AllFreeNovel
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The canvas comes to life. Vermeer’s room focuses. The back of the father’s chair, a reddish-brown. The tiles, checkerboard black and white. Another instrument on top of the cloth, barely in view, probably a lute of some sort. I paint it all, obsess over the details, chewing on my brushes until the ends are worn nubs.
Erick comes and goes. He brings me what I need. Food, fuel, whatever. We don’t talk much—there isn’t time. A day passes, I get another four hours of sleep, and I’m so deep into the process that I forget to take any breaks until I look up and realize it’s mid-afternoon and I’ve been working for six hours straight.
When I stand, I go all dizzy from hunger as the blood rushes into my feet and legs, and suddenly I stagger, grab onto the desk, and knock over a few cans of paint.
“Are you okay?” Erick appears in the doorway. I look over, blinking rapidly. “Hellie. Are you okay?”
He comes over. I smile at him. “Fine,” I say. “I’m fine. Just forgot to eat.” Which is when I notice that he brought me breakfast at some point earlier, and I just never bothered to have any.
“Come with me.”
“Wait. The mess.”
“Marina will clean it up, don’t worry about it.” He pulls me away from the studio. “You need rest.”
“But the painting.” That’s all I can think about: the painting. The light, the dark. The minute strokes. I want to get everything perfect, so perfect nobody could ever tell the difference, so perfect thereisno difference.
Erick leads me into my room and pushes me onto the bed. “Stay.”
“Hey,” I protest, glaring at him, but fuck, these sheets are soft. “You can’t just throw me around.”
“I definitely can. Don’t move, I’m getting you something to eat.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I mutter curses at him, not really feeling any of it. Just saying noises to say noises, as a way to keep my dignity intact. Because if I’m not struggling then what am I? Just some total pushover, giving in to her alpha captor like it’s no big deal, and I can’t have that.
He returns a little while later and I jerk awake. “Eat. Drink.” He sits next to me, gets me upright, and places a tray in my lap. There’s a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a big glass of water.
I devour it. I gulp it down. When it’s all gone, I shove the tray away, feeling more myself. “You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”
“I definitely do.” He puts the tray down on top of my dresser and faces me, arms crossed over his chest. His gorgeous face is etched with worry. Does he care about me or about the painting? I genuinely don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. I am the painting right now. “You’re skipping meals.”
“You’re the one forcing me to do ten days’ worth of work in three. Remember that?”
“You don’t have to kill yourself to do it.”
“Actually, I kind of do, dude.”
His lips scrunch up. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Dude? You don’t like it, dude?” I say it again, sing-song. “Dude, dude, dude.”
“Get in the bathroom. You reek.”
“Excuse me?” I glare at him. “Now you’re just being rude.”
“I’m serious. Smell yourself.”
I’m about to bite off a killer insult, but instead I do a quick, very feminine sniff, and he’s right. I am beyond ripe.
“Get it started,” I grumble, annoyed that we’re doing this again.
The shower turns on. I stand, very aware of what happened the last time, and I’m smart enough to stay clothed until there’s a door between us. I clean myself off, taking my time, relaxing in the warm water. When I’m done, I towel off, and step into my room to get dressed.
He’s still fucking here, sitting at the end of my bed, and he stares at me with a deep, soul-sucking intensity.
No, scratch that. It’s not intensity.
It’s hunger. Like some sort of galactic hell-demon searching for a planet to chew on.
