Page 70 of Petals and Strings
Rydell was still missing, and I was itching to know more about that, but I just stood back, waiting for them to pass.
Audrey spotted me, her face lighting up with a smile. “Caspian.”
I loved the way she said my name in that raspy voice of hers.
“Audrey,” I greeted. “Thanks for the idea of starting a memory journal. It’s been more useful than years of therapy with Theo.”
She snorted and let out a soft laugh. “You aren’t wrong, he should lose his license. But, I’m glad it worked. You coming in?”
Why was this so damn awkward?
“Yeah, though no one wants to see what I can do to a canvas.” I flashed her a smile, watching as a gorgeous blush crept up her cheeks and flushed her neck. Her scent warmed, filling the air between us.
Ansel reacted, a small smile sweeping over his face. I knew I looked the same.
She was so different. Open, honest, so damn strong. Fierce if pushed. Yet, she wasn’t afraid to lean on others as well.
“None of us can, except this one,” she said, giving Ansel’s hand an affectionate squeeze. He gave her a smile, but still didn’t look at me. I didn’t take offense.
We all had our own issues and I knew it wasn’t personal.
“I’ll catch up,” I said, flickering my eyes to Ansel. She nodded and led him inside, settling at two of the easels in the back. I moved in front of her, not wanting to be too obvious but needing to stick close.
My alpha seemed to take a shuddering breath inside me, perking up and breathing her in. He’d been so absent that his sudden presence startled me. I rubbed at the ache in my chest, barely breathing as I marveled at the feel of him filling my chest.
Was I always this hollow without him?
I thought it was all my grief, the gaping wound left behind.
Now, I wondered if it was because both of our pain melded together into something so severe I couldn’t tell the difference.
The others filtered in, along with patients whose names I had no hope of remembering. The only one missing was Rydell, who was still in isolation.
Kane sat next to me, glaring at his canvas.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, pitching my voice low to not draw attention. If he wanted help from them he’d ask.
“I don’t want to paint. It always brings her onto the canvas and I don’t want to see her. I feel…” He trailed off as he ran a hand over the fading bite mark on his shoulder. “Angry. Resentful.”
“Paint something here, something you know in this life,” I suggested. “The flowers in the conservatory? The ash tree? Our group?”
He considered it, now studying the blank canvas instead of glaring at it then shifted his attention to mine.
“What are you painting?”
“Nothing recognizable,” I snorted. “My art skills are dismal.”
“Go abstract. There’s no wrong way to make art,” he said in a serious tone I wasn't used to from him. “Just let yourself feel and put it on there.”
I hummed as I considered it, wondering if I could make that work. “Okay.”
His lips tipped into a smile before he nodded back. “I’m going to paint our group.”
The art therapist called attention, asking us to work on something that brought about those feelings that keep us locked within ourselves. To convey them on paper. We knew this routine. She’d flit around, asking probing questions and sometimes getting answers in return.
I looked at the paints, grabbing darker shades of blues, purples, and black. A dab of white to turn black to gray. Withoutthinking, I swirled my paintbrush through the colors, mixing them just enough then sliding it over the white.
With Kane’s encouragement, I let the worry go. Instead, I just focused on what was in front of me and the feelings I’d kept locked away.
