“What does that even mean?”
That glint comes back to his eyes. The dangerous one. A shiver echoes in my body.
“I’m not better than that, little painter. I’m not a good man. I never made any such promise.”
Holy shit, he’s right. It’s possible I missed all the important lessons in art school. It’s possible I never learned to pay attention at all. Emerson hasn’t just been intense. He hasn’t just been obsessive. He’s been meticulous.
“You promised…” The sentence trails off. Emerson has used that word with me before. Promise.
“I never promised to be nice,” he says softly. He said that to me last night when he was forcing me to paint. I was begging him, shamelessly, to help me come.
“You promised it would be worth it.” Before. In his SUV. On the way to the beach. “This isn’t worth it.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I do.” I look away from him, out the window. I don’t want him to see that part of me is still curious. Part of me asks the same question of myself. How would you know? Part of me wants to feel brave and free, the way I did when I was running to him on the street.
I take a deep breath. Calm myself, as much as I can. This will be over soon. Very soon, if I know my brother. And I do.
In the meantime I make a point of considering my surroundings, mainly so I have an excuse not to look at Emerson. His bedroom is spacious. A big, king-size bed. A wide walk-in closet. The archway leading through to the art studio. Huge windows looking out onto the beach. Onto the ocean. A thin layer of snow covers the sand. The room is like a frame for the view. It doesn’t distract, or detract, from the sky and the water.
A person could paint the ocean all day from this house. She would never have to feel an icy breeze in her hair or the ache of frozen fingers.
“If you’re not interested in sleeping, you can paint.”
I whip my head back toward Emerson. “Why the hell would you think I wanted to paint?”
A brief smile lights his eyes. “You’re not aware of your body, little painter.”
I scoff. Shake my head. I wish I could hate this, too. How he makes statements instead of asking questions. How he pretends to know everything about me just by watching. As if that were possible.
And then I feel my fingers.
They’re searching for a paintbrush. Curved, like I’m already holding one. I grab for the collar of my T-shirt. Of Emerson’s T-shirt. I try not to do this in front of people. It’s a nervous habit my father always hated. Ironic, because he’s the one who gave it to me in the first place.
Emerson’s eyes flick down to my hand, then back up to my face.
I manage not to scowl at him while I unclench my fingers. Drop my hand back to my side. He has a chair in here, by the window. A low bookshelf built into the wall behind it. Taking the chair feels like surrender. The bed is closer.
“Fine.” I pad to the bed and perch on the edge, smoothing the hem of the T-shirt over my lap. It’ll be embarrassing to explain to Leo how I ended up wearing Emerson’s shirt and nothing else. But—no. He won’t ask. He’ll just take me home. “I’ll sit here.”
Emerson hasn’t moved from his spot in the center of the room. He handed me the mug of coffee and created space between us. I don’t know that I was ever conscious of him leaving the side of the bed, but he did. He wanted to observe me.
You’re my newest acquisition.
I fold my hands in my lap. I’ll make it a game, somehow. I won’t give him any more information about myself. Not any more than he’s already taken. I’ll just wait. I know how to do that. Growing up, I attended lots of events where waiting was a requirement. The family Christmas gala. My siblings’ birthday parties. Catechism classes. Those were always a waiting game. I wanted to draw the ideas, paint them, but I wasn’t allowed. Leo had to explain everything to me afterward. He sponsored me for my Confirmation. We’d been in church our whole lives, but I was still afraid to make a mistake in front of the bishop. The bishop might not mind, but my father would. So Leo stood next to me at the front of the church. Even if I screwed up, he’d take responsibility.
I knew it.
“You think your brother is coming, don’t you?”
“You don’t know anything about my brother.” My mind is still hanging on old memories. Sketching them out. Anything to pass the time.
“I don’t have to know anything about him.”
“Right. Because you already know everything about me. You can read my mind.”
“No.” I expected a joke, but his tone is even, not mocking. “I can’t read your mind. But I can see you.”
Another shiver. This one straight down the spine. Straight down the center of me. “See me sitting here? You’re full of it.”
“At the charity auction, when I asked if he’d hurt you—”
“He didn’t.”
“I know. You were furious. Real fury, and then—disgust, I think. You were disgusted. You tried to turn away from me.”
“What does that have to do with me sitting here?”
“When you heard brother is coming, your hands relaxed. You didn’t reach for your collar.” He lifts a hand and traces a line in the air. “Your shoulders…” He lets down his own a fraction of an inch. A tiny movement, but it changes everything.
The tension’s coming back. Drawing my shoulders up tight.
“You think he’s coming.” Emerson drops his hand to his side. “No one is coming to save you, little painter. I took care of that.”
2
EMERSON
Soft lamplight falls over Daphne’s frame. One of my T-shirts drapes over her body, obscuring her from me. It’s painfully demure, given that I fucked her not three hours ago. Shadows in the cotton give it depth. Character. But the shirt is nothing compared to the woman.
Dark eyes, bright with disbelief, with terror. Hair falling in gentle, slept-in waves. Pink cheeks paired with parted lips. Oh—that pain. If I didn’t already own her, I’d pay any price. Art that hurts like this always proves its value.
The dividing line between my thoughts shimmers. I’m not so far gone that I believe she’s made from canvas. I know she lives. She breathes. She cries. It’s a matter of perspective, that’s all. I need to keep her at a safe distance so she doesn’t overwhelm my emotions. Set them loose from their frames. And I need to see her as she is. It will be the only way to keep her here without destroying her mind. That would be a shame. A waste. It would strip the beauty from the piece.
It would strip the essential parts of her away, and I’m not interested in that. I want to keep her whole, like any priceless art.
Daphne rises from the bed and plants her feet. Fear moves through her in small tremors, like tiny waves lapping at the shore, but she keeps it apart from herself. Does she lock it away, like I do? Wait for the opportunity to put it on the canvas?
I’ll have plenty of time to find out. For now, I breathe in her sweet determination. Catchlights in her hair give the impression that she’s lit from within. Burnished. My bed is an ideal backdrop. White sheets roll together with my dark comforter. Daphne was peaceful there. Sleeping. It’s as if she emerged from a cotton sea.