Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mia
The charcoal scrapes across the rough paper, leaving a trail of ash in its wake.
I press harder, deepening the shadows around the kneeling figure.
His anguish takes shape beneath my fingertips—muscles taut with agony, spine curved in defeat.
The studio is quiet except for the scratch of charcoal and the occasional cough or rustle of paper.
Late afternoon light slants through the high windows, casting long shadows across the room.
I'm lost in the world I'm creating on the page, barely aware of my surroundings.
I step back, surveying my work with a critical eye .
The man's body is dissolving, particles drifting away on an unseen wind.
To his left, Mars looms ominously, its surface molten and seething.
Destruction surrounds him—jagged rocks, smoldering embers, a landscape of ruin.
"Ah, Miss Cohen. Another striking piece."
Professor Hastings' voice breaks my concentration.
I stiffen as he approaches, fighting the urge to cover my drawing.
His presence makes my skin crawl.
"Thank you, Professor," I murmur, not meeting his gaze.
I focus intently on smudging a shadow, hoping he'll move on.
No such luck.
He leans in closer, peering at my work.
I can smell his cologne, cloying and oppressive.
"Such raw emotion," he says. "The agony is palpable. One can almost feel the heat from that burning planet."
I nod stiffly, willing him to back away.
My fingers itch to keep drawing, to lose myself again in the familiar dance of light and shadow.
"You have a remarkable gift for capturing suffering," Hastings continues. "I'd be fascinated to hear more about your process. Perhaps over coffee sometime?"
My stomach churns.
How many times do I need to tell this guy no?
"I appreciate the offer, Professor, but I'm quite busy these days."
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Ah, of course. Another time, perhaps."
His gaze drifts to my exposed collarbone, lingering a beat too long.
I shift uncomfortably, tugging my shirt higher.
The silvery scars on my chest seem to burn under his scrutiny.
I long to disappear into the shadows of my drawing, to become one with the ash and embers.
"Well, carry on," Hastings says at last. "I look forward to seeing the finished piece."
As he walks away, I release a shaky breath.
My hands tremble slightly as I pick up the charcoal again.
I lose myself once more in the act of creation, trying to shake off the lingering unease.
The kneeling figure takes on new layers of anguish.
I darken the hollows of his eyes, deepen the creases of pain etched into his face.
Flecks of ash swirl around him, carrying pieces of his essence away on the wind.
In my mind, I can hear the crackle of flames, smell the acrid smoke.
Memories threaten to overwhelm me—screaming sirens, shattering glass, the choking heat as my childhood home burned around me.
I channel that visceral terror into my art, pouring my pain onto the page.
Time slips away as I work.
The studio gradually empties as other students pack up and leave.
Soon I'm alone, the only sound the scratch of charcoal and my own measured breathing.
"Mia? It's nearly 9 pm."
I start at Professor Hastings' voice, my charcoal skittering across the page.
How long have I been working?
The windows are dark now, the room lit only by harsh fluorescents.
"Oh. I lost track of time," I mumble, hastily gathering my supplies.
I can feel Hastings hovering nearby, too close for comfort.
"You really throw yourself into your work," he says. "It's admirable. But you mustn't neglect your own needs."
I stuff my sketchbook into my portfolio, eager to escape. "I'm fine, Professor. Just focused."
"At least let me walk you out," he insists. "It isn't safe for a young woman to be alone on campus this late."
My skin crawls at the thought, but I can't think of a polite way to refuse.
"That's...not necessary," I try.
But he's already retrieved his coat, holding the door open expectantly.
With a sinking feeling, I realize I have no choice but to accept his escort.
The hallways are eerily quiet as we make our way through the building.
Our footsteps echo off the tiled floors.
I clutch my portfolio tightly, as if it might shield me from Hastings' unwanted attention.
"You know, Mia," he says as we near the exit, "I truly admire your dedication to your craft. You have such raw talent."
"Thank you," I mutter, quickening my pace. Just a few more steps to freedom.
But Hastings matches my stride easily. "I'd love to discuss your work further sometime. Maybe dinner, if coffee doesn’t work?"
I bristle at his persistence. "Professor, I've told you before—I'm not interested in socializing outside of class."
He chuckles, as if I've said something amusing. "Come now, there's no need to be coy. I'm simply offering mentorship to a promising student. "
"I don't need that kind of mentorship," I snap, my patience wearing thin.
We emerge into the chilly night air.
The campus is deserted, streetlights casting pools of sickly yellow light.
Hastings steps closer, invading my personal space.
"Mia," he says, his tone condescending. "You're a talented artist, but you're still so young. You need guidance to truly succeed in this field. I could open doors for you..."
