Page 8 of Muzzled

As the audience drew tighter around her, he retreated to the sanctity of his motel room.

*

Ryan laid outhis art collection on the questionable bedspread of his room, rearranging them into the order of his memories.

Seph collecting flowers along the riverbank.

Hades standing tall at the entrance of hell while he awaited Persephone’s return.

Her silhouette against the sun when she left again.

The hands of Hades and Seph, fingers intertwined.

His master, chain and collar in hand, lounging on his throne.

He lifted the newest one up, the one that didn’t fit.

The first five were perfect snippets, plucked from his head and spread bare, but the last was different.

Propping it on his nightstand, he lay back and stared at the eerily precise coloring of his own eyes standing out against the blackness of his hound form. Two hands were locked together at the top of the canvas, the cut of Seph’s rings peeking out between Hades’s fingers a dead giveaway. The chain falling between them led to the iron cage around his muzzle as he stood between them, hackles raised and claws gripping the earth that was crumbling into a black abyss at his feet.

He had never been muzzled by Hades, never been disciplined for his own disobedience. He’d taken punishments for his brothers as a pup, heavy-handed consequences meted out as warnings for the less devoted, less controlled twins who felt the echoes of every hit he took.

He’d stood stoically when his own collar was tightened as a reminder to the young Alexandros to stay his path and heed without argument.

He’d even taken on a cursed love line to free Bo up to hunt down the balm to his restlessness.

But the humiliation of a muzzle had never been an option, had never been needed.

Sitting up, he snatched his shoes off the floor and yanked them on, shoving the offensive artwork into his bag.

The Maestro needed to answer a few questions.

*

Mike watched withamusement as Logan ensured his meticulous packing of her pastels was in clear view, his way of apologizing for slacking that morning. She continued to scrub the paint and charcoal from her fingers, the dim light of the streetlamp forgiving the more embedded stains that would stay on her skin for the remainder of the festival season. Productive as the day had been, she welcomed the darkness the setting sun brought, bringing along with it an excuse to pack up, clean off, and stretch the tension from her muscles.

“Excuse me.”

Running a tiny wood dowel rod under her nail to scrape a stubborn blue off, she glanced up. “Oh, hey. Ryan, right?”

He stood over her a moment before crouching beside her, his immense height significantly less intimidating when he balanced on his haunches and held out the piece she’d given him. “Yeah. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about this.”

Scanning the art over for imperfections, she frowned and slid the doweling into her bag. “Not much I can say. It’s a charcoal-pastel combo on a fine weave heavyweight canvas.” She unzipped the front pocket of her pack and stacked the cleaned paint jars inside. “Watch the acidity of the mountings you use, and it’ll last a lifetime.” She rolled her eyes as Logan’s cut of the day’s work fell out of his pocket. “Hey, brat. Remember the first lesson I taught you: don’t toss the profits.”

Logan snatched the money from the ground and gave her a thumbs-up before returning his attention to a pretty brunette.

Ryan shifted in place. “I was actually interested in the inspiration behind the collection I picked up. This one in particular.”

She glanced at the piece and stood, collapsing her easel and chair. “I create what I see in my head, and I don’t take requests.” Hefting her art case onto her shoulder, she gave him an apologetic shrug, pausing a moment to study his mismatched eyes. “Sorry if you were aiming for another, but that’s the last in the series. Have a good night.”

Passing the easel and chair to Logan with assurances she’d meet up with him later, she beelined toward the back alley shortcut to her basement rental, her grip on her bag tightening as heavy footsteps caught up with her. Stopping to remain in sight of the festival crowds, she turned to Ryan. “Yes?”

He exhaled loudly and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to be a creep here, but I’d really like to talk about your inspirations.” When she remained silent, eyes narrowing, he adjusted his hold on his messenger bag. “Look. I’ll be on the patio over there all night. If you’d like to maybe join me for a coffee and a bite to eat, I’ll buy. For your assistant, too.”

Switching her case to her other shoulder, she assessed him and nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe.”

*

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