Page 26 of Sinful Skulls
I steady myself on the back of one of the black leather couches in the room. “These are all my fathers?” I ask in disbelief.
“Not all. Some. This is our family’s private display. It’s filled with our very best pieces. The one downstairs will be added soon.”
I swallow hard and take a step back, bumping into him. He grabs my elbows, holding me still.
“Our parents were morticians,” he whispers in my ear. “Each one of the women are both model and medium.”
My ears ring loudly, and my vision blurs.
He begins to walk us around the room, pausing in front of each portrait. “They preferred to paint the dead. My brother, your father, also held that preference.” He stops at a small portrait of a woman facing away from me. “With the exception of your mother.”
I shiver at what she holds in her hand.
“She’s the only live model in this entire room?”
Henry laughs at my question. “Not exactly. My brother wasn’t capable of taking a life. He used the same source as my parents. There are plenty of shady morticians in the States.”
That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
The next paintings we come to are a different style. My blood runs cold. If you’re wondering how this could get worse, I can assure you it does.
There is no way this is going to end well.
I need to get out of here.
“You and I share the same technique, the same inspiration. This one is a depiction of the ultimate form of submission.”
I’m frozen, almost stupefied that my current state of reality is a literal real life horror movie.
“Look at her eyes. Do you see me there, in the reflection?” His voice snakes around my throat, keeping me silent. “She gave me her life willingly. She offered me her very essence, and I used it to memorialize her.”
I stare at the woman in the throes of both pleasure and pain, relief and resistance, faith and fear. The duplicity of life, painted in her blood.
He hugs me closely. “It’s okay to embrace your darkness. Let me show you how. We’ll start with my blood, and you can create whatever your soul is calling you to paint.”
This cannot be happening.
It cannot.
“Please let me help you. I’m the only one who truly understands you,” he coaxes.
He’s not theonlyone who understands me.
“Let’s go downstairs. I’ve already prepared some blood for you. I think you’ll find it’s smoother than any other medium you’ve used.”
Henry spins me around, and his depravity for me to do this shines brightly in his dark eyes. I shake my head, trying to pull away from him.
“Please let me go. I’m not interested in any of this,” I whisper.
His grip tightens, and he jerks me against him. “The paintings hanging in my library tell a different story, don’t they? You’re very interested.”
“No. Let me go.” I push against his chest, and when he doesn’t release me, I begin to prepare myself for what I have to do.
I relax in his arms, dropping my gaze.
He instantly reacts to my submission, loosening his hold on me. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. I just want to show you – ” He stops talking when my knee makes direct contact with his crotch.
The second he releases me, I run to the portrait of my mother and yank it off the wall. Then I sprint for the door.
