Page 81 of Ruined By Blood
I stand, hesitating for a moment before leaning down to kiss Sienna's forehead. She tilts her face up at the last second, and our lips meet briefly. It's chaste, barely a touch, but I feel Lucrezia's eyes on us immediately.
"Well, well," she drawls, a smirk playing on her lips. "Things have certainly developed since the cabin."
Heat rises in Sienna's cheeks, but she doesn't pull away.
"Mind your business, piccola peste," I tell Lucrezia, though there's no heat in my voice.
"That's not how siblings work, Enzo," Lucrezia counters. "Embarrassing you is literally in my job description."
I pull Sienna into a quick hug, pressing my lips to her ear. "Ignore my sister. She thinks she's funny."
"I heard that," Lucrezia says. "And I am funny. Sienna will back me up once she gets to know me better."
Sienna laughs – actually laughs – and the sound is like sunshine breaking through clouds. It's small and slightly rusty from disuse, but genuine. Lucrezia looks as surprised as I feel, before her expression shifts to something like triumph.
"Go handle your business, brother," she says, shooing me away. "We have important artistic matters to discuss."
I squeeze Sienna's shoulder gently before stepping back. "I'll see you both later."
The art room smells of oil paints and turpentine, a rich, earthy scent that feels strangely comforting as Lucrezia leads me through the doorway. Light floods in from tall windows that stretch almost from floor to ceiling, bathing the space in natural brightness.
"This is where I used to..." Lucrezia hesitates, her voice catching slightly. "Where I paint. Or used to paint, anyway."
The space is beautiful but shows signs of neglect—dust coating surfaces and half-finished canvases turned to face the walls. I watch as Lucrezia's fingers twist nervously in the fabric of her oversized sweater.
"Three months is a long time to stay away from something you love," I say quietly.
Her eyes meet mine, and I see recognition there—the understanding between two people who've been broken in similar ways. She doesn't ask how I know about her trauma.
"Sometimes it's easier to stay away than face what might come out on the canvas," she says, moving to a cabinet and pulling out fresh supplies. "But maybe today's different."
She sets up two easels side by side near the windows, assembling paints and brushes with practiced hands despite her absence from this room.
"I don't know how to paint," I admit, staring at the blank canvas. "I take photographs."
"There aren't any rules here," Lucrezia says, handing me a palette with dollops of vibrant colors. "Just make marks. See what happens."
I hesitate, brush hovering over the canvas. What would I even paint? Every time I try to think of something beautiful, my mind fills with ugly memories instead.
"I can't?—"
"Stop thinking," Lucrezia interrupts gently. "That's what keeps us stuck. Just feel something, anything, and let your hand follow."
I dip my brush into deep blue and make a single stroke across the white canvas. It feels both terrifying and freeing, like jumping from a great height.
The hours slip away. Lucrezia works silently beside me, lost in her own world as I sink into mine. Something shifts as I continue painting. The brush becomes an extension of my hand, the colors no longer just pigments but emotions taking tangible form.
Anger comes first—dark reds and blacks slashing across the canvas. Then fear—murky greens and grays swirling in the corners. I paint without conscious thought, letting years of suppressed feelings guide each stroke.
"This is what was inside me all along," I whisper to myself.
But then something unexpected happens. Without planning it, I find my brush creating small points of light breaking through the darkness—bright yellow and white specks that remind me of stars. Of possibilities. Of Enzo's kitchen at three in the morning.
I lose track of time, lost in the rhythm of creation. My breathing syncs with each brushstroke, my body relaxed for the first time in days. No one is watching me, judging me, using me. This moment is entirely mine.
When I finally step back, I gasp softly at what I've created. It's chaotic and raw, technically unskilled but emotionally honest—a journey from darkness into tentative light. My whole story is there on canvas, not in images but in feeling.
"It's perfect," Lucrezia says quietly beside me, her eyes understanding as they move between my painting and me. "Not because it's technically good, but because it's true."
