Page 20 of Begging for Mercy
The first painting’s finished and set aside to dry, turned to face me as it rests against the foot of the easel. I stare at the bold color choices—a pale blue set against deeper tones, lush violets, and a slash of red across the figure’s face. Any blending he achieved was done messily and fast, but it gets the job done.
He takes his time on his current painting, tracing the arc of the model’s brow with such delicacy that I’m drawn in, the paintbrush tucked between my fingers slipping. The brush tips down my canvas and creates a cracked line directly in the middle.
“Shit,” I breathe, dropping the brush onto my tray. The scraggly line is ugly as hell, cracking through the model’s torso like a trench. I grab a paper towel to dab the paint, and a hand snatches my wrist to stop me. I look up and meet a familiar set of icy blues, the sunlight catching flecks of silver in their depths.
“Don’t,” Reaper murmurs, tipping his head towards mine. His voice wraps around me like a caress, sending heated shivers down my spine. I barely recognize him in a normal setting, yet here he is, statuesque like a Greek god in a plain white t-shirt that stretches across his chest and bleached jeans slung low overhis hips. Now I know what Mrs. Lebottowitz has been staring at all morning.
At night, his presence is like a voice in the back of your mind, intimidating and powerful even while hidden. But during the day, you’d never know he was capable of murder until he’s swinging the axe over your head. Charm radiates off of him in waves, and now that I’m paying attention, it isn’t just Mrs. Lebottowitz who’s swayed by him.
So is our model.
The smile on her lips looks like it was made for him, the arch of her body sensual and inviting. Our nude models rotate their positions around the room so that everyone has a chance to paint or sketch from different angles, and today, my side of the room is supposed to be turned towards their back. But she’s chosen to forego the schedule and aim her breasts towards the frosted windows—or, rather, in Reaper’s direct line of sight.
He pays her no mind, however, keeping his eyes on mine. “Use it.” Glancing at my tray, he picks up a clean paintbrush and dips it into the paint. “It’s more interesting.”
I stare at him for a full thirty seconds, the silence between us palpable. His smile grows, turning into a smirk as he flexes his arms. “Go on, Siren. Paint. Or am I too distracting for you? Should I leave?”
With a glare, I whip my head back around and re-wet my brush, careful to remove the excess paint before returning to my canvas. I draw a short line on the hollow of her throat, ignoring the dark line a few inches below. Keeping my voice down, I ask, “What are you doing here?” Frustration makes my brushstrokes sloppy, and I have to set down my brush and stretch my fingers. This is a longer studio class with sessions that range from three to five-hour stints. I didn’t check the schedule to know which day we’re on, but only one hour has passed. There are at least two more left before class is dismissed, and Ireallyneed to passthis class. Leaving in the middle of a session docks points from your project grade. This month, we’re experimenting with color and light when a model shifts their position in the middle of a painting. Will you recover, or will you embrace the movement as part of your work?
Reluctantly, the model turns her body around at Mrs. Lebottowitz’s suggestion, finally turning her back towards us. Having one fewer set of eyes on us makes me bolder, and I drag my easel and chair closer to Reaper’s. “What are you even working on?”
The moment my eyes land on his canvas, I’m at a loss for words. The woman in the painting isn’t tall and lithe like our model—she’s hunched over her canvas like a gremlin, but her legs stretch on like knives, dipping through the floor to touch the scratch of earth painted beneath. A canopy of wilting leaves, looking eerily similar to those on the oak tree behind us, hangs over her head. He isn’t following the prompt at all, choosing instead to mix fantasy and reality.
But his work is really fucking good. The technical precision required to paint the swell of her cheek in one stroke, the colors shifting from an off-white olive tone to a rough lavender, is hard to miss. Then there’s her lips—the tiniest swipe of red reminiscent of an older Japanese style—is simple yet elegant. I’m both devastated and impressed, and it makes me want to pack up and leave.
I’veneverleft a studio class early before.
Reaper rakes his fingers through his hair, exposing his forehead and mussing up the top. “It’s not my best work,” he says gently, “but it’s good enough for this class.”
I stare at his painting to avoid meeting his eyes. “You’re not enrolled in this class. You snuck in here to torment me. You stole myseat.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Someone has an inflated ego.”
“I do not!”
Mrs. Lebottowitz hushes us as she walks by.
Picking up his paintbrush, he reaches over me to dab the far edge of my canvas with the same deep blues on his own. Our shoulders brush, and I resist the urge to topple him over for the sake of everyone else in the room. I can’t ruin class foreveryone.I pick up my paintbrush dipped in pure white and press my hand against his, fighting every one of his strokes with my own. The paint mixes on the canvas, creating a wave-like translucence.
“I’m a student,” he says finally, tapping my knuckles with his fingertip. “I haven’t been in class because I complete all of my assignments at my home studio. You’ll have to visit sometime.”
Home studio?Visit?
“What are we, friends now?” I scoff. Lowering my voice, I continue. “Last I checked, you wanted to kill me.”
His hand hovers over the canvas. “Idowant to kill you.” Turning his face towards mine, he ghosts his lips over my temple. “But I want so much more than that, Mercy. Won’t you give it to me?”
Tingles spread down my arms. “Give you what?”
Carelessly dropping his brush on the floor, he turns my hand over and explores my inner wrist, tracing the blue veins trailing up my forearm. “Everything I want.”
Distracted by his touch, I idly swish my paintbrush back and forth without truly seeing what I’m doing. “And what is it that you want, Reaper?”
“Call me Kane,” he murmurs, suddenly pressing his nose into my hair, “when we’re like this.” The gesture is intimate enough to make me blush, and I have to force myself not to react.
“Kane,” I amend easily, tucking this new piece of information away. Sam agreed to help me look into Alejandro’s family thisweek. It’ll be easy to add brothers Kane and Zane to our search. “What do you want, then, Kane?”
“You.” Gripping my chin, he turns my face towards his, stealing my breath in one fluid motion. “Will you sing for me, Siren?”