His hand brushes my arm and I recoil, anger flaring hot in my chest.
How dare he?
Before I can unleash the scathing retort on the tip of my tongue, a familiar voice cuts through the tension.
"There's my little student."
Relief washes over me as I look up to see Henrik striding toward us, hands in his pockets and that sinful smirk playing on his lips.
He's a vision in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, radiating power and confidence.
Hastings stiffens, immediately recognizing the newcomer.
"Mr. Lindberg," he says, his tone suddenly deferential. "What an honor to have you here on campus."
I seize the opportunity to put some distance between myself and Hastings, practically running to Henrik's side.
Without hesitation, Henrik wraps a possessive arm around my waist.
I melt against him, relishing the warmth of his body and the subtle spice of his cologne.
Hastings' eyes dart between us, confusion evident on his face. "And, ah...how do you know Mi— Miss Cohen?"
Henrik's smirk widens. "She's my girlfriend."
I nearly choke on my own saliva, shocked by his boldness.
But a thrill runs through me at his words.
Girlfriend.
The label shouldn't excite me so much, and yet...
Hastings gapes at us, clearly thrown off balance.
"I...I see," he stammers. "Well, that's...unexpected."
"Is it?" Henrik's tone is deceptively light, but there's steel beneath the surface. "I understand you've been making rather persistent advances toward Mia here. I'd suggest you stop. I doubt your wife would appreciate hearing about it."
The color drains from Hastings' face, and I feel a surge of dark satisfaction.
Henrik's words hang in the air, heavy with threat and promise.
In this moment, I see him for what he truly is—a force of nature, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
My heart pounds in my chest, a mix of fear and excitement coursing through my veins.
I should be horrified by Henrik's possessiveness, his casual threats.
Instead, I find myself drawn to it, to him.
It's as if he's tapped into the deepest, darkest parts of my soul—the parts that crave intensity, that find beauty in pain and destruction.
Henrik's arm tightens around me. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I'm taking my girlfriend home."
Without waiting for a response, he guides me toward the parking lot.
I can feel Hastings' eyes boring into my back as we walk away.
"How did you know?" I ask once we're out of earshot. "About him hitting on me, I mean."
Henrik chuckles, a low, rich sound that sends shivers down my spine. "I've been around men like that my entire life, Nattblomma . I could spot it from a mile away."
We approach his sleek black McLaren and I want to roll my eyes.
Why does he have to be so flashy all the time?
He opens the passenger door for me, ever the gentleman.
"What are you doing here?" I ask as he slides into the driver's seat. "Not that I'm complaining, but..."
"I thought it would be nice to pick you up," he says smoothly. "Give you a break from that deathtrap you call transportation, or walking if you had the balls to do that by yourself at this hour."
I laugh, settling into the buttery soft leather seat. "What, you know my whole schedule or something?"
Henrik's lips quirk up in that dangerous half-smile. "Something like that."
My fingers trace the edge of my portfolio, feeling the rough texture beneath my fingertips.
The charcoal piece inside weighs heavily on my mind, a physical manifestation of the darkness I carry within.
"Your art," Henrik says, breaking the comfortable silence. "Tell me about it."
I turn to look at him, his profile sharp against the city lights streaming by outside.
"It's... intense," I say softly. "A man on his knees, surrounded by ash and debris. His body is disintegrating, becoming one with the destruction around him."
Henrik's eyes flick to mine for a moment before returning to the road. "Sounds haunting. What inspired it?"
I swallow hard, memories of flames and screams threatening to overwhelm me .
"Pain," I whisper. "Despair. The feeling that the world is burning around you and there's nothing you can do to stop it."
"You speak from experience," he observes, his voice gentle.
I nod, unable to form words for a moment.
When I finally speak, my voice is barely audible. "It's for the upcoming art show. I think... I think it's a good representation of those emotions. Something that will resonate with people."
Henrik's hand finds mine, his touch grounding me. "I have no doubt it will be powerful, Nattblomma . Your ability to channel such raw emotion into your work is... extraordinary."
His words warm something inside me, a flicker of light in the darkness I usually inhabit. "Thank you," I murmur, squeezing his hand.
Henrik takes a turn off the main road, pulling up to a quaint pub nestled between two Victorian-era buildings.
The worn wooden sign above the door reads "The Broken Quill."
"I thought you might be hungry," Henrik says, his icy blue eyes fixed on me. "This place has character... and excellent shepherd's pie."
I nod, suddenly aware of the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. " I could eat."
We step out of the car, and I'm immediately enveloped by the crisp night air, carrying hints of rain and distant chimney smoke.
