Chapter Five
SIX MONTHS LATER
I swipe my hands against each other in an attempt to rid myself of the sawdust that coats my palms before checking the mailbox. When I pull out the paper, I quickly flip to the arts section, unable to pretend I'm not nervous to see how my most recent works have been received.
The gallery show was only a week ago, but it already feels like a lifetime of waiting. I step back inside and stand just after the doorway, letting the screen door hit me on my ass.
"And?" Bahtam asks, curled up by the fire. The wooden floor beneath him groans against his weight as he shifts.
"I haven't read it yet," I say, taking a deep breath. "Want to hear?" The paper is so fresh that the carbon ink is already staining my hands.
Bahtam doesn't answer but only raises a brow.
I smile.
“Sloane Vale’s latest exhibition, Giant of the Storm, confirms her place among the most important living sculptors working today—”
He moves, one thick coil of his tail disappears into the kitchen while his head rests beside my shoulder, chin nearly level with the paper in my hands.
I keep reading.
“Her monumental serpent sculptures display a startling intimacy rarely found in works of such scale. Though terrifying in size, the creatures possess an unmistakable tenderness—as if the artist knows them personally.”
I laugh under my breath.
"Do you find me terrifying, then?" Bahtam asks with amusement.
I remember when the minotaur cabbie came back to the cabin a week later, only to have my naga almost murder him. That's when I learned that mated nagas are incredibly territorial.
We've decided to stay secluded rather than risk any more alpha male outbursts.
“You send shivers up my spine," I joke. "Oh, if only they knew.”
The article continues for another page about symbolism and mythological influence before reaching the part that always fascinates people more than the art itself.
“Despite immense financial success, Vale continues to live in an isolated, deteriorating cabin deep in old logging country. Friends and collectors alike have reportedly failed to convince her to relocate, raising further questions about the artist’s increasingly reclusive lifestyle.”
Bahtam's tongue flits over the shell of my ear, cool and calming.
"I've got you trapped here, haven't I?" he teases. I've come to learn he really is much more sarcastic than I would have first guessed—as long as he's warm enough to function, that is.
"Happily trapped," I mutter and shake my head before continuing.
“Critics remain divided on the origins of the artist’s obsession with serpentine forms. Some interpret the work as environmental commentary, while others point toward ancient mythological traditions or subconscious explorations of desire and transformation.”
I laugh so hard I nearly rip the paper in half.
“Subconscious explorations?” I chortle. "My desire with you, and your form, are entirely conscious…but I suppose our story is really no one else's business, is it?"
His arm wraps around my waist. "My only business is with you."
I can feel myself blushing under his touch.
“Funny that all of this started with one risky choice.”
Offended, I get nothing but a sharp huff in return.
“Oh, don’t act like that! I wouldn't call sleeping with the injured naga under my cabin my most sound-of-mind decision… but we had to get you warm somehow, didn't we?"
Warm being an understatement.
That had been six months ago. I don't know what I expected Bahtam to do, but stay wasn't one of them.
Which is funny to think about, seeing as he's now somehow an integral part of my creative process. His muscular tail moves the giant downed pine trees to my workshop behind the cabin. He's one part forklift, one part giving lover.
Hell, I have galleries in three countries and thirty-foot sculptures in museums and critics calling my work transcendent while I still live in a shack that smelled permanently of sawdust and Bahtam—and to be honest, I wouldn't have it any other way.
The paper rustles softly as I lower it and glance out the front door.
Outside, one of the giant carved serpents curves upward through the trees, moonlight silvering its wooden scales.
“Do you think they’d still call the work profound if they knew the truth?” I murmur as he slithers closer, his scales warming against my skin. “No divine inspiration, no deep mythic significance.”
He pulls a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Just me getting emotionally attached after a one-night stand with a snake man?”
The cabin settled around us with soft creaks. All of this is thanks to Uncle Wendell, and I can’t help but wonder what he might think of Bahtam. I’d hope he’d appreciate the art he holds in the lines of his body, but maybe not quite as much as I do.
I say a silent thanks to my dear departed uncle.
"It was never a one-night stand for me, I knew you were my forever," he whispers as he kisses the back of my neck.
And somewhere along the way, what started as his reckless attempt to stay warm has turned into the first honest thing I’ve ever made of my life.
Including the art.