Page 42 of The Devil's Canvas

Melanie isn’t done. "I mean, we’re talking about someone who used to get anxious just ordering her own coffee. Someone who was never comfortable in her own skin. It was embarrassing watching her try to belong." The laughter grows. Melanie keeps going. "Honestly? I don’t know why people even remember her. She’s forgettable. She always has been."

The words settle like dead weight.

Dominic moves before he speaks. Just slightly. His jaw tightens, his fingers curling into fists. "Stop."

It’s not loud. But it cuts through the noise like a blade.

Melanie freezes, her lips parting slightly like she hadn’t considered that he might actually push back. Dominic turns toward her fully now. His face is neutral, but there’s something cold in his eyes. "Don’t."

Melanie scoffs, feigning amusement. "Oh, come on, Dominic, don’t act like—"

"I said stop." His voice is sharper this time. Unmistakable. Silence.

Melanie swallows, her face smoothing over as if nothing happened. But it did. Everyone felt it. Ashton leans back, watching them both like a man who just set fire to a room and is waiting to see how far the flames will spread.

Just as the argument is about to break open completely, the screen glitches and cuts to black. I don’t know who cut the feed. Maybe the network. Maybe Dominic’s team. Maybe someone decided this mess had gone on long enough.

It doesn’t matter. I’m already laughing.

I turn the TV off and I feel it. A pull. A call. My mind starts to hyper-focus on where it is coming from.

Once I pinpoint it, I know it's not where. It's who.

Ophelia:Julian! I—I can’t move—I can’t—

Nothing more needs to be said because I will myself to where she is.

She twists against the sheets, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Her fingers clutch at the blankets, as if trying to hold onto something just out of reach.

"Ophelia, wake up!" I call.

No answer. She’s stuck wherever she is.

"Lia, baby, I'm here. You can relax," I say, putting my hand gently on her shoulder.

She exhales sharply, her body going still. The tension seeps out of her limbs, like the nightmare has been drained from her all at once.

Her lashes flutter. Slowly. Like she’s surfacing from somewhere deep, heavy.

When her eyes rise to meet mine, I freeze. They aren’t the same. At first, I think it’s a trick of the light, the dim glow casting strange shadows over her face. But no—it’s real. It’s happening.

The color shifts, deepens. Her once crystal-blue irises darken as deep red swirls bloom within them, curling at the edges like ink spreading through water. Like mine.

Something shifts. Something primal. Deep. Ancient. It slams into me like a force I can’t fight, it’s older than thought, stronger than reason.

I move before I can stop myself. My body, my instincts—they decide before my mind does.

I grab her, my grip is hard and desperate. My fingers dig into her waist like she’s the only thing anchoring me to reality.

I’m kissing her. Hard. Fast. Devouring. She tenses beneath me, stiff—but I don’t stop.

I can’t. She’s my soulmate. My mate. It’s all I can feel. All I can see.

She exhales sharply against my lips, her breath stuttering, caught between shock and something else. Finally, she moves, not a push or a resistance, but something between hesitation and response.

My grip tightens. A growl builds low in my throat, primal and possessive. I tilt my head, deepening it, tasting her, needing her in a way I can’t name.

The bond pulses between us, thick and undeniable. She’s here. She’s mine. She’s pulling away.

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