Page 69 of Twisted Love

“Here you go,” I say, watching as she swallows it with a grimace.

Nora sends food, enough for both of us. Raven glances at me, her brow furrowed. “What about you?” she asks quietly.

“I’ll eat later,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“No,” she says firmly. “Eat now. Nora has clearly made for both of us. See two plates and two sets of cutlery.”

We eat together quietly. It’s a truce. A pleasant state of affairs. Tender, even. The occasional clink of utensils fills the room, a comforting rhythm against the backdrop of her recovery.

Nora returns a few minutes later with some kind of gooey-in-the-middle dessert. Not really my thing, but Raven seems to enjoy it. As she eats, I watch her hungrily. She seems thinner. But there is definitely more color in her cheeks.

“How’s the project?” she asks suddenly, her voice still weak but curious. “The mall renovation one you’re working on.”

I hesitate. I don’t usually talk about my work, but the way she’s looking at me—earnest and attentive—makes me relent. “It’s going well,” I say casually. “We’re ahead of schedule, and I’m happy with the progress so far.”

She nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “That’s good,” she murmurs, her eyes growing heavy. “I’d never have thought you’d be involved in real estate and construction and making this little town a better place, but it suits you.”

Then she sinks back into the pillows, her eyes closing. All in all, her words make me smile, and they make me feel proud. She falls asleep quickly, her breathing steady and even. I stay for a while, making sure she’s deeply asleep before slipping out of the room.

I make my way to the music room and stand in front of the portrait I commissioned, the one I’d intended to use as a weapon, a way to humiliate her. I see how she must have seen it and it makes my body convulse with shame. Only a truly ugly person could have thought to do such a thing. I have become ugly. So ugly I don’t look much in the mirror anymore. Even I can’t bear the sight of me.

But this painting is not her. And it’s not me. It is an aberration. A season of hate did that.

I rush to the painting, rip it down from the wall, and break the frame with my bare hands until it is a heap of gilded wood and crumpled canvas. There are chips everywhere. But even throwing it away isn’t enough. I need to destroy it, to burn away the anger and bitterness that have poisoned everything between us.

I take the broken heap to the backyard and chuck it near the fire pit. The match flares to life in my hand. I hold it to the edge of the canvas. The flames catch quickly, consuming the image of her with an almost beautiful ferocity. I watch it burn, the heat warming my face as the last remnants of my resentment turn to ash.

I feel lighter. The anger is gone, replaced by something raw and fragile but undeniably real. It’s time to start over, to build something new from the ruins of what I’ve destroyed.

This time, I won’t let anything come between us.

CHAPTER43

RAVEN

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLfqA2igdUI

-sweet dreams are made of this-

I wake up suddenly from the edges of a restless sleep. My eyes flutter open, and I immediately notice the dim glow of flickering light painting the walls of my bedroom. My heart quickens with panic. Something’s wrong. I feel it in my chest. Even the room seems colder. I sit up and clutching a blanket tightly around me, I move toward the window, the source of the light.

Pressing my palm to the icy glass, I squint into the darkness. The yard is bathed in the orange hue of flames. My breath catches when I see Earl—tall, motionless, his face lit by the fire consuming broken bits of wood and a canvas.

The sight sends a shiver down my spine, not from the cold or the raw intensity of his stance, but because I know exactly what he is burning.

The blanket falls away from my shoulders and my knees nearly buckle. “The painting?” I whisper, trying to make sense of it.

Why is he doing this? What does it really mean?

Suddenly, he turns his head and looks up at me. He looks at me as if he’s seeing a ghost. His expression is agonized. For a long moment, we stare at each other.

Then I retreat to the bed and sit on the edge, my hands clasped tightly together. My chest feels tight, my breaths come in shallow gasps. Earl, what are you letting go of?

Then the door opens, and I glance up sharply. Earl steps inside, his eyes look at me as if nothing else in the world matters to him. The faint scent of smoke clings to him, mingling with the cooler air of the room.

I don’t speak. I can’t. The warmth of him feels like a balm against the raw ache inside me. He moves, the light from the hallway framing him like a halo.

He walks to the fallen blanket, picks it up and approaches me. When he stops in front of me, I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Gently, he places the blanket around my shoulders. The tension is thick, almost overpowering, but I don’t pull away. My fingers clutch the soft wool tightly as if bracing for something I dare not name. Dare not hope for.

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