Page 128 of His to Hunt

"I killed him," he says, the words falling into the silence between us. Not a confession. A fact. One he wants me to understand fully.

"I know."

"He'll never touch you again. Never come near you. Never even think about you."

I swallow, feeling the ghost of that burgundy ribbon around my throat. "Thank you."

Beckett moves then, crossing the kitchen to stand before me, not touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I failed you," he says, the words rough with self-recrimination. "I promised to keep you safe, and I let him take you."

"You found me," I counter, needing him to understand that this isn't on him. "You came for me."

"I will always come for you," he says, the intensity in his voice making me believe it down to my bones. "Always."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid. Then he steps back, giving me space.

"There's a studio," he says, gesturing toward a door off the main living area. "If you want it."

I blink, surprised by the offer. "You brought my supplies?"

"Not yours," he corrects. "But everything you might need is there. Canvases. Paints. Brushes."

"Why?" I ask, genuinely curious.

His expression softens, just slightly. "Because you need to create more than you need to breathe. And right now, you need both."

The understanding in his words—the recognition of what art means to me—brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I blink them away, nodding once.

"Thank you," I say again, the words becoming a refrain between us.

The days that follow settle into a strange, suspended routine. Beckett works remotely, making calls from a study down the hall, handling whatever aftermath came from Christopher's death. I don't ask for details. Some things are better left in darkness.

At first, I spend most of my time sleeping, my body demanding rest to heal what's been broken. Beckett is always nearby, a constant presence that should feel suffocating but somehow doesn't. He checks on me regularly, brings me food, changes the bandages on my wrists with careful, clinical precision.

We don't talk about what happened in the warehouse. We don't need to. The knowledge sits between us, a shared secret that binds us closer than any collar ever could.

By the fourth day, I find myself drawn to the studio. The room is smaller than the one at the Dutchess estate, but flooded with natural light. Canvases of various sizes lean against one wall. A table holds every shade of paint I could possibly need, brushes arranged by size, palettes stacked neatly.

I approach cautiously, as if the supplies might disappear if I move too quickly. My fingers trace the edge of a canvas, feeling the taut fabric beneath them. The sensation grounds me, connects me to something real.

I don't paint that day. But I stay in the studio, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by potential.

The next day, I pick up a brush.

The first strokes are tentative, uncertain. I haven't planned what to paint, haven't thought about composition or color theory or any of the technical aspects I usually consider. I just let the brush move, let the colors blend and flow, let my body remember what it feels like to create.

What emerges is chaos—dark reds and blacks swirling together, jagged lines cutting through softer curves. It's ugly and raw and honest in a way that makes my chest ache. When I step back to look at the finished piece, I see nothing but pain given form.

I don't show it to Beckett. I turn it to face the wall and start again the next day.

The second painting is different—still dark, still chaotic, but with a thin line of gold threading through the center. A path through shadows. A possibility.

I paint every day after that, each canvas capturing a fragment of what I'm feeling—fear, anger, confusion, grief. But also, gradually, hope. Resilience. A determination to reclaim what was taken.

Beckett never intrudes on my time in the studio. Heseems to understand that this space is sacred, that the work I'm doing there is necessary for healing. But sometimes I catch him watching from the doorway, his expression unreadable as he studies whatever has emerged on the canvas that day.

"Does it help?" he asks one evening, finding me cleaning brushes at the sink.

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