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Every detail had been carefully rendered. From the delicate curve of the woman’s fingers to the leaves dancing in the gentle breeze.
The woman in the painting was me.
I stood frozen before the frame, struck with the surrealty of it all. A painting that hung within a dream.
Still, something told me it was a real reflection of a painting that existed outside of the cottage. A painting that could only have been made by one man.
Goosebumps rose on my skin. The painting was a work of art that told a story and revealed something about the artist along the way. I looked at the expression on the girl's face. My face. My gaze was directed at the apple with a mix of curiosity and longing, as if the apple represented my thirst for knowledge—and something subtler, even more enigmatic that was harder to pinpoint.
Once again, Draven had seen me in a way no one else ever had. He had looked into my soul, captured the essence of my spirit, my desires, and then presented them on canvas with a profound depth of understanding.
Then another realization struck me with equal force.
If Draven had the talent to paint such a depiction of me without my ever guessing, what else had he concealed beneath the surface of his maddeningly oblique persona? What other secrets and hidden talents lay in this man, waiting for me to uncover them?
Better yet, would he even allow me to do so? A part of me was fearful of the answer.
Another part of me said I would never know until I had truly tried.
A newfound determination welled up within me. I longed to unravel the mysteries of Draven's soul just as he had already begun to do with mine.
As I gazed at the painting, my love for him grew.
My husband had painted me. My husband, my mate.
“Morgan, is that you?”
Draven’s voice called out to me from a distance. I turned in a full circle. The cottage was still empty. His voice hadn’t seemed to come from outside.
“Where are you?” I called back, my eyes once again returning to the pile of clothes he had left behind. “And why did you leave your clothes?”
I thought I caught a muffled snickering sound.
Then, “Come and find out.”
I frowned impatiently. “I would if I knew where you were.”
I waited.
“See the trap door? Follow the stairs.”
I looked around the room, this time more slowly.
There. In the far corner, half-hidden behind the screen. A worn rug had been tossed back to reveal a square embedded in the floor. A wooden panel stood open on its hinges revealing a gap below where the faint scent of damp earth wafted upwards.
Descending a creaking wooden ladder, I found myself in a subterranean cave.
The cave's walls were slick and cool to the touch. They held the scent of ancient stone and mineral-rich earth.
I walked slowly across the uneven floor, uncertain of what to expect, until... There.
A hint of sulfur.
A hot spring, its steamy tendrils mingling with the cave's natural scents, filled the air with warmth. The soft trickling of water echoed gently, the sound peaceful and hypnotic as it mixed with the occasional drip from the stalactites above.
Lanterns dotted the cavern's walls, illuminating the space in an inviting radiance. Their flickering lights danced over the rippling surface of the pool.
And there, on the far side of the water, lounging on a ledge with a wicked grin on his face that sent my heart racing, was Draven himself.
