Chapter 20 Shelby
Shelby
Sleep eludes me.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling while Serena’s soft breathing fills the silence. She’s curled against my side, one hand splayed over my chest, her dark hair fanning across my shoulder like a silk waterfall.
My wife.
The word still sounds foreign in my head. Foreign but right.
After a while, I carefully disentangle myself from her embrace. She murmurs something unintelligible and rolls onto her stomach, one arm reaching toward the warm spot I’ve left behind. I pause, watching her settle deeper into the pillow. She doesn’t wake.
I grab my boxer briefs from the floor and slip them on before padding barefoot to the winged chair in the far corner. The city sprawls beneath me, a glittering tapestry of lights and shadows, but I barely see it. My mind is elsewhere, trapped in the space between memory and possibility.
The cigar box sits on the credenza. I select one, cut the tip, and light it with practiced ease. The first draw fills my lungs with rich, smoky warmth. It’s a ritual I’ve perfected over the years. One that helps quiet the inner noise when the ghosts get too loud.
From here, I have a perfect view of our bed. Of her.
Serena lies on her stomach, the sheet pooled low on her back, revealing the elegant curve of her spine. Her hair cascades across the pillow like spilled ink. Even in sleep, she exudes a certain grace, the unmistakable self-assurance of a woman who commands attention without demanding it.
I take another pull from the cigar, letting the smoke curl from my lips.
Beautiful. Serena’s so fucking gorgeous it hurts.
But it’s not just her beauty that holds me captive.
It’s her fire. Her intelligence. The way she stands toe-to-toe with me and refuses to back down, even when I’m at my most impossible.
The way she looked at me tonight at the gala, even after I revealed my worst to her.
She stared at me like the darkness inside me didn’t scare her.
Because you’re my monster.
Her words echo in my head, stirring something warm in my chest.
My monster.
Maybe that’s what this is. We’re two monsters recognizing each other in the dark, choosing to be monstrous together rather than alone.
I finish the cigar and extinguish it in the crystal ashtray I keep beside the cigar box. But sleep still feels impossibly far away. There’s too much energy humming beneath my skin, too many thoughts I can’t silence, too many emotions I can’t hide from.
I rise from the overstuffed chair and stalk silently through the apartment. My feet carry me up the stairs to the third floor, to the door at the end of the hallway.
The locked door.
I haven’t been in this room for years.
My hand hesitates, hovering over the keypad. Except for the cleaning staff, no one has entered here since I came back from Syria. I even stopped looking at this door, as if ignoring its existence could erase what lay behind it.
My studio.
I tried to paint after leaving the Marines.
I set up the easels, arranged the oil paints, and prepared the canvases.
Art had always been my sanctuary, my therapy.
My mother, the brilliant Psychology scholar, encouraged each one of us to follow our natural artistic talents.
Dave plays piano like a goddamn virtuoso.
Tommy writes poetry. Nick combined these two skills and started a band.
I found my haven in painting, the one place where the chaos in my head transformed into something tangible and beautiful.
When I was deployed, I used to sketch in a worn leather journal, capturing faces and landscapes in quick, stolen moments between missions.
But after Syria, every time I picked up a brush, my hands would start shaking. The colors bled together into mud. The images that emerged were nightmares on canvas. Abeera’s face twisted in fear.
Eventually, I stopped trying.
I’d convinced myself the fire was gone. I believed that the artist had died in that collapsed building, along with everything else that used to matter. Everything that made me human, leaving only an empty shell and a darkened soul.
But tonight...
Tonight, something feels different.
I punch in the code, my mom’s birthday, May tenth, nineteen-sixty-six. The lock clicks open, an almost ceremonial sound. I push the door wide and step inside.
The room is exactly as I left it. Dust motes dance in the moonlight streaming through the skylights.
Easels stand like sentinels in the shadows, their wooden frames pale against the dark walls.
Canvases lean against every surface. Some are blank, some bear the aborted attempts I couldn’t finish years ago.
The smell hits me first: linseed oil, turpentine, dried paint. It’s the smell of creation, of possibility, of a version of myself I thought was gone forever.
