Chapter 11
SLEEP HAD NOT COME easily, though at some point Isabelle had drifted off, a singsong voice jolting her to awareness.
“Sweetheart…”
She rubbed her eyes, still not used to the perpetual dimness from the lack of sunlight, focusing on Rul as he made his way over to the bed.
He was carrying a tray, setting it beside her and looking on in anticipation. A croissant and café au lait, her favorite breakfast, though the gesture did little to subdue her anguish.
“I heard about your punishment last night,” he said as she picked at the pastry, and she let out a loud groan.
“For two people who pretend not to care about each other, you certainly make a habit of telling each other everything.”
Rul scoffed.
“I never said I didn’t care about him. Of course we talk to each other. Especially when it comes to our playthings, of which you have been quite an intriguing one.”
She took a sip of coffee, the milky decadence clearing her head slightly.
“You really have him agitated. I’m impressed! He’s so… impassive, it’s good for him to get riled up every so often.”
“I haven’t done anything,” she hissed with more vehemence than she had meant.
Goddess, just a few days in this hellish place and she was acting like a beast, forgetting herself. Begging to be ravished by a monster.
“Oh, you’ve done something,” he replied with that typical air of nonchalance.
She tossed a pillow at him, which he caught easily, a chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Why is he like that?”
“Like what?” he asked, cocking his head.
“So… aggressive.”
“I thought you liked aggressive,” he said, scooting the tray to the side now that she’d finished and sitting on the bed next to her. “You liked it when I was fucking your throat, when Bellinor chased you through the woods…”
“Then why is he trying to be nice?” she asked, exasperation pitching her voice high.
“You don’t really want to be ravaged all the time, do you? Such a naughty little thing.”
Rul grabbed her hips and slid her down the bed so she was flat on her back, straddling her waist in an instant. His hands met hers, linking their fingers together and pressing them into the mattress above her head.
“If he wants to be sweet to you, why don’t you let him?”
Isabelle swallowed hard, ignoring the knot welling in her throat.
“I don’t deserve that.”
He shook his head, tsking.
“I wish you would stop saying that. Why does your goddess want you to suffer? And besides, I thought humans enjoyed receiving gifts? He’s not often that nice to our guests.”
Rul leaned in for a kiss, his tongues flicking across her lips and her body reacting on instinct, arching into his. His tail whipped around, circling her wrists so he could free his hands to roam over her body, though she was still clothed in her dress from last night.
She gasped in a breath when he finally pulled away, overwhelmed by the erotic kiss and the emotion clenching her chest.
“I killed my mother,” she breathed, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth.
Rul stopped his caresses, sitting back on his knees and staring at her like she’d sprouted a second head.
“You what?”
“I killed my mother,” she said again, tears spilling as he unwrapped his tail from her wrists. “When I was born. She lost too much blood… it was all my fault. I deserve to suffer.”
A deep sigh relaxed his shoulders, and he crawled next to her, pulling her into his arms.
“You can’t really believe that,” he cooed, her tears staining his white shirt.
“It is. I’ve been cursed since birth, cursed with wayward lust, with wicked thoughts. If the moon mother allows me into the Sanctum, it will be because of her bountiful mercy, not because of anything I’ve done.”
“Guilt may be a natural response, but I want you to really think about what you’re saying.
A baby has no power over the circumstances of their birth.
There is nothing you could have done to change the outcome, as devastating as it was.
It is okay to feel flawed, but you deserve good things, just like everyone else.
If your moon mother was a benevolent goddess, she would forgive you. ”
Isabelle sniffled, her heart warming even as remorse knotted her throat. She remembered the way the people of town had whispered about her when she was a little girl, the way Henri and Pierre completely ignored the loss of her father when she sought comfort in the sins of the flesh.
No one had so much as said ‘I’m sorry’, and here this demon was, saying she deserved goodness, that she wasn’t at fault. Even her father had never explicitly told her that, had always looked at her with regret in his eyes.
Rul kissed the top of her head, giving her another squeeze.
“We will give you every good thing that you desire, that you deserve.”
“It doesn’t seem like Bellinor feels that way,” she said, again wishing she was better at biting her tongue.
He sighed heavily, taking a moment to answer.
“He survived out there, all alone, for many many years. Le Voile changed him, is a part of him. He is one with the void.”
“He must have done something awful to be banished here.”
Rul furrowed his brows, petting a hand along her cheek.
“You really think that? What could a human have done to deserve a place like this?”
Isabelle opened her mouth to speak, but closed it when she couldn’t find an answer.
She recalled the overwhelming despair that had overcome her just from looking at le Voile, the entity seeking her destruction from a mere glance.
She couldn’t imagine actually being out there, feeling the call of the void as it tore her apart, consuming her bit by bit.
“Why don’t you tell me what he did?” she finally answered.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“And why not?”
He propped himself up, his eyes downcast.
“I’ve told you already. That’s his story to share.”
So secretive, as always.
She huffed her discontent, wiping tears from her eyes and staring at the stone ceiling.
“Why don’t you play with your gifts? I’m sure Bellinor will be by later,” Rul said, as if she should be happy to be here in the dark.
She eyed the blank canvas, still sitting on the easel where she’d left it.
“What am I supposed to paint?”
“Hold on. I’ll make you something,” he said, getting up from the bed and dragging a small table to the center of the room.
She watched with reluctant interest as he raised his hands, black wisps of smoke appearing from his palms and enveloping the tabletop in a cloud. His eyes were closed, concentration etched on his face as he molded the energy, letting it slowly take form.
As the glowing embers of le Voile dissipated, a beautiful still life lay in its wake.
A simple bouquet was the focal point, stunning white hydrangeas acting as a base for delicate pink rosebuds, dark green leaves complementing the pastel arrangement.
A white teacup rimmed in gold sat next to the short vase, and a single rose lay across the composition, completing the display.
“What do you think?” he asked, clearly pleased with himself.
It had been a long while since she’d painted a formal still life, not since she was mentoring with a local artist, a kind woman who had taught her so much. Once her father had passed, her lessons had ceased, all her time eaten up by her second job, which kept food on the table.
Her chest clenched with emotion as she remembered those carefree days, or how she had perceived them as carefree at the time. It was only in hindsight that she’d seen the signs, the way her father had meticulously set up the cottage for her, knowing what he was about to do.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” she said, her stomach fluttering at the proud smile beaming from Rul’s handsome face.
Isabelle cautiously made her way toward the easel, examining the paints and brushes more closely than she’d gotten a chance to last night.
“You’re welcome, baby,” Rul said, moving to stand behind her as she examined the canvas.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, cocking his head like he was trying to analyze the composition he’d arranged. When she giggled at the sight, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Have fun,” he said, releasing her and moving toward the bed.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, watching him as he lounged on the mattress.
“I can be patient,” he said with a wicked grin that told her all she needed to know.
Isabelle turned back to the paints, choosing the ones she wanted for her palette as anticipation tingled her nerves.