Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Mia
The scream shreds my eardrums before I’m fully conscious.
My eyes snap open to a ceiling rippling with orange light, shadows clawing at peeling paint.
Smoke slithers down my throat—thick, greedy—transforming my gasp into a wheeze.
My charcoal-stained sheets tangle around my legs as I thrash upright, silver skull pendant swinging wild against my collarbone.
“Mia! God—Mia!”
Mom’s voice carves through drywall and memory alike.
I’m fifteen again, knees scraping hardwood as I tumble from bed .
Heat licks my ankles through slippers I don’t remember wearing.
The hallway yawns ahead, a tunnel choked with undulating black clouds.
A framed drawing of mine shatters nearby, glass teeth spitting across the floor.
“Here!” My shout emerges rasped, bisected by hacking.
Embers swirl like malevolent fireflies. “I’m?—”
Coughing doubles me over.
Something crunches under my palm—the charred remains of my sketchbook, pages curled like dead moths.
Through the roaring in my ears comes Dad’s baritone, warped as though underwater. “—house collapsing—window?—”
Flames erupt through the floorboards to my left.
I recoil, sleeve smoldering.
My slipper sinks through weakening wood up to the ankle.
Wrenching free, I stumble toward where Mom’s voice had been.
The banister blisters under my grip.
Upstairs?
Down?
Orientation disintegrates—every wall weeps amber tears .
“Follow… baby, follow… voices!” Mom’s command comes out in heavy coughs.
I pivot toward the sound, skirt snagging on splintered flooring.
My lungs scream for air denied them.
Three steps.
Five.
A photograph curls at my feet—our last family portrait, Mom’s face bubbling under the glass.
A timber crashes behind me.
Heat kisses my exposed shoulders.
Some detached part notes how the flames dance—devouring my childhood home.
Artistry in destruction.
I might laugh if not for the vise around my windpipe.
Dad’s voice booms suddenly and clear: “Left! Now!”
I swerve instinctively.
Floorboards collapse where I’d stood, vomiting sparks.
Fire illuminates the stairwell’s skeletal remains.
Below, through gaps in the inferno, I glimpse the front door—warped, glowing around its hinges.
Salvation only a few feet away.
Mom’s scream slices upward from the void. “Jump, Mia! Jump! ”
My body locks.
Flames crown every surface now, painting my scars luminous.
Silver lines writhe across my arms—a grotesque mockery of the vines I draw in margins.
The smoke parts briefly, revealing the staircase’s corpse.
Nine splintered ribs leading nowhere.
The house groans—a dying beast settling bones.
Boot heels grind against crumbling edge.
Somewhere beneath the smoke stench blooms the coppery tang of fear-sweat.
I leap.
Air whistles past my ears.
Fishnets tear on jagged debris.
Impact judders through soles, up shins, rattling molars.
I’m running before the pain registers—toward the distant rectangle of night air.
Mom’s silhouette materializes in the doorway, backlit by street lamps.
Her outstretched hand wavers through heat distortion.
“Almost there!” The promise shreds her throat raw.
Fire claims the foyer walls.
The ceiling detonates.
White-hot agony razors across my cheek .
I’m airborne, then skidding across what’s left of the porch.
Concrete drinks blood from my split lip.
Through ringing ears comes a sound worse than flames—Mom’s keening wail, amputated mid-crescendo.
Smoke furls skyward, blotting out stars.
“Gotta get you out!” Dad hollers, rushing me toward the kitchen window.
He uses all of his strength to break it and forces me through, glass slicing my skin as I try to shimmy myself through.
My palms scrape concrete as I crawl outside, finding safety on the sidewalk.
Neighbors’ shouts arrive muffled, as though felt.
Someone drapes a blanket over my shaking shoulders.
It reeks of mothballs and normalcy.
“Anyone else inside?” A stranger’s face looms—firefighter’s mask reflecting a hellscape.
I try nodding.
My neck creaks. “Par…ents…”
Men in axes and oxygen tanks surge past.
The house groans—a death rattle trembling pavement.