I turn on the overhead lights that flood the space, turning the night into a bright day. During the day, the abundant light from the glass walls and skylights ensures good illumination. At night, I tried to replicate that by having the architect design powerful spotlights everywhere.
My supplies are where I left them. Brushes stick out of ceramic jars. Tubes of paint lie on a wooden table, arranged by color. I brush my fingertips on the stained surface of an old palette. I run my fingers over the bristles of a brush.
My hands aren’t shaking.
The memories aren’t rushing back.
The weight of guilt isn’t stealing my ability to breathe.
But now, standing in the middle of my studio with the lingering warmth of Serena’s body clinging to my skin, I am steady. More importantly, I am eager to paint.
She did this, I realize. She’s brought art back to my life.
I set up a fresh canvas on the largest easel. I select my colors without conscious thought, muscle memory making up for years of dormancy. Titanium white. Burnt sienna. Prussian blue. The amber that matches her eyes.
The first stroke of paint against canvas is hesitant, experimental. The second is bolder. By the third, I’m lost in the rhythm, dominated by the push and pull of creation. I focus on the colors, blending them and separating them. I focus on the image that’s taking shape beneath my fingers.
I don’t paint the ghosts this time.
I paint Serena.
The curve of her cheekbone. The intelligence in her eyes. The way her lips quirk when she’s about to say something naughty. The softness in her expression when she looks at me like I’m worth something.
Hours pass. I don’t notice.
I just paint. The portrait takes shape stroke by stroke, each touch of the brush to the canvas an act of devotion. I’ve never been good with words. But this... this I can do. This I can offer her.
The first hint of dawn creeps through the skylights, painting the studio in shades of rose and gold.
“Gosh, that’s gorgeous.” Serena’s soft gasp cuts through my concentration.
I spin around, brush still in hand. She stands in the doorway wearing nothing but one of my button-down shirts, the hem falling to mid-thigh, her dark hair tousled from sleep. The morning light catches the amber in her eyes, making them glow.
I was so absorbed in my work that I didn’t hear her footsteps on the stairs, didn’t notice the door opening behind me.
Now, her gaze is fixed on the canvas and on her own face, rendered in oil paint in shadows and light that I created.
“I didn’t hear you,” I say, setting down the brush.
She moves closer, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. Her eyes never leave the portrait. “I woke up, and you were gone. I came looking.”
She stops beside me, so close that the lingering scent of sex on her skin teases my senses. Her fingers reach out, hovering just above the wet paint, tracing the air over the lines of her own face.
“Is this how you see me?” She whispers with a note of amazement.
I study her studying herself. The portrait captures part of her essence. There’s the fire, the intelligence, the determination.
“It’s far from complete. It’s only the beginning, actually. But I can’t quite capture all that I see in you,” I admit. “Your soul, your heart are too beautiful, too complex. The canvas isn’t big enough.”
Serena tears her gaze from the painting to look at me. Those whiskey eyes are bright with unshed tears.
“Shelby...”
“You gave me this,” I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
“I haven’t been able to paint in years. Not since Syria.
Every time I tried, the ghosts took over.
But you...” I reach out to cup her face, my thumb brushing away a tear that’s escaped down her cheek.
“You gave me the fire to create again. You silenced the ghosts.”
She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When they open again, they’re filled with light. “I remember seeing you with easels and brushes back in the day.” Serena turns back to the portrait, her expression thoughtful. “Will you finish it?”
“If you’ll let me.” I step closer, wrapping an arm around her waist from behind. She leans back into my embrace naturally, like she was made to fit against me. “Maybe if you model for me, I can get it right. Capture what I’m missing.”
She tilts her head to look up at me, a slow smile curving her lips. “You want me to pose?”
“If you’re willing.” I press a kiss to her temple. “Lie down on the couch. Let me try.”
Her smile turns mischievous, but she complies, crossing to a worn leather couch about five feet away. She arranges herself on her side, head propped on one hand, the shirt riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of her thighs.
“Like this?” she asks, all innocence.
“Perfect.” I return to the easel, selecting a fresh canvas. “Don’t move.”
She holds the pose while I sketch, the charcoal flying across the rough surface. The morning light pours through now, bathing her in gold. She’s never looked more beautiful—relaxed, unguarded, entirely at ease in my space.