Page 54 of The Devil's Canvas

I get home and before I even unlock the door, I know that he's in there. I can feel him. So I decide to just go in and talk to him.

When I open the door, my breath catches.

He’s handsome—undeniably so. But something is different. The effortless composure he always carries feels frayed at the edges, like a thread pulled too tight, ready to snap. His red eyes, flecked with gold, don’t burn with their usual sharp amusement or quiet arrogance. Instead, they seem dimmer, shadowed by something I can’t quite place.

He looks drained. Not in the way mortals do—no dark circles, no signs of wear—but there’s something weighted in the way he stands, something restless in the way his fingers twitch at his side, like he’s holding something back. His jaw is tight, his usual smirk absent.

It’s subtle, but I notice. And for some reason, that unsettles me more than anything else.

"Are you okay?" I ask, setting my things down.

Julian exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off something heavy. "I’ve been better," he says. His voice is quieter, rougher, like he’s been carrying something that even he can’t quite disguise. "You wanted to talk?"

I nod. "Yeah. About us."

His gaze locks onto mine, unreadable but unwavering. He doesn’t look surprised. He never does. But it’s clear that he’s been expecting this.

I sit on the couch, and he moves with me, effortless and instinctual, settling beside me without hesitation. Julian never keeps his distance, never shies away. He’s always there, always steady, always close enough to remind me that this—whateverthisis—exists whether I want it to or not.

But for the first time, I’m not trying to shove it aside.

For the first time,Iam the one choosing to be here. To talk. To figure out what this thing between us is, even if I’m not ready to surrender to it.

I exhale, pressing my fingers against my palms, grounding myself in the reality of this moment—one I never thought I’d allow myself to have.

Julian doesn’t speak. He waits. Not with impatience, not with expectation—just with the kind of certainty that says he knew I’d get here eventually.

I’ve spent my whole life losing—pieces of myself, my art, my choices, my future. But this? This is mine.

"I don’t want to just accept this.” The words come slow, deliberate. “I want to choose it.” I swallow hard, fingers curling against my knee. “I want to try. Us. Not just the bond. Not just fate. I want this on my terms.”

The words feel foreign. But not wrong.

Julian tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s finally seeing all the pieces of.

“Your terms.” His voice is smooth, quiet, like the weight of those words is something he’s turning over in his mind, letting settle.

I nod. “No more hiding. No more pretending. I have a chance at something real. And for once, I’m taking it.”

A slow inhale. A longer exhale. Julian watches me like he’s waiting for something—or maybe savoring it. “Good.”

Just one word. One that settles into my bones, anchoring me.

I exhale, tension unraveling from my spine.

He moves, slowly, testing, just close enough that my breath catches, fingertips grazing my jaw, his touch featherlight, tilting my chin just enough—

My phone rings.

The moment snaps like a thread pulled too tight. I flinch. Julian stills. His gaze flickers to my phone, eyes glinting with something wicked and unsatisfied.

“Fate,” he murmurs, “has a terrible sense of timing.”

I glance at the screen. Melanie. Of course.

Pressing my lips together, I answer. “What?”

"You need to be at the premiere tonight," Melanie says smoothly, skipping over any form of greeting.

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