Page 115 of Ink Deep Devotion

Come on, heart! Beat without cracking further. I know it’s hard, but this means something.

It’s so impactful that it feels like glue dripping into even the smallest crevasse of my shattered soul. Binding, trying too hard to make me feel whole again.

“Why did you do this, Dash.”I know why.It’s love hidden in the shadows again. Kept safe and confidential, loved and cherished, but also alone.

Art covers the walls, giving the room a museum-like appearance.

Myart.

I step in further; the door closing behind me makes my heart skip a beat. Every painting I donated to the gallery is here on the walls—it’s all my art. A solitary chair resides in the center of the room, devoid of life. The leather on it looks tortured, just like my poor Dash’s soul. I see him in my mind’s eye, sitting there, watching the paint, wishing he could study me with that same focused attention.

“Dash…” I repeat, my voice choked with tears of mingled happiness and grief.

The deeper I walk, the more I realize this goes beyond just what I donated. It’s all my art that has ever sold. That piece there was when he was gone at Initiation 101, that terrible school that stripped away his soul.

How did he get that? He must have looked at the records and bought the painting from the previous buyer.

He’s taken everything I created for himself, and I couldn’t be more heartbroken and fulfilled. Everything I painted was for him. They were snapshots of my suffering and bliss, expressing gratitude for fixing me and resentment for breaking me again. My tears are hidden beneath the layers of hard paint. Quietly, he gathered every tear shed and hid it away in this room for him to mourn.

Why didn’t he show me this?

How long does he sit in that empty, cold chair?

I spin around and see that against the far wall are six trunks. What’s tucked inside of those? I approach the first and kneel on the hard concrete floor. Opening it, I gasp. It’s filled with sketchbooks, but they aren’t mine. The book I hold slips from mytrembling hands and falls to the floor. The pages spill open, and I see myself looking back at me.

These arehissketchbooks!

I open trunk after trunk, all overflowing with sketchbooks, each one filled with drawings of me. Some of these are from when we were still together in high school, and others are now.

I sob uncontrollably, clutching the books to my chest.“I wish this was enough.” But it’s not. It’s certainly a declaration of his love and devotion for me, but without the words, did it even happen?

He’s kept these books caged away safely. That is what he wants to do to me once we marry. He will cherish me just like he has our art, but when I look at all my paintings, they will never see the light of day.

Our love will never feel the warmth of the rising sun because he shoved it into a dark corner, thinking the dark could conceal it and save it from being burned.

You forgot, Dash, that darkness also burns. It’s not heated fire; it’s cold, a chilling numbness that freezes you, and then it shoves you, causing you to fall and shatter all over the floor. At least fire burns everything away; the cold leaves you there, broken as it watches you suffer. It's the cruelest of fates.

Footsteps come running. I spin around, clutching the sketchbook, bracing for an angry Dash. Instead, I find my guards.

“We need you to come with us, Miss,” my guard says, his voice firm. Their guns are drawn as they drag me up from my spot.

“What’s happening!” The words stick to my throat.

“We’ve been ordered to take you to your father’s house.” He tugs me along towards a waiting SUV.

“No! Tell me what’s going on.” I’ve never seen my guard this worried before. His face is pale, a bead of sweat drips down his temple.

“There has been an attack. Your father has ordered you to be brought home.”

“No!”

I flinch again, but he hoists me up and puts me into the SUV as if I were a teacup being put back into the china cabinet. I move towards the door, ready to push my way back outside. He closes the small gap while giving me a threatening look and stating,“I am prepared to use force. I have orders from your father and Dash. Don’t fight me, Mila.” He slams the door shut. Two more cars quickly follow closely behind us a moment later.

“What attack?” I hug the sketchbook so tightly into my chest that its corners leave bruises.“Is Dash okay?” I fumble in my pocket, searching for my phone. I close my eyes.Idiot. I left it in the living room.

“Mr. King,” he begins.

“What about Mr. King?”Which King?Does he mean Titan, Damian, or Dash? The guards always address them so formally that they don’t call them by their first name, so in reality, they are all Mr. King.

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