Henrik's hand finds the small of my back as we enter the pub, and I can't help but lean into his touch.
Inside, the warmth hits me like a wave.
Dark wood paneling lines the walls, adorned with faded paintings and antique mirrors.
The low hum of conversation mingles with the clink of glasses and the crackle of a fireplace in the corner.
We settle into a secluded booth, the leather seats creaking softly beneath us.
A server appears, and Henrik orders for both of us without asking—normally, I'd bristle at that, but there's something intoxicating about his quiet confidence.
As we wait for our food, I study Henrik's face in the flickering candlelight.
There's a shadow there, a hint of something pained behind his carefully controlled expression.
"Tell me something about yourself," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "Something real."
Henrik's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of vulnerability. He takes a slow sip of his whiskey before speaking.
"My wife, Anastasia," he begins, his voice low. "She died in a car crash three years ago. "
The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air between us.
I resist the urge to reach for his hand, sensing there's more he needs to say.
"It was... it was my mother's fault," Henrik continues, an edge of bitterness creeping into his tone. "They had an argument. Anastasia left the house in a rage, distracted. If my mother hadn't—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
I find my voice, soft in the dimness of the pub. "You blame your mother for her death?"
Henrik nods, his eyes distant. "I harbor a lot of resentment. It's... complicated. Anastasia and I, we had plans. A future. Children." His laugh is mirthless. "I thought she was the one I'd build a life with, but..." He trails off, taking another sip of whiskey.
My heart aches for him because his mother isn’t the one at fault.
No, that would be me.
My heart races, each beat a thunderous reminder of the secret I carry.
Henrik's piercing blue eyes, usually so captivating, now feel like they're boring into my soul, searching for truths I'm desperate to keep hidden.
My skin goes clammy, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead and the back of my neck.
I can't breathe .
The walls of the pub seem to close in around me, the chatter of other patrons fading to a dull roar in my ears.
Henrik doesn't know.
He can't know.
But the weight of my involvement in Anastasia's death presses down on me, threatening to crush me beneath its burden.
Will I have to tell him someday?
The thought makes me dizzy with fear. How could I possibly explain?
Would he understand that it was an accident, a terrible confluence of events that led to that fateful night?
"Mia?" Henrik's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Are you all right? You've gone pale."
I blink, forcing myself back to the present.
Henrik's brow is furrowed with concern, his long, artist's fingers reaching across the table as if to touch my hand.
I pull back instinctively, grabbing my glass instead.
"I'm fine," I manage, taking a long sip of my drink.
The alcohol burns its way down my throat, grounding me. "Just... thinking about what you said. About life not working out the way we expect."
I set the glass down, tracing a finger through the condensation on its surface. "Sometimes life works out in ways we don't think it will," I continue, carefully choosing my words. "Things happen to alter our lives, and there's an underlying reason for it. Even if we can't see it at the time."
Henrik leans back, considering my words.
His eyes never leave my face, and I wonder if he can sense the turmoil beneath my calm exterior.
"An interesting perspective," he muses. "Do you believe in fate, then? That everything happens for a reason?"
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "I don't know about fate. But I think... sometimes the most unexpected changes can lead us to where we're meant to be. Or who we're meant to be with."
The words hang between us, laden with meaning.
Henrik's expression softens, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps you're right, Nattblomma . Perhaps you're right. Maybe Anastasia died so I could be with you."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
My heart stutters, and I feel the blood drain from my face.
I grasp my glass tightly, knuckles turning white, as if it could anchor me to reality.
"Maybe she did," I mutter, barely audible.
The pub around us fades into a dull hum as my mind races.
Images flash before my eyes—fire, smoke, a woman's scream cut short.
I blink hard, trying to banish the memories.
My fingers itch for charcoal, longing to capture the conflicting emotions swirling within me.
Instead, I take another sip of my drink, using the burn of alcohol to ground myself.
"It's strange," I say, my voice low, "how life can change in an instant. One moment, everything's normal, and the next..." I trail off, unable to finish the thought.
Henrik reaches across the table, his hand hovering near mine. "And the next, you're on a completely different path," he finishes for me.
I nod, grateful for his understanding.
But guilt gnaws at me, knowing the full truth of how Anastasia's path truly ended.
"Do you ever wonder," I begin hesitantly, "about the moments that led to where you are now? The choices, the accidents, the... coincidences?"
Henrik's eyes darken, a shadow passing over his face.
"Every day," he admits. "But dwelling on the past can be dangerous. Sometimes, it's better to focus on the present... and the future."
His gaze holds mine, intense and full of promise.