Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Henrik
She’s late by the time I finally see her.
She clutches a long, narrow canvas under one arm.
The gallery is dim, closed for the night, and her presence here should be solitary.
She doesn't see me yet.
Her form cuts through the vacant space, beautiful in black clothes with threadbare fishnets and worn boots, navigating the room with deliberate steps.
I like her like this—alone, unaware, an object in motion.
There’s something compulsive about it, something that feels very much like ownership.
I cross the gallery in long strides, moving from the dark into the light to intercept her .
I don’t bother with subtleties, knowing full well she’ll jump when she finally sees me.
She’s so close now I can see her green eyes flicker in and out, a heartbeat of surprise.
It’s only then that she stumbles, almost tripping on the stairs that lead down to the main floor.
The canvas jerks forward as she fumbles, and I see her arms lose their hold.
I move faster, reaching her in time to keep her work from smashing to the ground.
I hold it in my hands, trying to reach her before she falls.
I hear her gasp as her knees hit the hardwood.
She gets up, looking embarrassed as I stare down at the work in front of me.
A woman, engulfed in flames, screaming as the fire tears through her.
A startling piece of work, black lines scribbled with a violent intensity I didn’t know she possessed.
A drawing that captures a familiar, destructive beauty.
I stare at the piece, unmoving, forgetting for a moment the human who made it.
It's chaotic, imperfect, imbued with the kind of impulse that tears people to shreds.
I know this impulse.
I’ve felt it numerous times .
I watch Mia shift beside me.
Her thin hands tremble as they come to rest on the edge of the paper.
Silvery scars trace up her arms, disappearing under sleeves of black.
I hear her voice again, hear it speak a soft, breathless profanity as she stands back, stunned.
My lips curl slightly.
I'm impressed by the work and her reaction to it.
Her gaze bounces from me to the painting and back, disbelief spreading across that pale face.
She’s quiet as she tries to process what I’ve seen.
What I might say.
Finally I break the silence, the fire between us burning hotter than before.
“I had no idea,” I say. It’s honest and cruel, and I like it.
Her green eyes blink slowly, then rapidly.
She swallows hard, the first crack of doubt splintering through her.
“I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean?—”
I cut her off before she can backpedal any further. “What was your inspiration?”
I want to see how far she'll go, how much more she'll let slip before she gathers herself.
She says nothing… yet.
I guide her over to an empty easel in the corner.
Mia moves with me, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, those wide eyes glancing sideways at my hands on the paper.
When we reach the easel, I set the drawing under a focused spotlight, bringing its chaos into sharp relief.
I stand back and admire the raw beauty of it.
The unsettling force that matches my own.
She should never have brought this here, but I'm glad she did.
“Something tells me this isn’t a school assignment,” I say, holding her in place with a look.
Mia bites her lip, hesitating.
I want her honesty and I want her to lie.
I want the damage it will do when one slips and breaks apart the other.
I see her own curiosity brewing as she takes in my expression.
Returning my gaze to the drawing, I continue to study it.
The fire isn’t contained in the strokes of charcoal– it’s spread to my mind, my entire body consumed by the heat of it.
I wonder how much this drawing costs her to make.
How much she’s given up just to put it down on paper.
I know that this isn’t a one-time thing, not some fluke of inspiration that’s passed through her .
This is in her blood, in her bones.
The same way it’s in mine.
I let the seconds drag by, watching her reaction from the corner of my eye.
Watching and savoring.
How does this resonate with you?
How deep do the scars run?
The air crackles as she draws another breath.
I want to tell her that there’s no point holding back now.
The seed is already planted.
The damage is already done.
I know… everything.
But I want her to say it.
I want her ripped open and bleeding for me.
I watch, mesmerized, as she gives herself over to it.
“The flames. The screaming. That night. They haunt me.”
She looks at me, and I see something else there too.
The dark seed of need.
We aren’t so different, she and I.
She has a hunger for this pain.
She knows it like she knows her own body.
She craves it, the way only someone who’s lived through hell can.
“Do you have others like it?” I ask, drawing her deeper into the light, deeper into the fire.
I see the surprise in her eyes as she hears the hunger in my voice.
See the thrill of knowing I can’t get enough of what she’s given me.
“Some,” she admits.
She wants to show me and doesn’t.
Wants to share and hide.
She doesn’t know which side she’s on, and that excites me more than I can say.
I lean in close, leaving no doubt of my intentions.
“I want to see them.” Mia’s breath catches as it rushes from her.
I like the way it sounds.
I like the way everything sounds in this hollow, empty space.
Another hesitation, and then: “I didn’t bring them with me.”
“A pity.” I circle behind her as she tenses. “Tell me about that night.”
How much is there in that memory?
How deeply is she scarred?
I want to watch it unravel, watch it take over.
To consume her, the way she has consumed me.
We’re bound by this– trauma.
It's what compels us to create.
I think of her in a small, firelit room, drawing lines of soot across her pale skin, turning her trauma into beauty.
Turning her life into art.
How does she remember it?
What keeps her up at night?
Does it still sear her dreams?
I know the answers will cut deep, but I don’t care.
I’ll take the pain and leave her with less than what she started with.
I'll drain it all from her, every bit of memory and madness, and she’ll thank me for it.
“When I was a teenager,” she says, picking up the story where she left it. “There was a fire.”