The fire chief’s bark cuts through: “Back! Structural integrity’s gone!”
They’re arguing.
Always arguing.
I press scorched palms to ears as the explosion comes with no mercy.
My scream curdles into London's damp twilight as I bolt upright.
Sheets slither off sweat-slicked skin, my right hand already fumbling for phantom flames licking bedroom walls that stopped burning years ago.
Silver scars glint under the bedside lamp's jaundiced glow as tremors rack my collarbone.
Mini-bar bottles clink like wind chimes made of bone when I kick open the cabinet.
Absolut Citron burns hotter going down than any house fire, liquid courage scalding away the taste of charred photo albums.
Second shot: tequila stolen from Larsa's birthday stash.
The worm at the bottle's bottom resembles a spinal column.
"Fuck."
My phone screen mocks me with the time glowing blood-red.
Ugh, I need to get up.
I don’t have time for mid-day naps, especially now that I’m at college and working two part-time jobs .
I muster myself up out of bed and head into the walk-in closet.
It smells of cedar and regret.
Fishnets snag on thumbnail crescents as I yank them up scarred thighs.
Black velvet dress with mothwing sleeves—armor disguised as mourning clothes.
Combat boots lace themselves through muscle memory while my mind replays paramedics shouting over triage assessments.
Larsa's painting her toenails bright evergreen when I emerge, probably to stick with the Christmas theme. "Christ, you look like death's mistress," she says around a cigarette dangling from coral lips.
Her kimono slips, revealing a fresh hickey blooming above her left breast.
"Compliment taken." I stab earrings through lobes—obsidian teardrops that once belonged to a great aunt who drowned herself in the Hudson.
"You seeing that sculptor bloke tonight?"
"No, heading into work."
She snorts. "Got another job? Dang.”
My choker needs adjusting and I realize how much focus I’m putting on this damn outfit, when I’ll be taking it off for him at some point.
“Yeah, well it’s not exactly affordable around here, is it? ”
Larsa laughs. “Touché.”
I'm not exactly best friends with Larsa, but she's the closest thing I have to one.
I don't really go out of my way to be social by any means.
I grab my purse and glance back at her. "I'd better get going. See you later."
She waves dismissively. "See ya!"
Once I’m out of our flat, concrete kisses my boot soles with each step toward Dean Street.
December air claws through thin fabric, mingling with diesel fumes from a passing bus.
I count cracks in the sidewalk like rosary beads—fourteen between Charlotte Place and Rathbone Street, thirty-seven skirting Fitzroy Square's wrought iron gates.
Gallery lights bleed through barred windows three blocks ahead.
My stomach acid could etch glass.
Thirty minutes early, but the promise of being paid good money means I can live while I’m here, not just survive.
A tourist couple pauses before Guzman Contemporary's display window, oblivious to the spiderweb crack in the lower right pane from last month's drunken hedge funder.
The woman giggles at a Jeff Koons knockoff, unaware that inside these walls, I'll soon be spread-eagled on some sort of Victorian fainting couch while a man twice my age mixes cadmium red with my dignity.
The gallery door clicks shut behind me, sealing out the din of the evening bustle outside its walls.
Henrik materializes from shadows cast by a Francis Bacon lithograph, his movements fluid as ink spreading across blotting paper.
Five crisp banknotes whisper against my palm before I can utter greeting.
"Safety deposit," he murmurs, thumb brushing my scarred knuckles.
His Swedish accent wraps around consonants like smoke curling round rafters. “Did you forget I said I’d pick you up?”
I clear my throat, “Didn’t forget. Just needed to get some air.”
He shakes his head in what I assume is aggravation and ticks his jaw. “Stubborn one, you are. Follow me.”
My combat boots echo too loud on parquet tiles he probably imported from some dismantled Baltic castle.
“You’ll need to be a better listener, Miss Cohen.” Henrik turns and comes right up on me, his frost-pale fingers hover near my choker's spiked O-ring. "Saint Laurent's Fall 2016 collection? Or clever thrift shop forgery?"
