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Quill didn’t try to seduce her or fuck her or finger her. This wasn’t foreplay. It wasn’t even punishment. In his own demented way, he was trying to help her, trying to pull her material to the surface so she could see it, so she could feel it, so she could create something raw and vital enough that strangers could look at it and taste the same acrid fear and darkness. All her work was locked away inside her with no clear channel to communicate those things to others.
Eventually, she surrendered under his hand. The begging stopped. The crying changed from attention-seeking sobs to hushed tears.
He pulled the smock back down and she slid onto the ground. Her head rested on his lap. He ran his fingers through her hair absently, then seemed to catch himself. His hand stilled at the nape of her neck and he leaned close to her ear.
“Now. Paint.”
Saskia wiped her face and struggled to stand. Quill didn’t help her. He merely sat and waited to be impressed. She began mixing pigment and started to cover the canvas.
Five hours later, she was finished with a piece that was emotional, but that was all it was. It was one extreme or another with her. The painting was a mess of erratic colors and harsh lines. She wasn’t even sure what she was painting. It was as if she’d changed her mind multiple times in the creation of the piece but each time just moved to a different part of the canvas and started over, never mind what had come before.
In the hands of a better artist, maybe it would have been brilliant, but this was anything but. It felt chaotic and hurt and angry. All her technical artistry was gone, leeched out by Quill’s impatience and anger. She was too upset to focus, too panicked and terrified to displease him. He’d terrorized her to the point that she was afraid to paint—especially while he loomed over her, pacing in the background, watching and judging each brush stroke. It made the hairs of her neck stand at attention every time he walked past.
She’d finished it when she’d run out of space on the canvas. Always a bad sign. It meant she was flailing about with no direction or purpose. Quill sensed it, too. Hell, he didn’t have to sense it. A child could see it. A child could do better. Any other aspiring artist on the planet deserved his attention and instruction more than she did.
Saskia put the brush down and tensed, waiting for more rage. Instead she got silence. She chanced a glance at him and wished she hadn’t. She’d never seen him look so disappointed, like a boy whose ice cream had fallen in the ditch, and there was no more left.
He stared at the canvas as if he could unmake it with the power of thought. Then he sent that same withering look her way as if she’d done this on purpose. Then back to the canvas. Then he turned and left the studio and gallery without a word.
15
Aweek passed. No new men were introduced. There were no trips outside the estate. The work had ground to a halt. He didn’t paint her, nor did she paint. The studio remained untouched. She remained untouched.
At least by Quill.
Saskia wondered if he’d lost interest in her completely. Only Marcus was there at night to comfort her, to touch her, to bring her pleasure and soothe her. She hadn’t seen Quill for days. For all she knew, he’d left the country. Maybe he’d gone back to Venice to the villa she’d bought.
Her meals were brought to her in the gallery. And she’d taken it as a signal not to venture to the main house. Maybe he was in there, and he just didn’t want to see her.
On the eighth morning of this, it was Quill, instead of Marcus, who let her out of the cage.
He wore dark jeans and a white polo shirt that made him look even more bronzed than normal.
Was he getting rid of her? There was no reason for her to think that, but he’d been gone a long time.
Awful scenarios popped into her head—after all she had plenty of ways to destroy him if he set her free. Would he sell or give her to someone else? Perhaps Ari or Phillip? She tried to imagine belonging to The Viking or Phillip. It wouldn’t be a terrible outcome would it?
She stood outside the cage, tears silently moving down her cheeks. She couldn’t look at him.
Quill wiped the tears away and pulled her into his arms. She let out a long breath as her body pressed against his.
“Don’t cry.”
“A-are you getting rid of me?”
He pulled away and studied her, his face a mask of confusion. “No. Why would you think that?”
Was he kidding? He’d completely ignored her. “We haven’t painted... or done any other things.”
“I’ve just been very busy.”
She wasn’t buying it.
He sighed. “I thought we needed a break from the work. I was getting too frustrated with you. I wasn’t in control of myself, and I didn’t like it. I’ve been working on some other things.”
“Okay, but what about the rest? Do you not want me anymore?” Before Quill, she’d never considered herself an insecure woman. Now she was every woman she hated. The girl who sat beside the phone waiting. The girl consumed only with some man and whether or not he wanted to fuck her. She hated that girl. She thought that girl was weak and pathetic and should develop some hobbies or something.
“I wanted to give you a rest period and let you bond with Marcus. He’s... less intense than I am. Go shower and get ready. I want to take you out.”