I say nothing and simply wait.
Mia twists her hands, wringing them as she stares blankly at her art.
“It took everything,” she continues, trying to mask the fragility beneath. “Everyone dear to me.”
Still, I wait.
“It left me alone,” she finally confesses. "Orphaned.”
I let the emptiness drag on, waiting to see how much more she’ll give.
She doesn’t know that I can wait forever, if that’s what it takes.
She doesn’t know how good I am at taking.
“It’s the screams that stay with me.” Her voice is almost gone now.
Her eyes are red with the ghosts of her own survival. “Even now. Even in my dreams.”
She exhales in a quiet rush, and I see the scar tissue of her heart through the skin of her words.
I see it pulsing, vulnerable, raw.
Mia stands there, stripped bare by her confessions.
It’s almost as delectable as her body will be, on display for me to devour.
Finally, I shatter the silence. “How was your life after the fire?”
She looks at me.
Her eyes are vacant, but they won’t stay that way for long.
Not with me here.
Not with her past breathing down her neck and my expectations bearing down from the other side.
“Shit.”
She exhales, a long, drawn out breath.
“Pure and utter shit.”
The confession begins.
“I went from living in a beautiful home with my parents…” She draws another ragged breath, but the words pour from her lips as though they’d been there forever. “... to being thrown into foster care when they passed away, leaving me with no family when I was fifteen.”
She’s so damn fragile .
It’s all she can do to keep it together.
It’s delicious, the way she leaves herself so bare, so exposed.
I know how it will end, but I want to see it break apart in front of me.
I want to see her shatter.
Mia closes her eyes.
Maybe she thinks it will help, but I know better.
The demons will just follow her into her dreams. “I lost everything.”
She opens her eyes.
“How did you end up here?” I ask, trying to split her open, to indulge in the world of getting to know someone, despite the fact that I already do. “In London?”
“I applied for an art scholarship. And got it.” Her voice catches. “Somehow.”
She runs her finger over her art, sighing wistfully.
“That’s how I ended up at the Slade School of Fine Art. Which is how I ended up here.” She blinks.
I don’t.
She swallows.
I don’t.
She keeps going, unable to stop herself.
I keep watching, unable to look away. “I already have my bachelor’s and now I’m a year into my master’s program. Debt-free.”
I nod.
“Before this, I worked at a pub.”
Before me, she was nothing.
After me, she’ll be even less.
“Somehow managing to keep my head above water. And then… you hired me to clean, so… now I’m here… I guess.”
“I’ve been planning a show for local students,” I say, watching her for a reaction. “Though there is a stipulation.”
Her voice is raw and amused. “You and your damn stipulations. What is it this time? Do I need to pose nude?”
She’s putting herself on the line.
She’s putting herself at my mercy, at my feet.
It’s where she belongs.
“No.” I leave a chasm between us.
A distance she can’t cross without falling. “Your body is for my eyes only, Mia.”
I watch her swallow hard.
I watch her come undone.
I let the silence strip us bare.
Her eyes meet mine, and the effect is devastating.
I should have mercy.
I should have a heart.
I have neither.
I want more.
I will have it .
I make my demands. I make my desires clear. “ Nattblomma . This piece—it will be in the show. That is my price.”
Her face lights up with a hundred emotions.
“You have one month to produce four additional pieces. You are to invite three of your classmates to contribute.”
Her voice shakes, but the words are steady. “That’s it?”
She doesn’t believe this is real.
“No. The work must explore darker subject matter. And no one else may use charcoal.”
“Henrik, I—” It’s a lifetime before she speaks. “Thank you.”
There’s a stillness before I speak again. “Time to start cleaning.”
My voice ignites the air.
Mia stands there, mouth agape.
She looks at me like I’ve given her the world, then crushed it underfoot. “I’ll handle the front first,” she finally says.
I watch her try to keep up with my demands, my desires, my quick and absolute power.
Her nod is too quick, too eager.
I love what it does to her.
I love what it does to me.
Her voice is soft and desperate. It hangs on by a thread. “Before moving to the back. That’s okay…” She watches me closely, too closely. “Right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I go nude… right?” Her lips tremble with the weight of it all.
“Yes.”
I step away, letting her start her work and head to the back, grabbing my supplies.
A large black canvas is on the floor, underneath a protective painters’ drop cloth to guard the surface of the floor.
It will be a scene of devastation, of beauty, of destruction, of rebirth.
I wonder what’s taking her so long.
I’m never satisfied, not with her, not with this.
I crave her.
Need her.
Shaking my head, I get up to grab my medium, my color palette.
Reds.
Whites.
Pinks.
Grays.
I can’t wait to see her crack.
I can’t wait to crack too.
Mia thought she knew what to expect.
She doesn't .
She had no idea what she was in for when I made the offer.
But how was she to know the depth of my desire for her?
It had hardly started burning until now.
Her footsteps are faint and distant.
Mine are loud and fast.
The silence isn’t silent.
It’s deafening.
It’s everywhere.
It surrounds me.
It surrounds us.
Finally, after an eternity of waiting, she opens the door, the light from the gallery spilling into the room.
She closes the door behind her, shutting out the world.
The moment is electric.
Mia’s eyes lock with mine, and I feel the spark catch.
I know what comes next and so does she.