I press trembling thighs together. "Charity shop off Berwick Street. Three quid. You should know I can’t afford anything like Saint Laurent."
A ghost-smile plays across lips that look sculpted from Carrara marble. "Stick with me and you could have anything your heart desires."
His tailored wool coat whispers secrets against my fishnets as he passes. "Come, this way."
We navigate corridors and the air grows thicker with each turn—turpentine and sandalwood incense clotting my throat.
A blackened oak door reveals a circular chamber where fifteen spotlights blaze down on a throne-like armchair.
My pupils constrict against the glare.
Canvases line curved walls like tarot cards fanned by some manic fortune teller—every brushstroke screams of figures trapped in burning rooms, faces melting like Dali clocks.
In the center, a fresh canvas gapes hungry as an open grave.
Henrik's reflection looms behind me in a gilt-framed mirror cracked down the middle.
"They never display these," I whisper, tracing glass fractures over his phantom shoulder.
"Private commissions." His breath scalds my nape. "The sort collectors keep in panic rooms to admire during market crashes. "
Cold hands descend on my shoulders. "Disrobe."
My silver skull belt clatters to the floor.
Leather corset laces slither through eyelets like adders retreating to stone crevices.
When I reach for camisole straps, his burned palm cages my wrist—ropy scar tissue glowing pearl-pink in the spotlight.
"Slowly." His thumbnail grazes the vaccination scar on my upper arm. "The unveiling deserves ceremony."
Fabric pools around my ankles—black silk and velvet dissolving into shadow.
October rain streaks the skylight above us, distorting the amber lights into wavering funeral pyres.
I cross arms over breasts gone pebbled with gooseflesh.
"For whom do you perform modesty?" His chuckle vibrates against my spine. "The ghosts? The gods?”
Air evacuates my lungs.
Twelve prescription bottles rattle in medicine cabinet memory.
His grip tightens, steering me toward the armchair's blood-red upholstery.
"Sit."
Palette knife scraping against glass jars punctuates his command. "Left knee drawn up. Right leg...here." Cold fingers splay my thigh wide. "Let me see where your darkness pools. "
Charcoal residue embeds beneath his nails as he adjusts my limbs like a taxidermist posing roadkill.
I focus on the canvas behind him where phoenix-winged figures spiral into a vortex of Prussian blue.
“I thought you wanted me here to clean,” I point out, unsure why he’s even gotten this far with me in the first place.
Henrik smirks. “I told you it was cleaning, but in reality it’s this. I told you that you’re going to be my muse for my next collection, so you’ll be at my disposal, for whatever I want.”
"You've done this before." It's not a question.
Vermilion blooms on his palette like a fresh arterial spray. “And you haven’t? What are they teaching you out there anyway?”
"Life drawing electives." The chair's carved arm digs into my tailbone. "Though professors frown on full-frontal submissions."
Bristles scritch across linen. "Academic cowards. The body is merely newsprint wrapping for the soul's black box." His eyes rake over me—clinical yet starving. "What's your desire? What do you want to focus on? Where does your dark heart take you, Miss Cohen?"
"Charcoal. Graphite sometimes." I swallow copper-toned fear. "Ash, when I can get it."
His brush freezes mid-stroke .
Behind him, a clock ticks seconds stolen from terminal patients. "You burn your own?"
"Only what deserves immolation."
The resulting smile could etch glass.
He mixes crimson and bone black into fleshy pink. "Tell me about the scars."
Rain hammers the skylight.
Fifteen flames dance in each ceiling bulb.
My throat seals itself around lies.
"Domestic accident."
"Ah." Brush tip stabs the palette. "Those tend to leave cleaner lines. These..." He nods at my cheek's silvery rivulets. "...speak of frantic clawing through molten obstacles."
Sweat glues dark curls to my temples. "You've mistaken me for one of your broken dolls."
"Have I?" Knife scrapes through ultramarine. "Then why do you tremble not from cold?"
The observation detonates beneath my sternum.
Every childhood nightmare coalesces in the pigment-streaked hollows beneath his eyes.
