Page 71 of Antiletum
My face flushes hotter.
So much for my attempted subtlety.
My husband’s attention turns to me. Adoring and hot at the same time. Like we didn’t leave things off in a fight. Tense. “Ocellus.” The nickname sounds more like an ominous promise than anything else.
He leans forward, kisses my cheek. It occurs to me to push him away. But I freeze instead, remembering the fact that I am dedicated to my ruse of playing happy wife so I may achieve our goals for my own purpose. Find a way to free myself from our bond.
Val grins at me, devilish.Sinful.And without another word walks through the gate. Leaving me embarrassed and alone with Austin the Caretaker.
At least my cold shivers are fading away.
He averts his eyes. Clears his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly.
“No trouble at all, my Lady.” Even with his eyes trailed to the ground, I can see the corners of his mouth upturned, drawing irrefutable conclusions as to whythings have been so terribly upended in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, his assumptions are entirely too accurate. There’s no denying. Especially after my half naked husband presented himself right behind me.
With a shaky laugh, and a quietthankyou, I rush past Austin. Hopeful that I won’t run into Val again. Craving the quiet safety of my empty room, without company. Thedeosare on my side for the rest of my journey back to our apartments, the halls of The Citadel are void of life. Echoey and dark.
But any short amount of relief I held is wiped away the moment I swing wide the door into my chamber, an unwelcome focal point visible in the softly lit gas lamps. My refusal to think about Val and all he said cannot be ignored as I stride into my room—thanks to a painting perched on an easel, invading the space atop my lush carpet. Blatant and loud. Screaming of the antics of the person I want most to pretend doesn’t exist.
My heart stutters, fluttering straight into my stomach, making me feel light.
I’m not terrible.
Val downplayed his skills when I asked if he was any good. He isn’t just an artist—he’s a talented artist.
No.Talentedis far too meager a description for the genius I stare at. Blood retreats from my face, leaving it cold and tingly.
Painted in exquisite detail is me at my wedding, garbed in black. Ensemble complete with my bone, feather, and dried flower headdress. Moonlight bounces off my hair, my skin, in a purely ethereal glow. Like the hand who painted it views me as nothing less than a brilliant sun, the sole source of light.
The setting of trees and grass and midnight sky backlighting the focal point is made up of layers upon layers of vague depictions of my face. Showcasing every emotion in mind bending detail. Smiles. Tears.Rage. Uncertainty. But mostly, blank expressions of emptiness—a defense mechanism built out of years of loneliness.
Visually encapsulating every last word he lashed me with less than an hour ago.
Heseesme. I can’t deny it. No matter how badly I immediately tried to purge his words tonight, or how it rakes at my already ruined heart. In every single way, Valledyn can peel back my layers and inspect what’s beneath with nothing more than a glance. Every dip and rise of my emotions. Etched into his mind, cherished enough to live there forever.
The painting is the spirit of yearning. Devotion. Apology.Madness.Not only does it show every facet of myself, but it bares Val’s soul as well, one that wants to mold itself around every corner of mine. It’s equally lovely and unhinged, eliciting a fierce reaction. Begging me to go to him. To cry in his arms again and demand that he make this heartache right.
But it doesn’t matter. No amount of care or understanding can ever erase what he did.
A stake might as well be lodged in my heart. One through my lungs as well.
“Howdarehe?” I hiss with rage to no one but my lonesome self, staring back at this too visceral mirror.
Val has left multiple gifts for me in the last few days, all thoughtful and carefully chosen. Like the fucking owl brooch he gave me before exposing himself as a shifter and ripping away yet another thing that I love.
But this painting… It’sraw. Entirely too real. It reveals too much.
Before I can stop myself, I’m digging through my vanity until I find a sharp pair of shears. Stomping back to the offensive image, wanting to chisel away at my hatred, I plunge the closed blades into the centerof the painting, right through my own chest. And I swear, I can feel it explode in relief.
I stab repeatedly, turning hours upon hours of perfect work into nothing more than an empty, fruitless honeycomb.
It’s not enough.
With a scream, I throw the canvas to the ground, falling to my knees. Prying the shears open, I cut and cut and cut, until all that’s left is the broken, ripped scraps of what could have been.
