Chapter 18
“Someone wants to make a good impression,” Brutus taunts, sliding scones onto a tray.
I glare at his bald head, opting not to respond. I’ve been in everyone’s good graces for a few days now and I’m finding that I…like it. Ugh, I’m getting soft.
But it’s different to have them treat me like someone they actually want to see. I’m used to being avoided. I used to think that was a sign of power. Now I’m not so sure.
I can’t say I’m happy about the affect Stella is having on me, but I can’t say that I’m sad about it either. I’ve never felt welcome like this. Never felt wanted by anyone other than my parents. And Lord knows I messed that up too.
“Shut up, Brutus,” I snap, trying to shake off the direction my thoughts have taken. “Or my fist will make an impression on your face.”
Brutus just snickers, and I scowl, wondering if it’s wise for me to lose my edge. If no one believes my threats, then how will I keep them in line?
“Oh, don’t tease the boy,” Mildred says, patting my shoulder.
“Yes, leave him be. He’s doing something nice,” Franchesca nods. “We should encourage it.”
“Well, I, for one, think it’s sweet,” Maddy grins, her young face lighting up with innocent excitement. She’s practically bouncing as she carries the tea over to the tray.
“Yes, very sweet,” Christine says dryly, taking the tea from Maddy before it has a chance to slosh over. “Now stop jumping.”
“Don’t mind us,” Milly winks, nudging my shoulder. “We’re just excited to see you happy, Alistair.”
I stare up at her, unsure. Am I happy?
It’s hard to tell. It’s been so long, I’m not sure I remember what real happiness is. I’m sure I haven’t felt it since I was a young boy, back before Orrin became so dark and cruel.
Is that what this strange, calm feeling is though? Am I happy? More importantly, what caused it?
I’m lost in my head, trying to convince myself that Stella had nothing to do with it, when the staff pushes me out of the kitchen, a tray of scones and tea in my hands. I walk to the library, stubbornly telling myself that no woman could have such an effect on me.
I would be lying if I said that Stella hasn’t impacted me to some degree. But how much? Better yet, do I like it?
I have to admit that I feel lighter since she arrived, but I also feel less in control. And that, I don’t like.
Stella is standing on a short ladder when I enter the library. She has a wooden pallet holding blobs of paint in one hand and a brush in the other. The wall is half charcoal sketches and half painting and I’m taken aback when I see the progress she’s made.
When I asked her to paint something honest, I thought maybe she would paint more scenes from her childhood, or a place that made her feel happy.
What she’s done instead is a little more honest than I was shooting for.
The middle of the wall is still empty, but on the far sides, two faces are sketched out, their bodies only shown to their shoulders. Stella has begun painting the woman, the details so carefully done that she almost looks real.
Green eyes stare back at me from the wall, a worried look on the woman’s face. Wind tears at her hair and she bears bruises and cuts on her cheeks and collar bone.
But she’s not the thing that disturbs me.
The face on the other side of the wall is arrogant. He stares at me like the world is his for the taking, not a hair out of place on his head and a smirk tilting his lips. The only way to describe his expression is hungry.
“You’ve gotten quite a bit further.” I swallow, unable to look away from the half-started mural. I saw her sketches yesterday while we worked, but the man’s face had only been an empty oval then.
Stella, surprised by my presence, gasps at the sound of my voice, teetering on the ladder. I abandon the tea tray on the table and rush forward to balance her before she can fall.
It’s not until her eyes meet mine, my hands securely on her waist, that I realize how close we’re standing.
Over the past weeks, we’ve been careful not to breach each other’s physical space. It felt safer that way.
This…does not.
“Are you okay?” I ask, trying my best to sound unbothered even though I’m having a hard time drawing breath. Her waist is soft beneath my touch, and it has my ears going hot.
She nods, her eyes a little wide. “Yes. Thank you.”
“So,” I stutter, turning to the tray of scones so she can’t see my blush. “We’re the subject of your mural?”
“Oh, um…yes. You said you wanted something honest.”
“So, you thought you would paint me as you honestly see me. Conceited, greedy, self-obsessed.” I don’t mean to sound like such a jerk, but my strange reaction to her has me feeling off center.
“The painting isn’t finished,” Stella defends, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Don’t change it on my account,” I snap, hating the sound of my own voice as the words tumble from my mouth. But I can’t stop. Knowing that this is how she sees me cuts me to the bone. I thought we were making progress. “If a monster is what you see me as, that’s fine. I’m just glad I’m not the only monster up there.”
Stella’s expression turns from exasperation to hurt, her face going slack as I call her a monster. I want to slap myself for the pain I see in her eyes. All these weeks spent building bits of trust and now it crumbles under the weight of stupid words from a stupid man.
“Stella,” I sigh, noting the similarities between her and the self-portrait behind her. The Stella before me isn’t beautiful like the painting, but they both share the same expressive green eyes and wild hair. And even though the Stella I see is plain, I know the painting on the wall is accurate. Someone that beautiful on the inside must be beautiful on the outside.
“I didn’t mean that,” I groan, annoyed that I’m not more eloquent. “I—you have to understand that this is all new to me. I’m…” I glare at the sketch of my face on the wall. “I’ve been him for so long. Angry, afraid, and yes, greedy. Greedy for recognition and praise and affection. None of it came easily for me, so I took it.”
Stella’s expression is still hard and stubborn, but there’s empathy in her eyes. I hold onto that.
“I don’t try, Tigress,” I shrug helplessly. “I find the easiest way out, the shortcut to the reward. I take credit and reputations, stealing accomplishments that I didn’t earn. Believe me, I know who I am. But—” I growl, shoving my hands roughly through my hair. “I want to try…When I’m around you, I want to try.”
When Stella’s expression remains guarded, I take a cautious step closer. “So, I’m asking you—begging, actually—to be patient with me. Because it may not seem like it, but this is me trying.”
She tracks my movements but doesn’t stop me when I stand at the bottom of the ladder. She’s a few inches taller than me like this, but I don’t hate it.
I’m starting to realize that she’s far above me anyway.
I see the thoughts flying through her, the way she weighs the risks and rewards, wondering if it’s worth it to give me a chance. Please say it is.
“The mural isn’t finished yet,” she whispers after making me wait. “This is just the beginning.”
“So, you’re telling me that there’s hope,” I tease lightly, unsure if it’s wise to push her lest she change her mind and reject me.
Her lips twitch. “There is if you give me a scone. Otherwise, I’ll give your portrait a few warts.”
I’m about to fulfill her request when I pause, stopping just short of grabbing her hand. “Do you think you’ll always see me that way?” I don’t have to explain, she knows I’m talking about the painting.
She looks from me to the mural and back again. “I don’t see you that way now.”
Just like that, my spirits lift, and I grin. “Good.”
When I get her a scone, I’m whistling, feeling lighter than I did when I came in. We work as usual the rest of the day, arguing a little, bickering a lot, and trust blooming little by little. And by the time we leave for dinner, I realize that the differences between the painting of Stella and the real-life version are much smaller than I remember.