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Chapter Eight
Emerson
The room has become art, all of us frozen, surrounded by Daphne’s work. The thud of Leo’s knife vibrates through the air.
No one moves.
No one speaks.
My heart hasn’t received the instruction to shut the fuck up. It’s beating hard. Punching at the front of my chest. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was trying to get to Daphne. She stands in front of me with her feet planted. My knuckles rest against the small of her back.
There are more important factors now than size and strength. Leo won’t hurt her to get to me. But simmering anger follows the sound of the knife hitting canvas. It heats the room.
I’m touching her.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
My mind memorizes it. Repaints it. Hangs it, again and again. I’m touching her. My little painter. She is not art. Or—she is more than art. More than an obsession. She’s everything. Breathing, living love. She climbed out of her frame to stand beside me. In front of me. As if she can actually buffer the world. I’ve never asked for a human shield. Never assumed, not for a moment, that I deserved one.
I certainly don’t deserve her now.
I’ll never be worthy of Daphne Morelli.
I love him.
That’s what she said.
I know I should be the one standing in front of her, but she reacts to the smallest shift in my balance. She won’t let that happen, and I won’t fight her. Not now. Not when the moment trembles, waiting to split apart.
It’s anyone’s guess which way it’ll tear. Which people will end up on which piece of canvas. Daphne with me or with one of her brothers? Me, dead on the floor, and the three of them leaving together?
She came here for me.
The situation at hand requires all my concentration, but it can’t have it. She’s too precious to ignore. I never should have framed her in the first place. She doesn’t belong on the wall, or in any kind of prison. She should be out in the world, without me.
And—
I love her too much to let her go.
The paintings in my mind become battles. Light wrestling dark. Blue cutting through red. Paint bleeds off the canvases and melts together. Colors blend into indistinct shades, overlaying the scene in front of them. My back is already against the wall. There’s nowhere to retreat. I just have to face it.
I’m my father’s son. That means the only way to love Daphne the way that she deserves, the only way to love her the way she deserves, is to acknowledge that I don’t. That I shouldn’t touch her. That I should walk away. Disappear. Leave her to a life that doesn’t include me or anyone like me.
Truth is the gold-flecked dark of Daphne’s eyes.
It’s not just her. I don’t deserve any of these pieces. Not in this gallery. Not in the rest of my house. I’ve been hoarding them like a dragon for years, telling myself that it was the only good thing I could have. A reward. For what? For surviving my father? Anyone alive today survived their father. I’m no different.
That’s why Daphne, here, now, is such a pure gift. I’ve done nothing to earn it. She’s giving it to me anyway.
Which means.
I should give it back. I should give it all back. All the pieces I couldn’t bear to leave behind. All the ones I loved the most. But especially Daphne’s. They’re the brightest, most evocative paintings I’ve ever seen. Nothing in this room should be mine.
But I can feel her.
She’s so close. The heat between us rises, but she does not tremble. She is firm in the face of her brother’s anger. All I wanted was to see her one more time. Now I can give her up.
That’s a lie, the ocean whispers from her paintings. You can’t. Look at her. You want her so much your hands ache. You want to put her in that frame.
