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Eden lifts her hand and inches it toward me slowly as if she wants to pet a wild beast. I sit motionless, waiting. She places her hand on my shoulder, and for a moment, we sit in silence, listening to nothing.
“Aren’t you scared?” Eden asks quietly, her breath warm against my neck.
“Of what?” I ask, feeling her shiver.
“Of … death,” she says, pulling away slightly to look into my eyes.
My chest tightens, and for a moment, I’m unable to speak. “No,” I speak honestly. “I’m scared of failure. It won’t ever happen again.”
“There’s more to life than revenge, Nikolai,” she says softly. “And dying.”
How would you know?I want to ask viciously.You’ve never lived it.But then that’s when it hits me. She’s never lived it, so she can never be jaded by it. She can still believe that life isn’t just made up of failures. That it all doesn’t end the same way.
Eden’s breath is warm against my neck, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine. For a moment, I allow myself to get lost in a sensation that I thought I had forgotten. I close my eyes and remember.You should’ve been an artist, Nikolai …My breathing becomes ragged as anger builds in me swiftly.
It won’t happen again. I won’t fail again.
I pull her arms off my neck and stand up from the bed. “Get dressed. I have something to show you.”
36
NIKOLAI
I glance back at Eden,and her gaze is curious as she stumbles after me down the narrow flight of stairs. My own oversight led to the door being unlocked that other day, and I can hardly blame Eden’s curiosity for wanting to know what was in the room.
After all, she was granted freedom to roam and explore the penthouse, and I set no boundaries.
I didn’t expect her to wander down there. As much as I dislike the idea that she’s caught a glimpse of a piece of me that I keep hidden from the world, a part of me is secretly glad she’s seen it.
I wasn’t ready to tell her the truth then. But I am now. I want her to see me for more than the wealthy criminal she thinks I am.
Her eyes widen when we stand before the heavy door. Fear creeps into their hazel depths as she imagines one terrifying scenario after another.
“Nikolai, please,” she begs. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I?—”
I cut her off with a stare. “Do you trust me?”
“I …” she stammers, but her denial dies in her throat as curiosity overpowers her fear.
I place my hand on the door, a single thread of trepidation making me hesitate.
Can I actually trust her?
But as I stare into her eyes, I am convinced that Ican. So, I push the door open and allow her to walk down the long, familiar corridor. The familiar scent of paint and turpentine fills the air, and Eden walks down the path through the rows of half-finished paintings that rise like tombstones.
“What is this place?” she whispers as she walks.
“It’s where I come to … dabble.”
“Wait …” she stops in her tracks and turns around. “Are you telling me thatyoupainted these?” She turns back, lifts a delicate finger, and points at the chrysanthemum flower. “Even that?”
I stare at the angry flower petals, my mind swirling with memories of a long, tearful gaze, wisps of hair dancing in the wind, and the sound of a child screaming in horror against the howling wind.
“Yes,” I reply. “Eighteen years ago.”
“It looks like the painting you commissioned from Kaori.” Her eyes remain fixed on the canvas. “But itfeelsdifferent.”
I step close behind her to look at the painting. Even in this room, I can feel the breeze of eighteen years ago snapping at my heels. “How so?” I ask, wondering what she might say.
