Page 86 of His to Hunt

Red bleeds into black. Black into midnight blue. Blue into burnt orange. The canvas becomes a battlefield where my fury and frustration wage war against my confusion and, worst of all, the longing I refuse to acknowledge.

Time slips away. Minutes or hours, I couldn't say. The world narrows to the canvas before me, to the movement of my arm, to the rhythm of my breathing growing more ragged with each stroke.

I step back finally, brush still gripped in my paint-stained hand, and see what I've created.

Beckett's face stares back at me from the canvas.

Not a perfect portrait—it's too raw for that, too chaotic. But unmistakably him. Those intense eyes that see too much. That strong jaw always tight with controlled emotion. That mouth that can deliver cruelty and tenderness in the same breath.

I've painted him emerging from shadow, half his face illuminated in cold light, the other half still shrouded in darkness. The background is turbulent, a storm of reds and blacks that seem to both consume and emanate from him.

"Goddamn it," I whisper, staring at what my subconscious has betrayed me into creating.

Even here, miles away, locked behind stone walls and electronic security, he's still inside my head. Still controlling what I create. Still the center of a universe I never asked to inhabit.

I should destroy it. Slash the canvas. Burn it. Throw it through one of those windows that won't open more than two inches.

But I don't. I can't.

Because despite everything—despite the anger and resentment and fear—there's a truth in this painting I'm not ready to face. Something raw and real and terrifying in the way I've rendered his eyes. Something that looks too much like understanding.

Or worse, longing.

I set the brush down carefully, stepping away from the easel as though creating distance from the painting might create distance from the feelings it represents.

"This doesn't mean anything," I tell the security camera inthe corner of the studio, not sure if I'm trying to convince Beckett or myself. "This is just... therapy."

The camera's red light blinks silently, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Just watching. Always watching.

I leave the painting to dry, retreating to the bathroom attached to my bedroom. I need to wash away the evidence of what I've done, scrub the paint from my skin like I could scrub the memory of him from my mind.

The hot water pours over me, steam rising to cloud the glass shower enclosure. I stand under the spray, hands pressed against cool tile, and try to make sense of the chaos inside me.

Anger at being imprisoned here, yes. Fear of what Christopher's appearance means. Confusion about Beckett's sudden decision to lock me away "for my protection."

But there's something else too. Something I don't want to name.

When the water runs clear, I step out and wrap myself in one of the absurdly soft towels monogrammed with Beckett's initials. Another reminder of whose space I'm occupying. Whose rules I'm living under.

I stare at my reflection in the steam-clouded mirror. My eyes look too bright, my cheeks flushed from the hot water. I look like someone on the edge of something dangerous.

"What are you doing, Luna?" I ask my reflection.

The question hangs unanswered as I dress in clothes I found in the closet—all new, all exactly my size, all in colors I prefer. Another unsettling reminder of how much attention Beckett has paid to details about me I didn't realize he'd noticed.

I return to the studio, drawn back to the painting like a moth to flame. It's still there, of course. Still undeniablyhim. Still uncomfortably revealing about what's happening inside me.

"I hate you," I tell the painted face, the words lacking conviction even to my own ears.

The security camera blinks its red eye at me, silent witness to my lies.

I turn my back on both, walking to the window instead. The forest stretches out before me, endless and wild. Free in a way I am not.

But somewhere beyond those trees is Beckett. Doing whatever he left to do. Fighting whatever battle he thinks is worth fighting to keep me here.

And despite everything—despite the anger and resentment and my very best efforts to hate him—a part of me wonders if he's thinking of me too.

Thirty-Five

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