Octavia
I step into the studio classroom for Foundational Figure and Form, one of the few modules I actually like, trying to leave the war in my head outside the door.
And he follows me in.
I spin around. “What the hell are you doing, following me around like a stray? Don’t you have a class to be in?”
His smirk widens, pleased with himself. “Following you?” he says lazily. “Baby girl, look around.” He spreads his hands. “Same class. What a small world. Rather charming, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re telling me you’re taking Figure and Form?” I hiss.
“Indeed I am,” he purrs.
I want to stab him. Right here. Right now. Preferably in the neck. I am aware I sound like a broken record even to myself, but still…
“Aren’t you a bit old to still be in class?”
He just shrugs.
I turn and drop into a seat at the back. A few students sit scattered around, and every single one of them chooses to stare intently at their paper instead of at me… or at the beast who’s still shadowing my every move.
The psycho settles into the seat beside me.
I am not even surprised anymore.
I let out a slow breath, close my eyes, tilt my head back, and summon all the patience in the entire world.
“Are you always this worked up?” he asks.
I open my eyes slowly. Without acknowledging his question, I say, “There are plenty of empty seats. Go take another one, preferably far from me, and even more preferably in an entirely different building.”
His smile turns wicked. “Can’t do that.”
“You can’t manage the walk across the room?”
“I can,” he says easily. “I just won’t.” His eyes move over my face, intense, hungry… possessive in a way he has absolutely no right to be.
Before I can reply, the lecturer enters, fortunately or unfortunately, and clears his throat loudly.
His eyes catch on the man sitting next to me, and an unreadable expression crosses his face, but it passes just as quickly. He shakes his head and launches straight into instructions for warm up sketches.
The room settles.
I pull out my sketchpad, my pencils, the piece of charcoal I favour, and begin. My hand moves on instinct, the lines coming easily.
From beside me, I feel him shift, reaching into his bag. I see him take out his materials, and from the corner of my eye, I notice him sketching.
Curiosity kills the cat.
And at this point, it is bound to get me killed sooner rather than later.
And yet, I look out of the corner of my eye.
He is sketching, his focus fixed entirely on the page.
And he is… good.
No, he is better than good.
His lines are confident.
It is ridiculous, honestly. He has only just started, and already you can tell it is going to be a masterpiece.
And I am not just saying that out of the goodness of my heart. I hate the man, after all. I would rather die than compliment him.
But I cannot deny it. I have seen hundreds of artists.
But this… this is raw talent.
I turn away quickly, refusing to let my shock show, but I swear his smirk is so wide I can practically feel it.
I start sketching furiously, willing myself to focus on my own piece.
“Like what you see?” he murmurs.
I ignore him.
“You can stare if you want. Take a proper look,” he adds. “I don’t mind being admired.”
I do not reply.
He leans closer until I can feel the heat of him. “I’ll take what I can get. Even your accidental glances,” he murmurs. “Because it still means your eyes are on me. And that’s what I live for. You.”
I clench my teeth so hard it is a wonder I don’t crack them.
I release my paper for a second, reach into my bag, and find my earbuds. I slip them in and set my music from my phone.
Full volume.
It even triggers that ridiculous alert about potential hearing loss, but who cares. I cannot listen to this psycho speak for another second.
The song starts—Medusa by Amanati—and for a moment, there is peace.
Short lived, because the fucker reaches out, plucks one earbud free, and slips it into his own ear. My head snaps towards him.
He hums. “Oh. This is deep. The bass, though.”
I imagine blood pouring from his neck.
“We even have the same taste in music,” he smirks. “This is one of my favourites. Soulmates, that’s what we are.”
“Are you pretending,” I say flatly, “or are you genuinely this irritating?”
And because I should not say another word to him, but he has a way of dragging it out of me, I add, “This is the first time you’ve heard this song. It is very much not your favourite.”
“How well you know me already,” he says, his eyes dark.
“But it’s not my favourite because I know it, baby. First time I’ve heard it,” he shrugs. “It’s my favourite because I see how much you love it, how much it calms you. So everything you like, I do. Everything that makes you happy does the same.”
“Are you, like… obsessed with me?” I blurt suddenly.
“Why, of course I am.” His eyes drop to my mouth, and a look crosses his face that I don’t dare examine too closely.
I should be worried.
In fact, I am.
“You do remember that I tried to kill you,” I say.
His eyes glaze over, as though he is reliving that night, and the glint behind his smirk tells me the memory pleases him entirely too much.
“Best day of my life, gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And feel free to draw blood whenever you like. It means you’re touching me, and I’m starved for your hands on my body.”
“I might slip too deep this time and accidentally kill you,” I smirk. “Or not so accidentally.”
He leans in close. His pencil and paper are forgotten somewhere on the desk. He brushes my hair off my shoulder.
I don’t move.
Damn it, I don’t even breathe.
“I’m hard to kill,” he murmurs. “Same as you. Many have tried. To be honest, I never cared. I may even have welcomed it, somewhere deep in my dead soul.” His voice drops.
“But now… now you’ve woken my dead heart.
For the first time in what feels like forever, it’s beating again.
So you can try to kill me, love, but you’ll never succeed. You know why?”
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because now I have a reason.” His breath is warm against my ear. “You are my reason.”
I still don’t move for a few long moments, but then I snap out of it and push him away. He only watches me, amused.
“You are delusional on top of all your other issues, which, by the way, are many. We are strangers, and here you are saying things you absolutely shouldn’t.” A slow smile touches my lips. “And just so you’re warned, I will try again.”
“To kill you, that is.”
I turn back to my sketch, his deep laugh attracting too much attention, but the lecturer doesn’t dare silence him.
As the music blasts in my left ear, I let myself get lost in my art.
Glad I have this, for now at least.
Because the moment I was born the older Bellanti heir, my path was written in stone.
And whatever life threw at me later only deepened it.
I am what I am meant to be.
So this—this academy, this chance to study art—is a rare kind of freedom.
My father cares little about what I study, as long as I meet all the other requirements meant to prepare me for the future, such as combat training and a long list of other things.
So I will let myself enjoy this last year I have left here, despite Adelaide, despite Markev, and despite all the other chaos thrown at me.
I allow myself this brief moment of freedom, where I can do my favourite thing in the world.
Art and Death.