“At least drink some water.” I wouldn’t say Leks isbegging, but the concern in his voice is growing urgent. There’s a rough edge to it like he’s considering forcibly dragging me out of here.
I’m not done.
I take the brush with the black paint and paint out the canvas from the center with messy strokes of paint, before shoving it to the floor. The painting is not ready. None of them have been right yet.
He gives a frustrated sigh, stacking the canvas with the other discarded works.
“Now you’ll have to start again tomorrow. That one was quite good.”
“Don’t lie,” I snap at him. It was terrible. Anyone with eyes could see that.
I take another blank canvas from the shelves and place it on the easel. Then I take new roses from the vase, twisting the flowers away from the thorny stems and bending them into a twisted knot. My hand bleeds from the thorns, but I feel nothing.
I know the second he sees the blood because a warm and calloused grip circles my wrist.
“Natalia. You won’t be able to paint if you destroy your hands.” Now his voice is pleading.
I look at his inked grip around my wrist for a second before I drop the stems, content with crushing the red rose buds in my other hand until my nails have ripped every petal to shreds.
He bought me the bouquet before our dinner with Vera. He knows I think the loft needs more color, more freshness. That feels so long ago. Guilt was eating at me for what I’ddone, but at least my family loyalty hadn’t mocked me like a funhouse mirror reflection, warped and comical.
Now, it all seems so pointless. I helped my father, and for what? So he could shift me into another position where I’d have more value to him, like one of his precious artworks, a sculpture that he can pose however he chooses. I hurt Leks, on behalf of someone who didn’t even care about me. Who wouldn’t even listen to a word out of my mouth or trust me enough to give me a decent explanation about what he did to my brothers.
That reality hits me and I feel as if someone’s poured a bag of concrete down my throat.
I sink to the floor, staring at the pile of messed-up canvases. I’ve been here, in the art studio, since the conversation with my father.Haven’t told Leks what happened, feeling too conflicted. Haven’t slept, for fear of what my dreams will hold.
Shame and anger and confusion compete for the attention of my exhausted mind, leaving everything in an endless loop. My father hates me. My mother is disappointed, at least. The worst of all is the feeling of worthlessness. I thought I could rely on their love, no matter what I did…but now I wonder if I was only useful for them for one reason. After all, my father’s hatred for Leks couldn’t be more clear and yet he was happy to send me into his arms to protect himself.
Leks drops to the floor beside me.
He pulls my head onto his lap and pulls out my hair tie, letting out my messy bun and stroking my hair soothingly.
I consider pulling away and trying to stand again, but the tense determination slowly fades from my body as I look up athim. I’m sure his harsh jawline, scars and too-intense eyes are terrifying for his enemies. To me, they’re becoming an irreplaceable source of comfort. Especially the secret tenderness that flashes in his eyes right now, his hands as gentle as if he was handling something truly precious.
My body grows heavy with exhaustion as he rakes his fingers through my hair, his lips twisting down in seriousness.
“You need to sleep,zolotse,” he tells me and I don’t disagree. My eyes flutter shut as I rest on his warm, solid thighs.
“How long have you been here?” I murmur.
“The whole time.”
Hot tears spring into my eyes. I didn’t ask for Leks to be here, at my side. I haven’t said a word to him the whole time, let alone touched him.I drag my eyelids up to look at him.
“Why?”I whisper up at him, bringing my hand up to trace along his jaw.
His jaw muscles tense as he looks down at me. “Because you’re not telling me what’s wrong.”
It comes back now. How Leks came into the living room to find me sobbing on the couch. I couldn’t tell him what happened. I didn’t want to have to face the fact that he’s known who my father was for ten years. He probably thought I was stupid for not seeing it, the way that I was being used.
“My father hates me.”
I hear a rush of air as he sucks in a breath of understanding. “You told him about us.”
I nod my head, the tears streaming down the sides of my face. Leks wipes each one away with his thumb, then gives upwhen the stream becomes a torrent of sobs. He cradles me against his chest and lets me cry.
Finally, with shaking breaths, I collect myself enough to tell him what my father said.
