Page 21 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"How do ye like that?" he growled, loading the knife with black paint and dragging it down again. "Nae so perfect now, are ye?"
Slash after slash, he attacked the image. Red for the blood his father had drawn from him. Black for the darkness the man had left in his soul. The colors mixed and ran, creating something that was both destruction and art—violence made beautiful through technique and fury.
"This is for every time ye raised yer hand to me," he muttered, adding another streak of crimson. "Every time ye told me I was worthless."
The knife moved like a weapon in his hands, but controlled, purposeful. Each mark was placed with the precision of a master artist, turning his rage into something that belonged in a gallery as much as it belonged to his nightmares.
"For every night I lay bleedin’ on that floor."
More red. More black. The paint built up in thick layers, creating texture that spoke of violence but with an elegance that could only come from skill and practice.
"For makin' a lad a murderer because of yer cruelty."
Why do I keep doin' this to meself?
But even as the thought crossed his mind, he was adding another slash of paint. Because this was how he bled now—onto canvas instead of onto stone floors. This was how he fought back against a dead man who still had the power to make his hands shake.
"Ye cannae hurt me anymore," he said aloud, his voice harsh in the empty room. "Ye're dead, and I'm the one with the knife now."
The painting had become something else entirely—abstract in places where the slashes destroyed the realistic rendering, but somehow more powerful for it. His father's face was still recognizable beneath the angry marks, but now it looked wounded, defeated.
Just like ye made me feel. But I'm still here, and ye're rottin' in the ground.
He loaded the knife with more red, this time spraying it across the canvas with a flick of his wrist. The droplets scattered like blood spatter, but arranged with the eye of an artist who understood composition even in his fury.
"That's for me maither," he growled. "For drivin' her away with yer cruelty."
Another spray of black, controlled and deliberate. "And that's for the boy I used to be. The one ye killed long before I ever laid a hand on ye."
The canvas was a mess of color and emotion now, but it was beautiful in its violence. Raw and honest and terrible and perfect.
But ye're more than just rage, aren't ye?
Without breaking his intense focus, Lachlan set down the palette knife and picked up a fine brush. His hand moved with the precision of a master, blending the angry slashes of red and black with just a few expert strokes. The colors merged and flowed, the violent marks transforming before his eyes.
What emerged from the chaos was breathtaking—a phoenix rising from flames. The red became fire, tongues of crimson licking upward. The black slashes formed wings, powerful and spread wide. Where his father's cruel face had been destroyed, now rose something magnificent and fierce.
"Aye," he murmured, adding delicate touches of gold to catch the light. "From the ashes of what ye made me, ye couldnae stop me from turnin' into somethin' stronger."
The phoenix's eyes—formed from the very spots where he'd slashed across his father's—burned with life and defiance. It was beautiful and terrible and triumphant all at once. A creature born from violence but soaring above it.
This is what ye could never break, old man. This is what survived.
A sound from the doorway made him pause, his brush hovering over the canvas. Someone was there—he could feel eyes on him, could sense the presence as clearly as if they'd spoken.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Come out sunshine, I can tell ye are watchin' me," he said finally, his voice carrying easily across the room.
He didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge the watcher. Instead, he added one final stroke of gold to the phoenix's wing, completing the transformation.
Lachlan heard her sharp intake of breath at being discovered. He'd known she was there for several minutes now—the woman had a presence that seemed to fill whatever space she occupied, nervous energy that made the air itself feel different.
Sunshine. Where the hell did that come from?
"I... I dinnae..." Erica's voice came from the doorway, stammering and uncertain. "I was just..."
"Just what?" Now he did turn, setting his brush aside and facing her fully. She stood in the entrance like a deer caught in torchlight, her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment.
