Page 62 of The Devil's Canvas

I release her completely.

Her knees buckle, and she catches herself on the pavement, nails scraping against the ground, body trembling as she gasps like she’s just surfaced from drowning.

Crouching down, I tilt my head, letting the silence stretch between us, letting her sit in the terror still clinging to her bones. She knows now. She knows exactly what I am.

"Run along," I murmur, my voice softer now, but no less dangerous. "Before I decide you’re worth my full attention."

She doesn’t hesitate. She stumbles to her feet, nearly tripping over herself as she turns and flees, disappearing into the crowd.

I don’t watch her go. I already know—she won’t open her mouth again.

The world around us keeps moving—the bright flashes of cameras, the low murmur of conversations, the hum of a night too loud to be real—but Ophelia is focused, turning over what just happened, the weight of it settling into her thoughts.

I feel it before she even speaks, the way her fingers twitch at her side, the way her breath comes slow and measured, like she’s deciding whether she wants to know the answer or if she already does.

Finally, she asks, voice even, deliberate. "What was that?"

I glance at her, my smirk sharp, intrigued by the lack of fear in her tone. "Which part?" I tease, though we both know what she means.

She exhales, shaking her head, not quite an eye roll, but close. "Julian."

I chuckle, tipping my face down to look at her, studying her. “It’s a gift, really. I can make people see their worst nightmare. Not illusions. Not tricks. Real fear. The kind that sits in their bones long after I’ve let them go."

She takes that in, lips pressing together, but she doesn’t recoil. Instead, she tilts her chin slightly, looking up at me, her gaze clear, searching.

"And you just—decide what it is?"

"No," I murmur, watching her carefully. "They decide. I just let them drown in it."

She nods slowly, absorbing that, her fingers tapping lightly against her dress like she’s testing the weight of my words.

She should be horrified. She should be unsettled.

Instead, she holds my gaze, blue eyes flickering with something unreadable before she exhales, her voice steady. "That’s terrifying."

I grin, slow and easy, the kind that makes people uncomfortable, but she’s still looking at me like she’s trying to figure something out.

"And you?" I murmur, my fingers brushing lightly against her waist, just enough to feel her skin beneath the fabric. "Do you have something to fear, Ophelia?"

Without looking away, without hesitation, she says, “I’ve already lived my biggest fears, Julian.”

I still.

"Being abandoned. Losing my ability to show emotion. My painting." She inhales, slow, like the weight of those words alone could crush her if she let them. "I’m living it."

I don’t breathe. Because it’s not a dramatic confession. Not a plea for sympathy. She’s just… saying it. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s a truth she carries, something so ingrained into her that it doesn’t even feel like something worth breaking over anymore.

That’s worse than fear. It settles into my chest like something sharp. This has all been fun and games.

Until now.

Because she’s right. She is living her worst fear.

And I am the reason why.

For the first time tonight, I don’t have a clever response. I don’t have a smirk, or a sharp-edged comment, or a teasing quip to pull her out of it.

I just look at her.

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