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Emerson stops tracing the pattern of the frame, which would have been ornate, I think. Gilded. He puts his hand flat on the wall next to my head. His arm reaching in feels final. Permanent. His gaze skims down over my body, and it happens again. That change in his face. It happens in a blink. If I weren’t so close I could convince myself I’d imagined it. But no, I didn’t. It happened. That instant of absence. It’s over by the time he looks back into my eyes.
That blue-green intensity pins me to the wall just as much as his body.
“I wanted you the moment I saw you, but I resisted. I thought maybe you would escape me.” His eyebrows lift. “I thought perhaps I’d let you.”
“From the beginning.” The surprises tonight are never going to end, are they? My mouth goes dry. “You wanted to do this to me since we met on the beach?”
“No. Before.”
“What?”
“I saw you on the street.” A smile plays at the corners of his lips. “You were walking in a slash of sunlight. The moment you stepped into the frame, the whole world became background.”
“The frame?”
“The sidewalk,” he corrects, but I know he didn’t think of it like that. I know he thought of me as art, even then. Even before I knew he was watching. “I saw you, and I followed you. And then I saw your painting. I wanted that passion. That mystery. The way it felt…” He takes a sharp breath, like he’s feeling it again. Astonishment flashes across his features and disappears. This is how he looked when he saw my painting. That moment of pure wonder. I’d cry if I didn’t hate this so much. “I didn’t know the woman on the street was the artist. I didn’t know she was you. Not until the next day. Your fate was sealed the moment I read your name.”
Emerson trails a hand down the side of my face. It’s unbelievably tame compared to the wild, filthy passion we had earlier.
That was before.
That was when I was here by choice.
He’s taken that from me.
His fingertips hovering at my jawline feel bruising now, though he’s not using any more force. I turn my face away. Emerson’s hand twitches, like he’s going to let go, but he grips me tighter instead. Not to the point of actual pain. It hurts my heart. I was naive, just like Leo said. I was a fool.
“You have a comfortable bed. Good food. Your studio. You won’t be deprived of art here.”
No, I won’t. Emerson has lots of art. I passed by many pieces on the way upstairs. I can see the far corner of the Giorgia Russo’s frame. It doesn’t feel the same now. It’s not like living in a gallery. Not like visiting a museum. All his art is examining me. I’m the one on display. The paintings have freedom, and I don’t.
I’m here in a frame.
Trapped, trapped, trapped.
Oh, god, I’m already losing my mind and I’ve been in captivity for less than a day. A matter of hours.
Anger surges, straight out of my heart and into my veins. It burns its way down to my fingers. This feels darker than the midnight blue of deep water. It’s a heartless, lightless void that scorches everything it touches. All the fear and anger and energy I’ve pushed down and painted out to survive grabs me by the wrist and drags me somewhere I don’t want to go, I don’t.
It’s just that I can’t stop.
The slap takes us both by surprise. Emerson doesn’t flinch, but something happens to his eyes as my hand makes contact. A split-second blank. His palm meets the wall next to my head with a whisper. Not a crack. He’s not retaliating.
He’s boxing me in.
The sound that comes out of me is the most animal I’ve ever made. I hit him with both fists, landing blows against his chest.
“You asshole.” A sob comes up with the insult. I feel like I could bite it in half. “You bastard. You’re being—you’re being such a dick.”
“Don’t stop,” Emerson says.
I hit him harder. “I hate you too much to keep going. I hate you so much I can’t put it into words.”
Except–
Except.
Maybe I can’t put it into words because it’s not really true. Because I am lost.
