Monster
The shadows in the corners seem to draw breath, expanding and contracting with a slow, organic rhythm.
And the man in the painting watches me.
I should have stared blindly at the floorboards, counted the excruciating minutes, and obeyed the brutal rules. That would have been safe.
Instead, his piercing eyes hold me fast, looping an invisible cord around my chest and reeling me in.
I rise from the chair, my bare feet carrying me forward across the freezing floor, drawn by a magnetic current I don’t understand, primal, desperate, and entirely reckless.
I stop right before the portrait. Up close, his sheer scale is staggering.
He is even more magnificent than he appeared from afar, every heavy brushstroke shimmering with an uncanny, restless vitality, as if the artist captured not just his physical form, but the raw, beating pulse of his soul.
The painted shadows behind his massive shoulders shift just a fraction, mimicking the rise and fall of a hidden chest.
You are losing your mind. It is just oil and canvas. A vicious monster. Two hundred years in the grave.
My fingers reach out, trembling violently as they brush the carved edge of the gilded frame. His gaze tracks the movement of my hand. I could have sworn I felt a phantom vibration ripple through the wood.
I think about a man like him, who could destroy all my captors, revenge me. Serve the four Masters head on a silver tray for me. Send them to hell. And I would be free.
This man is a butcher. A legend of pure terror. And yet…
My hand drifts lower, leaving the frame. My breath hitches, tumbling out of my lungs in a shallow rush. The heat in my chest liquefies, spilling downward and pooling into an aching throb low in my belly.
I stare up at him, at the ruthless slash of his jaw, the arrogant curve of his lips, the wild, midnight-dark fall of his hair, and let my imagination run wild.
I imagine what it would feel like to be swallowed whole by someone like that.
Someone impossibly powerful. Dangerous. Someone who would rip the world apart before letting anyone lay a hand on me.
I rub my face against his hand on the painting. I can’t reach his mouth.
My fingers find the hem of my sleep gown, slipping beneath the fabric, and I don’t even try to stop them.
I touch myself right there in the freezing, shadowed office, writhing under the unblinking gaze of a dead monster. It is absolute madness. Utter disgrace. And I’m powerless to pull away.
The pleasure builds sweet and agonizing, and in the fevered theater of my mind, those are not my fingers.
They are his. Heavy, calloused hands gripping my waist. His formidable body pressing me into the wood.
His eyes, those impossible, burning blue eyes, watching every shudder, consuming every gasp.
A small, high-pitched whimper escapes my parted lips as my head falls back against the empty air.
And the shadows in the room deepen, swallowing the weak candlelight.
At first, I pretend I don’t notice. I’m too drowning in the heat, the building friction, the desperate, clawing need for release.
Then the ambient temperature plummets, dropping straight to freezing. The candle gutters and chokes out. An absolute chill washes over my skin, followed by an unmistakable weight, a massive, ice-cold presence wrapping around my bare shoulders and waist like invisible, possessive claws.
My eyes snap open, my breath catching on a scream.
The portrait has changed. The man in the frame has shifted.
His head is tilted downward, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
And his eyes, God, his eyes, are no longer painted glass.
They burn with a terrifying, liquid fire, equal parts ice and inferno, looking down at me with absolute, undeniable recognition.