Chapter 31
My stomach heaves from how hard I’ve been sobbing, and I only have a moment to turn my head before I vomit.
Thankfully, they’d removed the cloth from my face a few minutes ago.
I’m leaning off the side of Phantom’s bed, and it’s not until my hair falls into my face that I realize my hands are bound behind my back.
I’d been crying so hard beneath the head cover initially that I hadn’t noticed Phantom do that.
By the feel of the restraints, I think they might be shoelaces because they’re definitely softer than rope.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Phantom curses, running over to hold my hair and rub my back as I retch. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think I’d scare you sick. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
When I’m finished, I spit bitter bile and Phantom wipes my mouth for me with a clean rag.
When I look up to meet their gaze, mine is armed with daggers.
They jump backward in surprise, losing their balance and landing hard on the concrete floor.
At least I know I can look menacing, even if I don’t feel like it.
The studio is such a mess it’s almost unrecognizable.
During my panic attack, I also hadn’t registered whatever Phantom had to have done to cause all this.
Tubes of paint, spray cans, and paintbrushes litter the floor.
Several new, unfinished canvases lay randomly scattered around the room as well.
Paint is streaked and splattered all over the place, but especially on Phantom’s graffiti mural, ruining what was likely years’ worth of work, all in a single day.
I want to ask what happened to the room, but there’s a more important question to ask right now.
“Why did you do that to me?” I ask Phantom, my voice hoarse.
Phantom’s forehead wrinkles with guilt. “I had to think of something fast. A way to keep you from leaving.”
“And the best solution you could think of was to put a sack over my head—and what?” I cry. “Abduct me?”
They shrug, but their pale neck flushes. “It was just a pillowcase,” Phantom explains quietly. “Like I’d ever put a sack anywhere near—”
“Oh, shut up,” I growl through clenched teeth. “You really think I care about semantics right now?”
They don’t answer me, and instead kneel to clean up my sick from the floor. After they finish, they stand to grab a bottle of water from the bedside table. Despite my rage, I let Phantom pour the water into my mouth. I’m too parched to resist their assistance.
“You realize how fucked up this is, right?” I ask after I swallow. A raging fire alights in my gut that has nothing to do with the lingering nausea. “You fucking kidnapped me!”
“Of course I do,” they reply, averting their gaze. “But I had to keep you here so you could listen.”
“Listen to what?” I yell, my voice echoing off the towering brick walls around us. Phantom winces. “I’m pretty sure I don’t owe you a damn thing anymore.”
“You’re right.” They cross their arms over their chest. “But I hope you’ll listen to my story anyway.”
“I have one condition, though,” Phantom continues, a flicker of remorse flashing across their expression.
I’m not even going to dignify that statement with a response, so I just glare at them.
“Paint with me while I tell you everything.” They jerk their masked chin over their shoulder. It’s then that I take in the huge canvas at the other end of the room, at least six by seven feet in size.
“I’m not doing anything with you, and I’m not going to stick around and listen to your sob story either. Whatever your reasons, it’s never going to justify what you’ve done. This is absurd!”
“Maeve—”
“No,” I scream, perhaps louder than I’ve ever screamed in my life.
The reality of my situation comes crashing down on me.
Feelings of betrayal arise, swift and painful, almost knocking the breath from my lungs, and though I was utterly exhausted a moment ago, adrenaline floods my veins again, every muscle in my body trembling with renewed energy.
“How could you do this to me? How could you? You’ve ruined everything!
All I wanted to do was love you and help you get better, and you—you . . .”
Phantom looks close to tears, but I don’t spare them more than a fleeting glance. I need to go. I need to run. I need help.
“Help me,” I wail, wishing I could cry more, but I can’t. I’m too dehydrated. “Help me, please! Someone! Anyone!”
Phantom shakes their head. “You know no one’s going to hear you, Maeve.”
I laugh darkly, cursing the twisted hands of fate as I clumsily stand from the bed. I’m wobbly on my feet, but I don’t topple over. “Right. What a lovely place to build your little lair—the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“You’re right,” they say with a savage look in their eyes. “You’re stuck here now, and you are going to listen while I tell you how I ended up like this.”