He steps back, head cocked like a raven eyeing roadkill.
"Adjust the angle." Razorblades hide in his baritone. "Let gravity assist."
My heart hammers in my chest as I try to make sense of this.
Why am I here?
Why did I let him talk me into ‘cleaning’ his gallery if he’s just going to stare at me while I’m butt ass naked?
Henrik’s brush whispers across the canvas like a lover’s confession, each stroke dissecting my nakedness into planes of ochre and umber.
I don’t even know how much time has passed, but I can tell it’s been a while.
My thighs ache from maintaining the pose—knees splayed wide, spine arched to present what he called ‘the cathedral of your ruin’ not too many minutes ago.
“Breathe through your abdomen,” he murmurs, not looking up from his palette.
Prussian blue bleeds into Payne’s grey beneath his knife. “Your scars are paling.”
A draft licks between my legs.
I focus on the blister forming beneath my right scapula where leather upholstery bites flesh. “They always do when I’m cold.”
His chuckle rasps like match-strike. “Liar.”
The accusation coils in my pelvis.
Silver chains dig into my wrists where I grip the chair arms, remnants of gothic armor discarded on cement floors.
Two hours since he paid me to become still life.
Two hours watching those surgeon’s hands translate my traumas into wet brilliance .
Through the skylight, halogen stars replace real ones, London’s light pollution smothering constellations I used to trace from burning windows.
He steps back abruptly, head tilted.
Canvas reflects in his irises—a ghostly inversion of my sprawled form rendered in bruise tones. “That’s enough for tonight.”
Brushes clatter into a jar of murky solvent.
My legs cramp as I uncoil, blood rushing back to numb extremities.
Henrik strips off his paint-smeared smock, revealing forearms mapped with shiny scar tissue.
Our shared language of damage hums between us.
“Next week. That’s when I want you back here.”
My response lodges itself in my throat, refusing to escape as I gawk at him. “This isn’t a trial run?”
His too-blue gaze pins me like a butterfly on display. “No. Isn’t it obvious, Miss Cohen?”
I swallow hard. “You want to see more of me? ”
"See, one time, it's not enough." He prowls closer, his silhouette monstrous against the flickering lights of his studio. "I'm nowhere near capturing your essence, Mia. This secondary ‘cleaning’ job I’ve offered you, it is what you think."
A shudder ripples through me at the sound of my name on his lips.
It feels intimate, forbidden .
“Your discomfort intrigues me.” His voice resonates with dark delight as he moves to clean his brushes. “I can't wait to explore it further."
He’s enjoying this—every second of it—reveling in the power he holds over me.
“I won’t hurt you.” His assurance does nothing to calm the storm within me. “Unless you want me to.”
There’s a promise woven into the words that sends my heart fluttering against my ribcage.
A threat or a temptation?
In the realm of Henrik Lindberg, both seem equally likely.
I stretch a bit further, spreading my legs out more.
Henrik's eyes gleam with mischief as he sets his paintbrush aside, the canvas now a testament to the intimacy of the artwork he’s created.
He rises from his seat, closing the distance between us with a prowling grace that sends a shiver down my spine.
"You're a fascinating enigma, Mia Cohen," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the scars on my arm.
His touch electrifies me, awakening a hunger that's as intoxicating as it is alarming.
My heart races, and I can't help but feel exposed under his scrutiny.
I've never been one to crave the spotlight, yet with Henrik, I find myself wanting to bare my soul—and my body—to him.
He snickers, those icy blue eyes of his glinting with a wickedness that sends my heart racing. "I'm going to devour you, Mia," he says, his voice low and husky. "Every inch of you."
The promise in his words sends heat coursing through me, and I know I shouldn’t want this.
I know I shouldn’t want him.
"You look like you want to eat me up," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Henrik's eyes darken, and with a swift, calculated motion, he drops to his knees before me.
The cool air of the room brushes against my bare legs, causing goosebumps to rise on my skin.
He looks up at me, his eyes filled with a hunger that mirrors my own.
