Page 14 of The Devil's Canvas

A pause. Silence. No response.

That's when the woman decides to strut over like she always gets what she wants. Like the room was made for her, and I’m just another trophy to collect. Her hips sway with practiced precision, confidence bleeding from every step. She stops in front of me, too close, eyes sharp with expectation.

“You look like you need a break from all this,” she says, fingers brushing my jacket like she’s done this a hundred times. “Come with me. Just for a minute.”

I don’t answer. The voice I’m listening for isn’t hers.

She leans in, pressing against me like her body’s an invitation I should be grateful for. “Please,” she whispers, breath warm against my neck. “I can make it good. I swear.”

Still nothing. My attention is elsewhere.

She grabs my lapels, tighter this time, her tone breaking. “Don’t walk away. Just one more minute. Please.”

I take her wrists and pull her off me—calmly, precisely. Not a struggle. Just removal.

“No.”

She laughs. Cold. Cutting.

“You act like a god, but I see what you are. All that power—still begging for scraps like the rest of us.”

I let it happen. My eyes shift—the color bleeding into something deeper, richer, consuming. Blood-red.

Her breath catches. Her body goes stiff. The room disappears. She sees. Her deepest fear. Her worst future. Her own death.

A strangled, broken sound slips from her lips. She stumbles back, nearly tripping over her own feet as she claws at her chest like she can rip the terror out of herself.

I step forward, slow, unbothered. I let her drown in it for one second longer than she can bear.

My eyes shift back to normal in a blink.

She crumples against the wall, shaking, panting, clutching at her chest as if she can still feel the shadow of what I showed her.

I straighten my tie, adjust my jacket, and step forward.

I stumble walking around the corner. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but I feel it. A shift. A crack. Something inside me is catching on an edge it shouldn’t have.

My breath tightens. The world blurs at the edges, everything fading into meaningless shapes, meaningless noise.

Until I see her. And the world stops, nothing else exists.

She isn’t just beautiful. She’s something otherworldly, something that doesn’t belong in a place like this. She shouldn’t be here.

But she is.

Her hair is dark blonde, messy even now, strands slipping free from whatever careless attempt had been made to tame it. Crystal blue eyes, striking against the dim lighting, sharp but unreadable, guarded in a way that makes me want to break past the walls and see what’s inside.

She’s dressed for the occasion, but it doesn’t suit her.

The dress is skimpy, tacky—a thing meant to demand attention rather than deserve it. It clings to her in a way that cheapens her beauty, a costume forced onto someone who doesn’t belong in the role. Like she didn’t choose it. Like someone else did.

Sunkissed skin, dusted with freckles that don’t belong in a world of polished vanity. I wonder if she had to scrub herself raw to fit in tonight. If she stood in front of a mirror and erased the paint smudges from her hands, her arms, her face, stripping away every piece of herself that didn’t match the setting.

Slender but strong. The kind of strength that doesn’t come from power but from survival. Delicate in appearance, but something about her feels unbreakable.

She’s stiff beneath Cassius’ grip, her face blank, expression carefully set, but I see it. The tension in her shoulders. The slight tremble in her fingers. The way her body screams against being handled.

And her eyes. Crystal blue, but hollow.

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