Page 5 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
I should leave. He's clearly not here, not injured or in need of help. I've confirmed that and satisfied my duty of care. But my feet carry me deeper into the room instead, curiosity overriding caution.
The flashlight beam glides over more paintings leaning against walls, stacked in corners. Landscapes, mostly. Some abstract pieces that pulse with barely contained violence. The work of a tormented soul, I think, then chide myself for the cliché. Yet it fits what little I know of him—the isolation, the scars, the silent watchfulness.
I've nearly convinced myself to leave when the beam catches something familiar.
A face.Myface.
I jerk the light back, certain I'm mistaken. But no—those are my eyes staring back at me from the canvas, my lips curved in a small smile I recognize from my reflection. It's me, sitting on a park bench, reading a book I remember buying years ago.
"What the hell?" I whisper, stepping closer.
The painting is exquisite, capturing not just my likeness but something beneath it—a loneliness I thought I hid well, a searching quality in my eyes I've never fully acknowledged.
I swing the flashlight frantically now, heart racing. There—another canvas, me again, walking through what looks like a farmer's market. And another—me asleep on what I assume is a bus, head resting against the window. Each image is rendered with painstaking detail, a tenderness in every brushstroke that makes my skin flush hot despite the chill in the air.
Lightning flashes, and for an instant, the entire studio is illuminated. What I see stops my breath.
An entire wall. Covered in me.
When darkness returns, I stumble forward, flashlight beam jumping erratically from canvas to canvas. Me in a sundress I wore last summer. Me laughing at something off-canvas. Me in profile, looking thoughtful. Me in the rain, hair plastered to my face.
Years of me. Moments I never knew were witnessed, preserved in oils and acrylics and charcoal.
"Oh my God," I breathe, my free hand pressed against my mouth.
The implications hit me in waves. He's been watching me. For years. Before I ever set foot in this house. Before I even knew he existed. He's been collecting moments of my life like butterflies pinned to a board.
I should be terrified. Should be running from this house, this man who's stalked me through paint and canvas. Instead, I find myself moving closer to the wall of images, studying each one with a strange detachment, as if looking at a stranger who happens to share my face.
The artistry is undeniable. He hasn't just copied my appearance; he's captured essences of me I didn't know were visible from the outside. Moments of joy, contemplation, sadness—all rendered with such intimate understanding that it steals my breath.
I stop at one that seems more recent—me in the garden here at the estate, face tilted toward the sun. I remember that moment from just days ago, the warmth on my skin, the brief peace I felt. I had no idea I was being observed, being memorialized.
The flashlight beam moves of its own accord, revealing more canvases stacked against the wall. I kneel, setting the light down to free my hands, and carefully turn the first one toward me.
My gasp echoes in the cavernous room.
It's me—but not a me that exists in reality. I'm in a bed, sheet tangled around one leg, the rest of me bare to an unseen viewer. My hair spreads across the pillow, my back arched slightly, lips parted in what can only be ecstasy. It's erotic, explicit in its intent, though somehow not pornographic. There's too much emotion in it for that—too much longing.
I should look away. This crosses every boundary, violates my privacy in ways I can't even fully process. But I keep staring, transfixed by this version of myself—desired, worshipped, transformed by someone else's hunger.
I flip to the next canvas and feel heat flood my face. Me again, this time on my knees, looking up at an unseen lover, mouth open in invitation. The next shows me bent over a table, hands gripping the edge, looking back over my shoulder with eyes heavy with want.
Fantasy versions of me, existing only in Guy Trevelyan's imagination. Until now, seen only by his eyes.
Thunder cracks directly overhead, making me startling so badly I knock over the stack of canvases. They fall with a clatter that seems deafening in the charged silence.
"Shit," I hiss, scrambling to collect them, to hide the evidence of my trespass. But it's too late.
The main lights flicker on, temporarily blinding me after so long in the darkness. I blink rapidly, disoriented, my hands still clutching one of the explicit paintings.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The voice is low, rough, like stones being dragged across other stones. I look up, heart in my throat.
Guy Trevelyan fills the doorway, his large frame blocking any escape. He's even taller than I realized, broader through the shoulders, intimidating in his stillness. The scar I'd glimpsed before runs from his right temple down his cheek to his jaw, puckered and angry against his otherwise handsome face. His eyes—almost black—bore into mine with an intensity that pins me in place.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. What could I possibly say? Sorry I discovered your years-long obsession with me? Sorry I found out you've been painting pornographic fantasies of my body?
