Page 36 of Sin Like the Devil

Raine nods hesitantly. “Took some practise, but I never stopped playing after it happened. Music gave me something to focus on.”

I bite back the urge to ask what happened to him. No wonder he can play the chords by heart without the need for a single glance. Those wound metal strings are an extension of him, and he strokes them like it’s second nature. Easier than breathing, almost.

“When was that?”

“This?” He gestures towards his eyes. “A little over five years ago.”

An internal voice is telling me to stop asking rapid-fire questions, but he’s like a puzzle I can’t help piecing together. I want to know how this smooth-talking violinist with the filthiest smile ended up becoming friends with people like Lennox or Xander.

I hear him inhale before he speaks. “My turn. Do you always work with… Is that oil paint I can smell?”

“Yes it is, and that depends,” I answer honestly.

“On what?”

“Sometimes, I prefer the richness of this medium and its saturated colours. Other times, the piece requires a lighter touch. Pastels, watercolour, sometimes pencil.”

“What is it that you paint?” His head tilts in interest.

“Mostly landscapes or abstracts. But I dabble.”

Fingertips still dancing over the neck of his violin, his pale brows knit together, like he’s willing his mind to conjure some clue as to what I’ve painted.

“Can you describe it to me?”

Despite his confidence, there’s a slight, almost unnoticeable crack in his voice. A hint of vulnerability. Something tells me that he wouldn’t let it show by accident.

Ignoring every last warning bell telling me to put distance between us, I shift my stool to the left.

“Come closer.”

Raine places his violin back in its velvet-lined case then walks towards me. After abandoning his guide stick, his steps are slow and hesitant. Another snippet of the person behind the mask. The same mask that I find myself wearing every day too.

We both put on a show. Play pretend. Bury any hints of weakness to survive in a world that doesn’t allow for fragility. Perhaps Lennox and Xander are part of that show. Even monsters make good allies when it’s convenient.

I reach out and snag his shirt sleeve. Raine lets me steer him into place, standing directly in front of the still-wet canvas. His lips are parted, breathing slightly unsteadily. He feels it too, then. The fear of flaws being exposed to another person.

“The canvas is about three feet in front of you,” I explain, my voice breathless. “Imagine the ocean. Raging, wild, uncontrollable. There are sprays of deep forest-green and hints of crimson against the waves.”

His throat bobs, the muscles in his neck tensing, but he remains silent. Despite feeling exposed by the emotion passing between us, I decide to continue.

“In the eye of the storm, shadows form a solitary figure. Trapped. Powerless. She’s unaware of the others behind her, two larger silhouettes lurking in the background. They’re all imprisoned by saturated flames, eating up the ocean.”

Still holding his shirt sleeve, my hand grasps his bicep, feeling that same burning heat emanating from his skin. He isn’t trembling like last time, but I know a withdrawal fever when I see one. He’s in the early stages.

“Why is she trapped?” he asks quietly.

I consider the varnished canvas. “Because who isn’t trapped by something? None of us are free. Especially not from ourselves.”

After a long beat of silence, Raine replies in a thick voice. “What about the others in the painting?”

“They’re trapped too.”

“So they aren’t the bad guys?”

Unnamed pain lashes against my breastbone. “Being trapped by the same evil doesn’t automatically make them good people. Victims can still be monsters.”

“Doesn’t make them bad either.”

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