"You're mine now," he growls, his voice barely controlled. "Mine to taste, mine to touch, mine to possess."
I don't deny him, even though I know I should.
Instead, I let out a breathy gasp as he presses his mouth to my inner thigh, his tongue tracing a path of fire along my skin.
With each flick of his tongue, each nip of his teeth, I feel myself slipping further under his spell—further into the abyss of pleasure and desire that threatens to consume me.
Henrik's hands grip my hips, pulling me closer to him, his mouth now mere inches from my most intimate of places.
I can feel the heat of his breath against me, and I find myself yearning for more—craving the contact I know is coming.
And then, without warning, he plunges his tongue into me, licking and sucking with a ferocity that steals my breath away.
I can't help but let out a moan, my hands finding their way into his dark locks as I hold him closer, forcing him to satisfy the hunger that's building within me.
The room fades away, and all that exists is the exquisite torture of Henrik's mouth on me.
I can feel myself nearing the edge, the precipice of an orgasm that promises to be earth-shattering in its intensity.
But just as I'm about to fall over the edge, Henrik pulls away, his gaze meeting mine with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
"Not yet," he says, his voice low and commanding. "I'm not done with you yet."
He rises to his feet, his fingers deftly unbuttoning his trousers as he reveals his hard cock .
I can't help but stare, my mouth going dry at the sight of him.
He wraps a hand around my throat, his thumb gently caressing my rapidly beating pulse.
"You want me to take you, to be my little toy?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
I don't deny it.
Instead, I meet his gaze, my own eyes filled with a hunger that mirrors his own.
"I do," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
And with those words, Henrik's control snaps.
With a growl, he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pushes into me, filling me completely.
I can't help but cry out, my back arching as he thrusts into me with a force that steals my breath away.
The world fades away, and all that exists is the feel of Henrik inside me, his hands gripping my hips as he pounds into me with a ferocity that leaves me breathless.
I can feel myself nearing the edge once more, an orgasm that promises to shatter me.
The room swims around me as I struggle to catch my breath, my heart pounding in my chest like a wild beast trying to break free.
Henrik's arms are still wrapped tightly around me, his face buried in my neck, as if he's trying to absorb me into his very being .
I can feel the heat of his breath against my skin, sending shivers down my spine.
"Mine," he growls again, his voice low and guttural, like a predator staking its claim.
I should be scared, I know I should.
But instead, there's a strange sense of calm that washes over me, a feeling of safety and security that I've never experienced before.
It's as if, in this moment, I've finally found my place in the world—in my boss’ arms no less.
Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers tracing the lines of one particularly harsh scar that runs down the length of his arm.
He flinches at my touch, but doesn't pull away, his eyes never leaving mine.
"You're not alone," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "We're both broken, Henrik. But maybe... maybe that's what makes us whole."
He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before reaching up to grip my wrists, pulling my hands away from his scars.
"Enough of this," he growls, his voice low and rough. "I want more of you, Mia. All of you."
Before I can respond, his lips claim mine in a kiss that steals my breath away.
His hands are everywhere, tangled in my hair, gripping my hips, tracing the lines of my scars .
And I can't help but respond, my own hands exploring the contours of his body, feeling the strength and power that lies beneath the surface.
With a sudden movement, Henrik breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down my neck, across my collarbone, and down further still, until they reach the swell of my breast.
He nips at my skin, his teeth grazing my nipple through the fabric of my dress, and I gasp, my hands tightening in his hair.
"Yes," I moan, my head falling back as he continues his assault on my senses. "Just like that."
He continues to tease and torment me, his mouth and hands driving me wild with desire.
He arches himself, going in and out of me, filling me completely, his hands gripping my hips as he thrusts deep.
I can feel myself nearing the edge once more.
As I fall over the edge, Henrik follows me, our release mingling together as we cling to each other, our bodies slick with sweat and desire.
As we come down from our high, Henrik gently sets me back on my feet, his arms wrapped around me as he holds me close.
I can feel his heart racing, matching the rhythm of my own.
"Mine," he growls again, his lips brushing against my ear.