Page 133 of Rage

Edmund smirks slightly. “It’s a start. But more importantly, she needs to see that you’re not afraid of her—not just the beast, but the woman beneath. And, Mr. Steele…” he leans forward slightly, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Be careful with her past. There are wounds there that are still bleeding. Show her you respect the scars without demanding to see them.”

Steele nods slowly. “So, be patient. Be honest. And don’t push too hard. Got it.”

Edmund straightens, lifting the serving tray with the next course for Reverie with an effortless grace. “Precisely. But I’d also add a little humor occasionally, which wouldn’t hurt. She hasn’t laughed in years.”

As Edmund turns to quit the dining room, Steele clears his throat. “Do you have anywhere in here that I can paint?”

Edmund turns, his white brows quirking up in curiosity. “Any one of the sitting rooms on your wing. Simply ask the house for supplies, and it will oblige.”

Steele salutes him in thanks and downs the rest of his ale.

The need to release the storm of emotions swirling inside him becomes too great to ignore. Steele makes his way to a large sitting room he had discovered earlier, grateful for the lack ofmurderous encounters with the manor’s more hostile spirits this time.

As he steps into the space, he looks around, hesitating momentarily before speaking.

“Um…” His voice feels awkward, almost absurd, directed at the empty room. “Can I have… a set of brushes, high-quality paints, a sketchbook, canvas, charcoal and pencils, palette knives, and an easel?”

A sudden whirl of bright, spinning light engulfs the room. Steele shields his eyes as the brilliance intensifies, accompanied by a gust of wind that sends loose papers and drapes fluttering. When the light finally dims, and the air settles, he opens his eyes to find everything he asked for neatly laid out before him, as if conjured from his thoughts.

He steps toward the stack of canvases propped against the stone wall, the light from the nearby window catching the pristine surface of the top one. Carefully, he lifts it onto the easel and settles onto the stool before it. He picks up a brush, dips it into the richly pigmented paint, and places the first stroke against the canvas.

At first, his movements are wild and chaotic, his emotions pouring out in raw, unrestrained strokes. But slowly, the frenzy gives way to form and purpose. Her eyes emerge from the chaos—those glowing embers pierce into his soul. Her fractured existence, beastly and human, takes shape in vivid, haunting detail.

Each line, each shadow, each color becomes an outlet for his turmoil, echoing the conflict he senses within her. The room soon transforms, the walls lined with paintings of her: fierce, vulnerable, radiant, broken.

Days bleed into nights as Steele immerses himself in his art, barely pausing to rest on the cot the manor conjured at his request. With a thought, food appears to sustain him, and evena bathroom materializes as if the manor itself anticipates his needs. Its magick becomes his refuge, allowing him to stay in his art room, crafting image after image of the mysterious being who both haunts and mesmerizes him.

On the eleventh day, as he works on yet another painting, a presence enters the room.

He doesn’t notice at first, so consumed by his work. But when he hears the soft intake of breath, he glances up to see her standing in the doorway.

Reverie’s eyes scan the room, taking in the countless depictions of herself. For a moment, her expression is unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across her face—a genuine, untarnished smile, as if for the first time in years.

Chapter Seven

Reverie

Steele freezes, brush poised mid-air.

I don’t know what I’d expected of him, yet he surprises me even more profoundly.

“I, uh—” he starts, but I hold a clawed hand at him, looking at the piece on his easel.

At first, I’m pissed.

A week and a half has passed since the dinner, and I’ve been so angry at him for trying to pry into my life—again.

Every curtain in my room was shredded to bits, only to be replaced and shredded again.

Staying to my wing and milling about my chambers, I only ventured into the main part of the house a few times. As soon as I heard the house stirring up things to frighten him, I returned to my quarters so I would not have to face him.

But this.

I hadn’t expected this.

My eyes flit across the vast room Steele’s been covering with pictures—pictures of scenery and landscapes, Hecate Manor, the village, the castle—but mostly, they’re of me.

He stands as I move away from the easel, drawn to one across the room.

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