Page 52 of Iron Roses

So do I.

His fingers wrap around mine. We walk back into the house in silence, his thumb brushing softly over the back of my hand, as if reminding me he’s real.

He stops before a door I don’t remember seeing before.

It creaks open under his hand.

Light pours in.

The walls are covered.

Paintings. Dozens of them.

I step in, drawn as if gravity has shifted.

They’re everywhere—stacked against the walls, hanging above old furniture, resting on easels and frames. Some are incomplete. Some cracked with age. But all of them…her work.

One painting shows two little girls in matching dresses, barefoot and laughing beneath the shade of a lemon tree. Another—Giovanna brushing my hair as I hold a book in my lap, face scrunched in a pout. I choke on a laugh that dies too quickly.

She painted me.

Again and again.

Cassian remains by the door. Watching.

There are paintings of him too.

He’s never looking directly at the viewer. Always turned away, or in profile, or gazing off-frame. But the likeness isunmistakable. The sharpness of his brow. The lines of his mouth, more shadow than flesh. One unfinished piece shows him from behind, seated, his head slightly tilted as if caught in the act of observing something—or someone.

I reach out.

My fingers brush the canvas.

The shift is instant, the pain shoots to my back and then I’m somewhere else—someone else.

I feel her. Her heart. Her breath.

Giovanna.

Cassian sits across the room, back to the window, and she watches him from behind her easel. Her brush hovers, hesitant, before touching the canvas again. She’s not painting for art. She’s painting to keep the moment—this moment—where he’s still hers.

Her chest aches with how full it feels. My heart aches too.

She wants to turn around and smile at him. Wants him to say her name even if he won’t. But more than anything, she wants him to keep looking at her like that. Like she’s a secret he hasn’t spoken aloud.

The trance fades as quickly as it came.

But the emotion stays. Lodged deep in my chest like a breath I forgot to take.

I don’t realize I’ve swayed until Cassian is beside me. His hand steadies the small of my back.

“She loved it when you watched her paint,” I murmur.

His eyes close.

A tear slips past my lashes, tracing the curve of my cheek. “You made her so happy,” I whisper, breath trembling, “her heart almost burst.”

He comes close until his forehead nearly touches mine, breath fanning across my skin. One hand rises and brushes my cheek with the back of his fingers. His thumb catches the tear before it falls. His hand lingers there, cupping my face.

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