“I won’t do it,” I shout defiantly, breaking eye contact and frantically searching for a way out. All I need is something sharp to cut my restraints and then something blunt and heavy to knock Phantom out with.
“Ah,” they say, turning to walk confidently toward the canvas. “But you will.”
“You’re an arrogant ass,” I hiss.
“In general? Perhaps. But I’m especially confident that I’m right about this—about you.
Know why?” They don’t give me time to respond.
“Because tonight, together, we’re going to make a masterpiece.
No matter how you feel about me right now, you’ll stay for that.
For the art. And because you know that, together . . . we can make magic.”
I hate myself for the traitorous flutter Phantom’s words inspire in my stomach.
I’ve dreamed about painting with them since I first found them on social media in high school.
Don’t get me wrong, these past few weeks of painting beside them have been glorious, and I’ve become a better artist because of it.
But to paint with Phantom, alongside them, on the same canvas . . . that could very well be magic.
I can tell Phantom’s smirking at me because of the way their eyes are glinting with mischief, and something else. Something painfully close to pride.
“What do you say?” they ask, striding toward me once more. They pick up two paintbrushes from the table and tuck one behind an ear. The other they hold out to me like a sword, hilt first, blade ready for battle.
My gaze flits between the brush, the canvas, and Phantom.
My throat suddenly tight with emotion, I ask, “And you’ll let me go when we’re done?”
I can’t trust them anymore. I can’t. I won’t. I shouldn’t. So why do I want to reach out and take the brush? Why are my lips curving into a smile? Is there something wrong with me too?
Maybe Phantom’s not the only one who’s sick.
Their eyes nearly glow with the promise. “Tonight, we’ll live as we’ve never lived before.”
And stupidly, I completely believe them.
Phantom cut me out of my restraints, which were in fact shoelaces, after I agreed to their crazy scheme, and encouraged me to freshen up in the bathroom.
I’m brushing my teeth when I hear Phantom turn on some music.
After only a few notes, I realize it’s the same song we danced to not even a week ago, the first time I came here.
Despair blooms, the petals black and frosty, in the pit of my stomach when I think about how much has changed since then.
We’d been so happy, so ready to commit to each other.
But I didn’t even know who Phantom was back then. They were as good as a stranger.
That might change tonight.
A few hours ago, I would’ve been excited by that prospect, but now all I feel is dread.
“What are we painting?” I ask as I exit the bathroom, refusing to let the fear show on my face.
Phantom studies me as they lean back against a table full of paint tubes.
“Well, I’m baring my soul to you,” they say. “So, I think it’s only fitting to depict that in the painting as well.”
“How so?” I ask.
“I’m not sure yet,” they admit. “Let’s just start and see where the muses take us.”
“I’ve never done that before,” I confess.
They question me with an arch of their eyebrow.
I purse my lips before explaining, “I always plan the composition out before I start painting.”
They nod, turning back to the canvas. “Let’s just wing it tonight.”
“All right,” I agree. “Then start talking.”
When their gaze returns to me, all I see is fear; the sight of it in their eyes all too familiar.
“Pick a color,” they instruct, pointing to the table with their paintbrush. “I guess the only place to start is at the beginning.”
I grab a wooden palette and a tube of paint the color of amethyst. Phantom’s eyes glint their approval of my choice. I can’t stop myself from rolling my own back at them.
They begin their tale while they prepare their own palette, opting for colors that complement my own.
“I was born into a family of artists. My mother is a successful sculptor and my father is a well-renowned painter. So, it’s no surprise they only had one measure of value for me.
” They pause as they hold their paintbrush poised before the canvas, their expression dark and deeply uncomfortable.
This won’t be easy for them to talk about, I realize.
“Sounds similar to Emmy’s family situation,” I say quietly.
Phantom nods. “Yeah, the Archibalds are my parents’ friends.”
I narrow my eyes at them. “Then how doesn’t Emmy know who you are?”
They peer sidelong at me as they ask, “You don’t want me skipping to the end, do you?”
I roll my eyes again and start painting. Since the canvas is huge, I make my brush strokes wide and sweeping.