Page 83 of His Forced Bride
I've been so busy building my fashion lines, I've all but forgotten about the magic of creating real art.
"You found them."
I don't startle at Yuri's voice anymore.
His footsteps have become as familiar as my own heartbeat in this place.
I turn to find him filling the doorway, still dressed in the dark suit he wore to his morning meetings.
The silver threads in his black hair catch the afternoon light filtering through the windows, and I remember the large age gap between us, which seems odd at times and at others doesn't matter at all.
He's old enough to be my father, but he's not my father.
And he's a temptation and a pleasure disguised as a dangerous animal I'm supposed to fear.
But I'm seeing more and more why I don't have to fear him.
Why I don't want to fear him anymore.
"You didn't ask what I needed," I say.
"I didn't need to ask."
His response is just another example of his assumption that he knows me better than I know myself.
But something warm unfurls in my chest.
He notices things. Small things, like the fact that I enjoy painting and I need space to create art because it helps me process my emotions.
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it.
He nods and steps back.
"Rosa has prepared tea in the kitchen. The garden has good light this time of day if you want to paint outdoors."
"Here is fine," I tell him, too eager to dive into the creation to worry about the hour it would take to set up an easel and prep everything outdoors.
So I dive into the crate, and soon, I have an easel spread with a canvas and pallets with paints.
Yuri hovers by me but says nothing as he watches me prepare. I don't mind.
I lose myself in the work, mixing colors, feeling the brush respond to pressure and movement, watching shapes emerge from blank canvas.
The guards pass by on their rounds around the house, and Kirill even slows his patrol to glance at my progress, offering a gruff nod of approval.
"You have steady hands," Yuri rumbles from his perch behind me.
I don't turn toward his voice, though my brush pauses for the barest moment.
"You're watching me again."
"I am."
This time, I set down my brush and face him.
He sits near the desk, hands clasped in his lap, his dark eyes fixed on the canvas.
There's something intent in his expression, almost hungry, as though he's memorizing every stroke.
