“I never thought about it that way,” she says.
“He’s good with words,” Lawson drawls, lifting a brow as he glances at me. “I’m glad I don’t have to live in your head.”
“You should be.” I grin.
“You're right, though,” he says. “It’s fate.”
“Thanks, Hunter,” Rylee says, looking toward Haven’s bedroom door. “You realize she will completely lose track of time. I’ve been on the phone with her after a day of painting. She forgets to eat, sleep, or drink anything. She loses herself in another world.”
“That’s what she has us for,” I say lightly, and she looks back at me. “She can live in her world for as long as she wants. We’ll be here to remind her what living in this one means.” She smiles softly and looks at Lawson.
“He is really fucking good with words,” she says.
“Told you,” Law mutters.
I will rely on any skill I have to convince Haven to be ours.
Chapter Twelve
Haven
My plan was to set up the easel and admire it for a moment. I should have known I wouldn’t leave it alone. The bedroom is big enough to have all the supplies set up in the corner, to the left of the bathroom. The bed is behind me. Bane thought of everything. He included a stool to sit on while I paint. There is a mixture of acrylic and oil paints. Acrylic is more popular among many new artists because it dries quickly. I prefer to use oil. I can blend it for a longer period, and it’s rich and adds depth. As I paint, I’m always adding more and more as the mood strikes me, so it suits my ever-changing vision. I should have changed more than my shirt, but at least I found turpentine in the bags. If I get too much on my skin and let it dry before I wipe it off, it can stain my skin. Sometimes, I wear gloves so I don’t have to be careful. I didn’t find any in the bags,so a towel is draped over my thigh, ready if I need it. The pants and tank top can be replaced.
My feelings burst out through my hands and onto the canvas. It’s therapeutic, and my happy place. I don’t have to pretend to be alright and happy. The canvas doesn’t care about rules. Art is art. Everyone has a different idea of what's pleasing to the eye, but the great thing is that no one is here to judge me. Whatever I paint doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is that it means something to me. I take out my aggression. I picture Brian’s face and slash red in short, angry strokes. Most people talk through their problems, and it makes them feel better. I have years of experience of shoving everything deep inside, hoping my emotions will go away. Painting helped me express those feelings and purge them in another way.
Rylee loved to write, and that was her outlet. It helped her to work through her issues. I liked to write, but I would make up stories about the life I wanted instead of concentrating on solving the problems in my life. This way, I can confront them. Even though Brian meant very little, it’s never fun to be cheated on, no matter how the person came into your life. I have several pieces at home that feature my father. That issue has never been resolved, yet it has helped ease the pain of his actions. I hide them behind all the others I have done, not wanting to think about him more than I do.
I add traces of black, then a pea green color. Brian deceived me, belittled me, and bruised my pride. I don’t blame myself for falling for his shit. I blame him and my father. What kind of man do you have to be to date someone to move up in a company? I know, it probably happens all the time, but never to me. My father is the puppet master, yanking on our strings. He's a master at manipulating the situation to suit his needs. I switch to a blood red color, swishing the brush down the length of the board. I’m almost done. Once I am, I'll put the episode behindme. He’s not worth taking up space in my brain. I have mates now.
My mates. Shit.
I finish quickly. I don’t want Brian’s energy fucking up my thoughts of Hunter, Lawson, Bane, and Remy.
Sitting back, I wipe my hands even though I shockingly didn’t get any on them. My pants are another matter. My mind runs away, and I don’t think about anything but my vision. Hopping up, I move the picture and lean it against the wall to dry. There are at least twenty pieces of canvas of every size, so I grab a large one. As I settle on the stool, I think about the brothers.
All of them are appealing in their own way. I don’t want to group them together, so I concentrate on Bane. He was considerate and purchased everything just to make me happy. I’ve never had anyone do that for me. He didn’t have any ulterior motives. I feel delicate when I’m around him. He can protect me and fight my demons. I’ve taken pride in taking care of myself, but wouldn’t it be nice not to have to? I know I can pay my bills and do all the things I need to. Being able to share the burden would be a relief. Last night I wanted to melt into his arms and never leave. He’s quiet and intense.
I dip a brush into the deep purple and start stroking.
When he speaks, his words carry meaning. He doesn’t waste time with silly words to fill the silence, yet as I look into his eyes, I can see his mind working. I wonder if it ever shuts off.
I switch brushes and chose a charcoal black.
Lawson relies on Bane to calm him, and he does it without thinking about it. He loves his brothers, and he’s loyal to Heath and Juliana. Caring about those in his circle is natural, but doesn't he think about the things that make him happy? His expression is fierce, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and piercing eyes cut through you. I can imagine what his jaguar looks like, and I think of pictures I’ve seen of the animal.Dipping my brush in a soft yellow, I add elements of his jaguar, peaking through. I add skin tone and a dark, deep blue in his eyes. I move the brush quickly, steadily, bringing him to life as I see him. I convey the safety I see in his face. He would shelter me from harm. His nose is thinner than his brother's, but it melds well with his features. I want to kiss him. I know his lips would be soft, yet demanding. When he grinned, I could see dimples. I had the urge to place my fingertip in one and then trace his face. I wonder if there are traditional spots on his animal or if he's different. Since I can’t know for sure, I make them subtle across his forehead. I want to see them shift. I’ve never seen a jaguar in person, and I’m curious. Perhaps I should be scared, but I know they would never hurt me. I spend more time on his face, adding some contrast. It'll take days of work on it to be satisfied with the end product, but I have made steady progress.
I picture him in the forest, so I dig through the greens, pulling out the deepest ones, and a lighter color to make it pop. I love painting trees. There are several ways I could go: traditional or abstract. I pause. In many ways, Bane strikes me as a traditional kind of guy. He would be a stern mate, and if I put myself in danger, there would be consequences. I begin to layer a classic tree to the left of his face. Over the next few days, I’ll add more.
“Fuck.” I freeze. I forget about anyone else being in the apartment or the meaning of time.
His chest brushes my back. “Bane.”
“This is how you see me,” he rumbles, curling over me. His mouth is close to my ear, and I shiver.
“Yes,” I whisper, lowering my arm.
“Did you paint it for me?” he asks, touching my hip.
“For both of us.” I prop my forearm on my knee and hold the brush tightly. He rubs his face over my hair, and my heart speeds up.
