Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hunter Cabin, Blue Valley Woods
Iclasp the mug of tea in front of me like it’s a gun. This afternoon, tea is my excuse to venture into Phantom’s territory.
I haven’t been forbidden from entering Phantom’s art room, which is where he escapes after lunch. But he also hasn’t invited any of us into this backroom.
I need to be certain that Phantom is as into this pack as the rest of us are, before I risk everything for it.
I shiver at the chill in the air.
It is snowing more heavily today. I am dressed in a warm steel blue sweater and pants that are a close enough match for my eyes to prove how fanatically Phantom observes me.
Joker has boasted that his Alpha is a brilliant artist.
This morning, when we were working out together in the gym, Joker told me, “Skipper never wanted to become a soldier. Never judge an ex-SEAL by their cover, yeah? When we were kids, I was the jock. It’s why I was bought as a Companion to push Phantom away from art and train him into swimming and track.
He must have known that his Chief Alpha would force him to follow the family tradition and join the military.
It broke part of him, however, when he had such a talent as a painter.
But his family already thought that he was broken because of… ”
“His approach to ruts and then becoming non-speaking…?”
Joker’s eyes flashed with fury. “His dad gave him an ultimatum: Join the SEALs with me, or I’d be sold to someone else, while he’d be sent to the Alpha Center to be fixed.”
Horrified, I stared at Joker. “But he was the son of elites.”
“Aren’t you the daughter of elites? Phantom and I made our own family together, however, and now, his art belongs to him alone. He paints and then, when we need to move on, he burns what he’s created.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Is it? Creativity is part of our souls. Even if no one sees his paintings but him…even if they only exist for the moment that his brush meets the canvas…they’ve meant more than a billion plagiarized slop creations spat out by computers.
They have eased his demons more than I can ease mine.
I pretend that I can fuck mine out of me.
But that’s a lie. I guess we both know that about ourselves, right? ”
Uncomfortable, I tighten my hold on the hot mug.
Joker may not be able to quieten the ghosts of his past through his frequent fucking, although I know that the moment we had together in the pool last night led to a type of serenity that I’ve never felt, but knowing that Phantom bonded his Beta because he wanted to and not out of duty may help.
I need the same reassurance.
Has Phantom offered to become our Chief Alpha as a way to keep me here as a willing prisoner? Because we are key to his mission to free Joker’s sister?
Or is he truly obsessed with me?
I have never had another Alpha, apart from my brother, respect me. I don’t know how to feel about it.
I appreciate it that Phantom hasn’t ordered me around or put demands on me.
His presence has been supportive, rather than controlling.
He is everything that I didn’t know I was looking for in a Chief Alpha.
Before I allow myself to trust, however, I must be certain.
I knock the door with my elbow.
That’s polite, right?
Then I boot the door open and push into the art room.
“I have tea.” I lift the mug.
Phantom raises his head from behind the easel at the far side of the room beside the broad window.
He arches his brow like he doesn’t believe my bullshit excuse.
I can’t see the mounted canvas that Phantom is working on. Muted gray light slants in through the glass, which is flecked with paint, across Phantom and the easel.
Phantom is dressed in a simple, long-sleeved black t-shirt and fatigues with chains looped at the pockets. His sling has been inked with cute kittens, which Bird drew on as revenge for me, while Phantom was sleeping.
I am almost certain that Phantom was only pretending to be sleeping.
When he woke up, he peered at the sling. Then he dragged Bird into a hug, before doing a thumbs up.
Asshole.
How did he turn our prank on its head like our gesture was romantic?
I glance around the art room, intrigued. It is as disciplined as the other rooms in the cabin are.
I don’t know why I expected this single room would somehow be a chaotic, creative mess. I have been reading too many of Mars’ romance books about artist Alpha heroes.
Along one wall are shelves that hold ranks of paint tubes, some of them fat and full, while others are squeezed flat. Brushes soak bristle down in jars.
Finished paintings are stacked on the opposite wall. They are leaned carefully with their corners protected by cardboard and scraps of cloth.
Next to Phantom is a small worktable, which is covered with a wooden palette with fresh paints, rags, charcoal sticks and pencils, along with a sketchbook.
I scrunch up my nose against the sharp stink of turpentine and oil paints, which smother other scents.
When I swagger toward Phantom, he points his brush at me to stop me. Then he points it significantly at the shelf.
