ZOEY
After lunch,I go back to my room, retrieve my oil painting supplies, and return to the courtyard.
There are a few others around. Two of Malakai’s girls—Katerina and Lacey—playing cards with Isla and Sebastian. Aurora’s reading, and Elijah’s sitting at a table working on his pieces for our chess board.
Elijah looks at me, and I assume he wants me to join him and work on my own piece—a knight. But I shake my head no and head to the opposite side of the courtyard, to the farthest away fountain, and set up my materials. Distance feels safer. I need space to breathe, space to think, and space to shake off the lingering effects of Aerix’s presence.
I’d only just started painting the stone basin of the fountain, so I’ll be busy with this for a while.
Eventually, after a few hours have passed with everyone else thankfully leaving me alone, I reach the part of the painting I’ve been avoiding. The liquid inside the fountain. A mix of water and blood. The deep crimson I’ve mixed in my palette is almost too perfect, too real, like fresh-spilled blood pooling in the water.
As I dip my brush into the paint, memories come rushing back. Uninvited, unwelcome, yet impossible to push away.
The whisper of his breath against my neck. The press of his body, cool and unyielding. His fangs sinking into my skin. The sharp sting, the dizzying pleasure, the way my heart hammered against my ribs as if it didn’t know whether to race toward him or away.
I hate how his feeding lingers, not just in my body, but in my mind.Hate how the sensation of him remains long after he’s gone, curling around my thoughts like an intoxicating mist.
My hands move faster, almost franticly, the brushstrokes sharp and erratic. As if I can paint him out of my head. As if I can drown out the sensation of him, and erase the way his midnight eyes see through me—as if he already owns the pieces of me I’m trying to keep for myself.
“Zoey,” a voice cuts through my haze, pulling me back into reality.
Aethelthryth.
I must have been so absorbed in my painting that I didn’t see her approach.
She’s usually composed, but there’s something urgent in the way she’s looking down at me right now.
“What?” I ask, setting the brush down.
“It’s time to go back to your room,” she says. “You need to get ready.”
“Ready for what?” I ask, although the answer is already pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe.
She shifts uncomfortably. “Aerix requested you for dinner.”
My stomach drops. I hear the words, but they don’t fully register right away.
“But he never has me over for dinner,” I say quickly. “Victoria?—”
“He requested you,” Aethelthryth interrupts, and the look in her eyes is clear.
Don’t fight this. Don’t make it worse.
“Fine,” I say, because what else can I say? No? Refuse? As if that’s an option?
Well, itisan option. Everything’s an option.
It just isn’t the strategic one.
I start gathering my materials, even though the tubes of paints are open, and the brushes are everywhere. Not to mention that there’s paint all over my hands.
“I’ll clean this up and bring it back to you,” Aethelthryth looks at my hands, which are covered in paint that goes all the way up past my wrists. “You need to clean up and get ready.”
I nod, but inside, my mind is screaming. Because I know, deep down, that no matter how much paint I scrub over my hands—no matter how much soap I use—there are some stains I’ll never be able to wash off.
Victoria and Sophia are reading in the common room when I arrive, both of them already dressed for dinner.
Victoria’s attention snaps to my paint-covered hands. “I thought finger painting was for children?” she quips, but there’s something off about her voice. A forced lightness. A brittle edge hiding something far more fragile beneath.
