Page 16 of The Devil's Canvas

And before Cassius can step away—I move. My hand grips the back of his collar, and with a sharp yank, I throw him out.

His back slams against the opposite wall, the impact shaking the framed art behind him. He blinks, stunned for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching as he looks up, confusion twisting into fury.

I adjust my cuff, exhaling slowly, my pulse still thrumming from something I don’t want to name.

"You’ve done enough."

Cassius’ jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides, but he doesn’t step forward, doesn’t try to re-enter the room.

Good.

I step toward the woman, now cowering on the floor. I should be annoyed by this. But something about her—something about this moment—sinks its teeth into me before I can shake it off.

"Just breathe," I murmur, more out of instinct than intent. “Where does it hurt?"

She moves her dress away, trembling fingers peeling back the fabric to expose the skin just above her heart. My gaze drops, and I see it.

My mark.

My soulmate mark.

The Mark of Duvain.

It is not a simple brand, not ink, not magic in the way mortals understand. It is something deeper, something alive. The shape is ancient, the design unmistakable—a twisted sigil of darkened gold and deep crimson, curling like fire that has been frozen in time. The edges pulse faintly, like embers waiting to be reignited, sinking into her skin like it was carved there by something older than existence itself.

Over her heart. It’s flawless, absolute. And it shouldn’t be on her.

I inhale sharply, pulse steady but pounding too loud in my ears. I don’t need to touch it to know it’s still burning, still settling into her body like a claim that can never be undone.

She’s still gasping for breath, her hand hovering just above it, like she’s too afraid to touch it, too afraid to acknowledge what’s now a part of her.

"What is happening to me?" she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"I’m sorry," I sigh. "I’m so sorry, but it means—"

A pounding on the door cuts me off.

"Ophelia! Get out here now!"

The name slams into me like a fist to the ribs.

Ophelia.

She exhales sharply, still shaken but forcing herself up. "I’m coming!" she yells. "I’m sorry. My father’s calling me."

She rushes out of the room.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

All of a sudden, it hits me.

Ophelia Arden.

The painter. The girl I stripped of emotion, gifting her talent to a sister who never deserved it. The woman whose suffering is tied to my own.

My fucking soulmate.

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