“I get it.” I take a detour to balance the mug of steaming tea on the shelf next to a dulled palette knife. “Don’t let it go cold.”
Phantom looks at me like he’s expecting me to leave.
Na?ve for an ex-Seal Commander and bounty hunter.
When I attempt to approach him again, however, he waves me away with his brush.
“Do I need to be trained in brush language now too?” I quirk my brow.
Phantom points the brush at me as if to say that I am understanding it just okay already.
Fair.
I respect Phantom’s request and wander to the wall, which is stacked with paintings. “Can I look through these?”
Phantom hesitates but then nods.
I scan across the paintings.
They’re all of Joker.
They are extraordinary.
Haunting.
I can’t look away.
Unsteady, it is as if something has shifted inside me, and I don’t even know what. I didn’t expect that Phantom’s art would hit me like this.
Phantom can’t simply paint. He’s fucking devastating with his paint brush.
He wields it like a dagger that will pierce your heart.
Joker looks back at me from the paintings, as if from a dozen mirrored shards. Some versions of him are fierce, others seductive, but a surprising number are gently domestic.
Romantic. Happy. Sleepy. Terrified.
Every private moment is captured.
Phantom has found a way to strip back the mask that Joker wears to keep him safe in the world. These paintings expose Joker, but somehow, manage to hold him safe within their canvas arms.
I shake, staring at the paintings like I’m staring deep into Joker’s soul.
Joker has it so wrong.
Phantom is equally as obsessed with the Beta as the Beta is with him. Nobody could paint someone like this repeatedly with such understanding, unless they loved them.
Finally, I’m starting to understand that love…or pack bonds…doesn’t simply mean one thing. It can look different for each person.
And for Phantom, it looks like Joker laid bare in these paintings.
“These are remarkable.” I turn back to Phantom. “I can’t draw. As a kid, I was never allowed crayons or shit. The closest I come to drawing is when I make plans to assassinate someone and need to draw up the plans of a building or someone’s movements. That has its own type of creativity.”
Phantom gives me a long, considering look. Then he waves the brush, finally inviting me to join him behind the easel.
Finally, a brush sign that I don’t mind following.
When I step around to stand at his shoulder in front of the easel, I suck in a shocked breath.
I stare at the half-completed painting.
“It’s me…” I murmur.
In the painting, I’m just waking up from sleep. It’s that moment, which I love as well, when I’m tangled in the sheets, but I feel safe because I know that Phantom is in the bed with me.
Before I joined the Hunters, I spent my life with a dagger tucked underneath my pillow, waking up with a sharp jerk, instantly on the alert.
Of course, I still have my courting dagger from the Hunters under the pillow.
I haven’t forgotten all my survival skills.
But now, I wake with a soft slowness, of which I didn’t realize I was capable. I am not shocked awake by adrenaline but rather, with a wash of gentle contentment.
I am not weary, preparing to face a bleak day. Even though I am being hunted, while trapped in this safehouse, I want to wake up.
It’s a new sensation.
And Phantom has captured all of that in this half-finished painting.
My eyes prick with tears, as I study my own face. I barely recognize the soft smile and happiness in this woman’s eyes.
Who is she?
How long has Phantom lain awake, waiting to watch me wake up to capture this moment? To know it this intimately?
To paint me as exposed as he has Joker?
How can I doubt Phantom’s obsession and devotion now?
Phantom grabs my arm and drags me onto his knee. He gently presses the brush into my hand.
I try to push it back into his. “Oh no, didn’t you listen to my story about my lack of art skills?
Once, Mars encouraged me to help him with his drawing, when he secretly sneaked into my basement.
I meant to draw a dog, but it ended up looking like a rabid tiger about to devour the sweet picture that Mars had drawn of his mom.
Possibly, it was my subconscious coming out. A psychiatrist would have a field day.”
Phantom chuckles but still guides my hand toward the painting with a look that says trust me.
I lose myself in the depth of his green eyes.
I do trust him. I never expected that I could.
When I turn back to the painting, my throat is suddenly thick with tears, as together, we sweep the finishing touch to the curve of my painted cheek.
“I did it.” Happiness washes through me. “I didn’t ruin it. I didn’t destroy it.”
I can’t look away from the fresh paint.
I snatch my hand away, before its shaking can smear the paint.
Phantom lowers the brush, balancing it on the palette.
His eyes are sparkling behind the mask.
“This is how you see me?” I ask.
Phantom signs: Sometimes.