Page 33 of The Devil's Canvas

Julian doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is a warning, his words sharp enough to slice through the air. My pulse slams against my ribs, my breath hitching as the Mark flares beneath my skin, reacting to him, to his fury, to the invisible force rippling through the space.

Emilien swallows hard, eyes darting to me, but he doesn’t touch me again."We're leaving, Ophelia," he says.

He pulls me out of the gallery. I only have time to give Emilien a small wave—not like he noticed. His mouth is still hanging open.

"We need to talk," I tell him.

Now where to go? I am not taking him to my apartment—my place to be me—and this conversation needs to be held on neutral ground.

The Larkspur Theater has been abandoned for at least a decade, but people come here all the time. No one really watches it, no one really cares. It’s private. Hidden. The perfect spot.

The doors hang slightly off their hinges, the once-grand entrance warped by time and weather. Faded marquee letters cling stubbornly to the facade, the ghosts of old film titles barely visible beneath years of grime. Inside, dust coats the velvet seats, and the scent of mildew and forgotten memories clings to the air. The stage, though cracked and crumbling, still holds an eerie presence—like it’s waiting for a performance that will never come.

We get to the middle of the theater, and I don't wait a second longer. I turn around and stare at Julian.

He's waiting, like he knows I have something to say. I can't read him at all. I'm pissed, and I want to show it. I yank my jumpsuit to the side and show him the Mark. It’s glowing in all its fucking glory.

"You need to explain what the fuck you did to me!" I scream.

Wait. I screamed. I showed him emotion. But I can't think about that little revelation now.

"I don't know what you mean," he says leisurely.

"You—what?" I shout. "You know what I mean! This!" I say, pointing at the Mark, rage is burning inside me.

"I think I do," he says.

"Stop being so fucking cryptic," I snap.

"Fine, sweetheart," he starts, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smirk, eyes flickering with amusement, challenge, maybe both. "I’ll tell you what that is because I have one too."

He pulls up his sleeve, and there, on his left forearm, is a Mark that looks exactly like my own.

"The Mark of Duvain," he murmurs. "You belong to me now, whether you like it or not. You’re my soulmate."

Chapter Seven

Ophelia

Ican'tspeak,can'tmove.Hell, I may not even be able to breathe. His words are just replaying in my head.

The Mark of Duvain. You belong to me now, whether you like it or not. You’re my soulmate.

A laugh spills out before I can stop it. It’s raw, jagged, almost bitter. But hell, if he gets to say insane things, I get to laugh at them.

"No," I start. "No. That's not happening. I'm not your soulmate. You're mistaken."

"It’s no mistake, sweetheart," he says, leaning against a chair.

He's just sitting there. Seriously? Like this isn’t a huge deal. Like he didn’t just say something that tipped my entire world off its axis. He has to be lying.

"I’m not lying," he says.

Wait. I didn’t say that out loud?

"Nor am I insane," he adds.

I take a step back, pulse hammering. "Okay, I know I’m not talking."

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