Page 121 of Sweet Obsession
“You’re not dressed.”
I glanced down at my leggings and paint-streaked tank top. “I wasn’t aware I needed to be.”
His voice was unreadable. “Come with me.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
“I’m not asking, Malyshka.”
He turned, waiting by the door, not looking back to see if I’d follow.
And somehow, that worked.
I hated that I followed him.
Hated more that I wanted to know what he’d do next.
He led me down a wing of the estate I hadn’t seen before, through a narrow hall flanked with floor-to-ceiling windows and into a quiet room with tall wooden doors.
When he opened them, sunlight spilled through a skylight onto something unexpected.
A studio.
My studio.
The smell hit me first, linseed oil and turpentine, fresh canvas and varnished wood. The walls were lined with drawers and shelves stocked with brushes, pigments, palettes. A new easel stood in the center, beside a wide table scattered with sketchbooks.
There were skylights. A soft chaise in the corner. A basin for washing. Even a small speaker inlaid into the wall.
My throat dried.
I took a step in.
Then another.
A canvas waited on the easel, blank and untouched.
“You rebuilt it,” I whispered, fingers ghosting across the wooden table. “My mother’s studio at Columbia was...”
“Burnt,” he said quietly. “This one won’t.”
I turned. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his usual armor of black and violence stark against the soft light. But there was no pride in his eyes. No triumph.
Just quiet intensity.
“I know I can’t make it up to you, the damage and pain I caused you at Columbia, but I will try everything I can to see you smile again.” He said.
I stared at him.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I said.
“I know.”
I didn’t thank him.
He didn’t expect me to.
I took another step inside the studio. My fingers hovered over the smooth surface of the new table, over drawers I hadn’t opened yet, brushes perfectly arranged, colors I hadn’t touched in years.
