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“How much does your head hurt?”
Daphne looks away. She remembers, after a heartbeat, that she’s given herself away with that glance. Her chin dimples again.
“Do you know what happens to the pieces in my collection if I die?”
“What the hell, Emerson?”
“They go to museums. A few of the pieces go to my brothers, but there are arrangements for all the rest. Each one comes along with funding for its care for the next century. Even if I’m dead, no one is allowed to damage them. No matter what happens to me, the pieces stay safe.” It’s a genuine struggle to keep my voice under control. “It’s no different for you.”
“Isn’t it?” I’m on one knee, stripping off her leggings. “You said you were giving me back. Doesn’t that mean I can do whatever I want?”
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and yank them away from her skin.
I have to stand to keep from touching her. From putting her on the floor and fucking her right now. Daphne, naked and defiant, tilts her head up to look me in the eye. Hers are swimming with tears.
She’s looking for proof that I haven’t fallen to pieces.
“You said you loved me,” she whispers. “And then you said you couldn’t be with me.”
I can’t. Not forever. “I do love you.”
“But you can’t be with me.”
“I’m with you now. And you’re going to paint.”
Daphne squares her shoulders. “I don’t paint on demand.”
I retrieve the palette and the paints and the brush and hold them out to her. “I won’t touch you until you paint.”
My little painter gasps. She can’t believe I’d be so cruel. Such a prick. Maybe someday she’ll understand that it hurts me not to touch her. To delay, even for a few seconds, having my hands on her body.
“I’ve done this before, and I’m doing it now.” My mind hangs a painting of the first night she came here. It hangs a painting of this one and calls it Last.
It’s not the last. Not yet, not yet.
Daphne takes a step toward me, as if to test the theory. I take a step back. New hurt shimmers in the gold of her eyes. It’s a necessary pain, but it stabs me nonetheless. My little painter lifts her chin and snatches the paints out of my hands without touching me. She becomes a furious, naked whirlwind at the stool, which she shoves back and back until she has enough room to drop the palette on it and add paint.
I didn’t think she was like her family at first. I thought she was too sweet, too soft, and too sheltered to be anything like them.
She’s not. It’s this steely, determined core that will keep her from collapsing after I’m gone.
After she’s gone. We’ll play out the same scene as before. I’ll stay, because I can’t leave. She’ll go, because she has to.
Daphne balances the palette in one hand and steps in front of the canvas, her chest heaving.
“It’s none of your business if I paint or not.”
“While you’re here, it’s absolutely my business.”
Her head snaps around. Recognition is dark and dangerous in her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
That I can make her paint, and I can make her leave. That I will. She shouldn’t have come back to me, as much as I love her.
“You’re stalling. If you’d like me to leave the room, I will.”
“I don’t want you to leave the fucking room, Emerson. I’ve wanted to touch you for days. I wanted to be with you. And now you’re playing this ridiculous game.”
Daphne’s not looking at me when she says this. She’s looking at the canvas. Her body is already drawn to it, just as it’s being drawn to me. The canvas pulls at her balance, but so do I.
