Page 22 of The Devil's Canvas

It’s not the blankets, not a dream fading into reality. This heat is real, it’s inside me, and it feels like it’s alive.

I inhale sharply, my body stiffening, heart kicking up like I’ve just startled awake from a nightmare—except there is no nightmare. Just silence and my bedroom, dim and still. Too still.

My fingers curl against the sheets, but my skin feels wrong—tight, electric, too aware. I feel it. A pulse, a hum beneath my ribs, a presence.

I don’t want to look, don’t want to confirm what I already know. But I have to.

My fingers shake as I peel the sheets back, tugging the collar of my shirt down—and there it is. The Mark. It’s bright against my heart, beating in sync with it. The color is different today, it’s a dark gold, twisting,moving.

My stomach drops and my breath locks in my throat.

No. No, no, no.It wasn’t a dream.

I throw the blankets back and get out of bed. Maybe a shower will get rid of it.Yeah, let’s go shower.

I walk past my dress from last night, crumpled on the floor where I left it. It doesn’t matter, it’s not like I’m ever going to wear it again.

The water is too hot when I step in, but I don’t turn it down. I scrub hard—hair, skin, everywhere, like I can wash off whatever is clawing under my ribs.

Soap and bronze glitter swirl down the drain. Jesus. I feel five pounds lighter.

The makeup is gone, scrubbed from my skin, but the mark remains. Not glowing this time, just there—dark, strange, like an ink stain that won’t wash away. A reminder.

What now?

I stare at the blank canvas in the corner of my studio.Might as well paint.

Painting is everything to me, or it used to be. Now, it’s different. I stare at my half-finished canvas. Gray. Again.

I loved color once, it meantfeeling. My emotions used to cling to the paint—deep, visceral, and uncontainable.

Now everything is muted, caged, like I can’t quite reach it.

I can’t let them out. Hell, I can’t even say them. Every time I try, the words won’t come. It’s so fucking frustrating. It’s why Dominic broke up with me.

I sigh and start painting. With gray, of course.

I think about Ophelia of the past. The one who loved a man. And the man who loved her. But that was back when I could show it.

The first stroke is red.

Color floods the canvas, spilling from my brush without thought. It moves the way it always has—effortless, reckless, and alive.

Like I don’t have to think, don’t have to try.

My fingers are already smudged with paint, streaks of crimson and burnt orange smeared against my wrist, my forearm, the hem of my tank top.

I don’t care. I never do. The mess is part of it.

Arms slip around my waist from behind, broad hands settling low against my hips.

Dominic. I don’t have to turn to know it’s him. His body molds against mine, the warmth of him sinking through my clothes, his chest pressing firm between my shoulder blades.

"You’re making a mess," he murmurs, voice low and teasing as his lips graze the shell of my ear.

"So?" I drag a streak of deep blue through the red, watching them bleed together, shifting into a rich purple, something wild.

"So," he echoes, fingers skimming beneath the hem of my shirt, slow, searching, like he’s mapping out every inch of bare skin.

---