Page 111 of The Devil's Canvas

His gaze drops. His grip tightens. “It’s not your soul I’m here for. It’s hers.”

Chapter Nineteen

Julian

Mybrothersandcousinsare helping me empty Ophelia’s apartment.

Which, in practice, means sorting her life into boxes while mercilessly roasting mine.

“She owns three different tea steepers,” Seth says from the kitchen, holding one like it’s a cursed artifact. “Are we dealing with a hot beverage cultist?”

“Who alphabetizes their spices?” Owen mutters, peering into the cabinet. “Is that cute or deeply concerning?”

“Depends,” Adrian chimes in, rifling through a bathroom drawer. “If she has color-coded cotton balls, I’m calling a priest.”

“That’s rich coming from a guy who labels his sock drawer,” Lucas throws back as he passes with a box.

Every drawer they open is just another excuse to dissect the woman I’m bonded to, like judgment is part of the packing process.

“Found some journals,” Caleb calls, flipping one open like he’s unveiling ancient secrets. “Passive-aggressive poems, a paper to-do list titledEnd the Bloodline, and a lot of scratched-out groceries. I think she was either writing a spell or hexing someone named Carol.”

“Poor Carol,” Damian mutters. “Never stood a chance.”

The teasing is familiar—easy. The kind only brothers and cousins can pull off while packing up your life like it's both a comedy show and sacred rite. Damian opens the hall closet.

“Uh… guys?” His voice shifts—no sarcasm, just quiet urgency. “You need to see this.”

We gather around. He pulls out a few canvases. Each one wrapped and tucked carefully behind coats and storage bins, like secrets sealed in linen.

Seth’s the first to say it. “These are hers?”

We unwrap one slowly. The room stills. Color explodes across the them in sweeping strokes—riotous, delicate, deliberate. Emotion breathes beneath every layer of paint. Grief wrapped in shadow. Joy barely veiled in gold. It’s the kind of beauty that looks like it bled to exist.

“Holy shit,” Owen murmurs.

No one laughs or teases. They just… stare.

We keep unwrapping. Portraits. Dreams. Worlds she built inside herself and had nowhere to send. Each one more impossible than the last. They don’t just depict feeling—theyarefeeling.

“She’s not just talented,” Lucas says.

“She’s…” Adrian starts. “Unreal.”

I crouch in front of a self-portrait. Her expression isn’t posed. She looks straight out—unguarded, unafraid. Like she didn’t paint it for anyone else. Just to remember who she was.

“She painted these before the deal,” I say. “Before everything was taken.”

They don’t answer. They don’t need to. The room already knows what she lost. And now—what she’s about to take back.

Owen straightens with a grunt, stretching his back like he carried the emotional weight of every canvas. “So,” he says. “Do we bubble-wrap her soul, or is that, like, a deluxe upgrade?”

Lucas runs a thumb along the edge of a box. “We’re gonna need a new system. These can’t go in a portal with your leftover mugs.”

Adrian snaps his fingers. “Art gets its own stack. And if anyone lets a painting touch their protein powder box, I swear by all ten hells—”

“Nine,” Seth interjects.

“Whatever. If it happens, I’ll smite your ass with a rolled-up canvas.”

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