Page 47 of Mated to the Wolves

“To create. I have to get out what’s in my head and heart, or it’ll fester,” I whisper.

“What’s stopping you?”

“Are you kidding me?” I laugh.

Cad moves the book away.

“Take a break.”

“I can’t.”

“How much work were you getting done?” He taps the doodles on the pad I’d been using for notes.

“Point taken,” I smile, embarrassed.

“This room was given to you for a reason.” He gestures toward the skylight. “It was meant to inspire you. Let it.”

“That easy?” I ask sassily.

“Isn’t it?” He tilts his head.

“No.”

He laughs. The husky sound goes straight to my core, and I squirm.

“An artist is in your blood. It’s who you are. I’ve seen you create things from thin air like magic. So, tell me what the real problem is?”

I haven’t allowed myself to tap into my creative state of mind because I’m terrified of what will emerge.

“It’s all I can do every day to get up and put one foot in front of the other. If I think too much about what I’ve lost, and I go to that space where my art flows from I might break?—.”

“And I’ll be here to pick up the pieces. We all will, even the little asshole, Bo cares in his way.”

“I can’t turn that part of myself back on, I don’t think it’s safe.”

“I think you need to.” Cad walks to the closet and pulls out an easel and a fresh canvas.

“Cadoc, don’t.”

“It’s time you stop hiding from who you are and what happened. We need you at your best.”

He brings out my collection of paintbrushes and I feel the stirrings of longing swell inside me. I’ve avoided this, locked the urge away, in a desperate attempt to separate my old life from this one.

Anguish crashes over me like a wave. The freeze on the feelings about my old life and betrayal thaws. Chest aching, I walk toward the blank canvas. In my mind's eyes, I see the piece.

A collage of memories against a dark gray background. I want to see the moments of joy and examine the truth in the stark light of reality. A woman possessed, I begin to mix white and black paint on a palette.

The damn inside me bursts, and tears spill free. I go in on the canvas. Time is suspended. It always is when I work. Slowly small scenes begin to emerge among the gray. Kez and I at a party, my table at the farmer’s market, and brunch at the local mom-and-pop diner.

I purge it all, reliving the moments and taking the warmth and joy they gave. Even if it wasn’t real for Kez, it was for me.

Those moments shaped who I am, helped me find myself outside of a pack that didn’t value me, or what I had to offer. No one can take what I gained from my time away from me. I unleash my anger on the canvas, cutting the scenes with dark red slashes.

I create wounds that speak to the state of my soul. I work in a frenzy. Panting, I step back, admiring the hideously beautiful display.

“Feel better?” Cadoc’s voice snaps me out of my daze.

“Yes,” I turn. Cadoc sits beside Kirk.

---