?” Ordinarily, Lev lost himself in art for hours without need for food and drink, but he’d have to be careful not to burn Blakely’s candle from both ends. “Luna’s filled our larder to the rafters, so I likely have whatever you fancy.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense. No one should tour my studio on an empty stomach.”
“Your studio?”
“Yes, but you mustn’t tell the others. Early birds and worms and all that.” Lev pulled a jar from the fridge. “You can try my current fixation—vanilla bean yogurt from Iceland.”
Whenever Lev discovered a new favorite, he consumed it until he hated it. The same was true for men. He channeled all of his passion into one man until he couldn’t stand to look at him.
He spooned the yogurt into a bowl and topped it with pomegranate pearls and granola.
“I don’t need all this.”
“Let me treat you.” He plunged a spoon into the bowl and pushed it toward him. “Go ahead and give it a taste.”
Asher slid the spoon between his lips. Lev was jealous of a spoon.
“Well?” Lev asked.
“Thank you, sir.”
Asher dropped his gaze, cheeks turning scarlet. Christ, he was a delicious paradox—bratty one moment, and blushing in deference the next.
“Sorry,” Asher said. “I’ve studied you for so long it’s going to take me a while to get used to calling you Lev.”
“That’s alright, lad .” Lev winked. “I wasn’t asking for gratitude, by the way. I wanted to know if you like it.” He nodded to the bowl in Asher’s hands .
“Oh.” Asher licked his lips and lifted his gaze. “It’s really good.”
“I think so too. Take it with you.” Lev led the way before he licked the yogurt Asher had missed on the corner of his mouth. “My studio is this way.”
Father’s studio took up the top floor of the north wing. Arched windows flanked the two exterior walls and stretched toward a ceiling of herringbone stone.
Lev stepped aside and held one of the double doors open. “Guests first.”
“Thank you.” Asher squeezed past with plenty of distance, yet Lev felt his presence as if he’d grazed him.
Asher’s hair stuck up in the back like he’d slept fitfully, or been fucked all night in missionary. He didn’t get very far across the paint-spattered hardwood before he stopped.
“Where are your paintings?”
“This is Lucian’s old studio. I’ve kept it the way he left it.”
“You paint in your father’s studio, surrounded by his work?” Asher asked, though not with derision.
“It gets the most sunlight.” Which wasn’t saying much. The brightest light at Lichenmoor most days was a melancholy shade of gray.
Asher walked along a wall of Father’s paintings and paused in front of a portrait Lev couldn’t bear to look at, yet couldn’t take down. Lev clasped his hands behind his back and joined him.
Silent seconds passed while Asher examined the painting, gripping his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger as he mused .
“This one isn’t Lucian’s.”
“How can you tell?” Lev asked in shocked wonder.
An art critic Lev despised had claimed that the same bolt of lightning had struck the Marks bloodline twice. His work matched Lucian’s so closely, even the most devoted collectors guessed incorrectly.
Lev wasn’t an artist. He was a copy machine.
After Father died, Lev’s work had fetched even higher prices, and he hadn’t kept a single coin, pouring it all into philanthropy. So how on earth had Asher Blakely been able to tell?
Asher handed Lev the empty bowl, and traced the painted line of Silas’s clavicle with a hovering finger.
“Your shapes are sharper.” His finger climbed Silas’s neck and paused over his jugular. “You’re more playful with color, filling veins with indigo instead of blood.”
His focus moved to Silas’s face. “Such bright eyes could easily look flat, but you’ve embedded emotional depth without losing their iridescence, and forced so much vibrance into pale paper skin, it’s like light scattered through a prism.”
Beautiful words. Lev wanted to believe them, but he couldn’t accept praise on a painting that was meant to be his punishment.
“You certainly are a fan,” Lev said.