Page 3 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
I retreat to my studio, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The space envelops me in familiar smells—oil paint, turpentine, canvas, charcoal. My sanctuary. My confessional.
And she's everywhere.
The walls are lined with her—Iris sleeping, Iris reading, Iris walking through the park with sunlight dappling her hair. Three years' worth of obsession hung like a shrine to a goddess who never knew she was being worshipped.
I remember the first time I saw her. Downtown farmer's market, three years ago. I rarely ventured out even then, but my supplies had run low, and the thought of Winters choosing my pigments made my skin crawl. She'd been standing at a flower stall, fingers caressing a sunflower's petals. The yellow against her olive skin, the gentle curve of her neck as she bent to smell it—I was transfixed.
I followed her. Not close enough to frighten, just... observing. The way she moved through the crowd, how she smiled at the elderly vendor who slipped an extra apple into her bag, the careful way she counted coins from a worn wallet. I knew before she reached the bus stop that I would paint her.
The first piece was innocent enough—just her profile against the backdrop of the market. But soon I needed more. I found myself waiting for Saturdays, knowing she'd return to the same market. I learned her routine. The bookstore she frequented. The coffee shop where she'd sit for hours with a single cup of tea, writing in a journal.
I never approached her. Never let her see me. But I collected her, piece by piece, brushstroke by brushstroke.
The painting on my easel now is from yesterday—Iris in the garden, head tilted back to catch the sun, throat exposed in a way that makes my teeth ache with the need to mark it. I've captured the softness of her lips, slightly parted, and the shadow her lashes cast on her cheeks. But I can never quite get her eyes right. There's something in them—a sadness, a searching—that eludes me.
My fingers trace the outline of her neck on the canvas. Still wet. The paint smears, marring the perfection, and something dark uncurls in my chest. Good. She isn't perfect. I don't want her to be. Perfection is static, dead. Iris is vibrant, alive, flawed in ways I'm still discovering.
A routine has formed already. I watch her in the mornings, observing how she organizes her tasks, the methodical way she moves from room to room. She's thorough but not fussy, efficient without being cold. In the afternoons, I retreat to my studio to paint what I've seen, trying to capture some essential quality that keeps slipping through my fingers.
At night, I stand outside her door.
I tell myself it's just to listen, to know she's safe. But the truth burns hotter than that. I want to hear her breathe. Want to know if she talks in her sleep, if she moans, if she touches herself in the dark. The thoughts shame me even as they harden me.
Tonight, I hear water running—the old pipes singing as the clawfoot tub fills. The image forms instantly: Iris sinking intosteaming water, skin flushing pink, hair piled on top of her head with stray tendrils curling in the steam. I press my forehead against her door, breathing too heavily, hand fisted at my side.
"I know you're there," she said today, at the stream.
She was right. I'd followed her, telling myself I needed to ensure she didn't wander too far into the woods. The property has its dangers. But that was a lie. I followed because I couldn't not follow, drawn behind her like she had me on a chain.
When she spoke, I froze. Did she see me? Know me? But she didn't turn, didn't seek me out with her eyes. Just stated it as fact and continued her solitary walk back to the house. I matched my steps to hers, keeping distance between us, heart hammering so loudly I was certain she must hear it.
Now, with the bathroom door between us, I imagine her rising from the water, rivulets streaming down her body, between her breasts, over the softness of her stomach. My cock strains against my pants, demanding attention I refuse to give it. Not here. Not like this.
I return to my studio, locking the door behind me.
The painting I turn to isn't the one on the easel. It's an older piece, one I've kept covered. Iris, asleep—or so my imagination painted her. Naked except for a sheet twisted around one leg, arm flung above her head, hair spilling across the pillow. I'd constructed it from glimpses: her wrist as she reached for a book, the curve of her calf as she stepped onto a bus, the slope of her neck as she bent to smell flowers.
My hand moves to my belt before I've made a conscious decision. The leather slides free with a whisper. My zipper follows, and then my cock is in my hand, hot and hard and aching.
"Iris," I murmur, the first time I've said her name aloud since she arrived.
I stroke myself, eyes locked on the painting. In my mind, her painted eyes open, see me, want me. Her lips part, not in fear but invitation. She reaches for me, welcomes me into her body, her life, her soul.
The fantasy builds as my hand moves faster. I imagine her beneath me, around me, those dark eyes never leaving mine as I claim her, mark her, ruin her for anyone else. I imagine her saying my name—not formally, not "Mr. Trevelyan," but "Guy." Maybe even "Beast," claiming the whispered title as her own personal endearment.
My breathing turns ragged, harsh in the silent room. Pre-cum slicks my hand, making the glide easier, the sensation more intense. I'm close now, teetering on the edge, my entire body taut with approaching release.
"Mine," I growl at the painting, at the woman who doesn't yet know she already belongs to me. "You're mine, Iris."
I come with a violence that surprises even me, spurting onto the floor, careful not to desecrate the painting itself. The release is physical only. The deeper need remains unsated, a constant gnawing in my gut.
After cleaning myself and the floor, I sit heavily in my chair, facing my wall of Irises. What am I doing? This wasn't the plan. The plan was to observe her from a distance, to have her in my home but keep her separate, contained. To paint her with more accuracy now that she was close, but never to interact, never to reveal the depth of my obsession.
But I underestimated the effect of her actual presence. The scent of her shampoo lingering in rooms she's cleaned. The sound of her humming when she thinks she's alone. The warmth she brings to spaces that have been cold for as long as I can remember.
I pick up a brush, dip it in crimson, and begin a new canvas. This one isn't Iris as she is, but as she could be—in my bed, in myarms, marked by my hands and mouth. Her eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction, her lips swollen from my kisses, her throat bearing the imprint of my teeth.
It's four in the morning when I finish. I stand back, examining my work in the unforgiving light of my studio. It's good—maybe the best thing I've painted in years. There's an honesty to it, a raw need that my technically perfect but emotionally distant gallery pieces never captured.
