Page 8 of Wrecked By the Mountain Man
“What’s that?” I ask, my voice a little too eager, as I push myself off the bed and walk towards the workbench.
Edward stiffens. “Nothing.”
“Looks like something,” I counter, already reaching for the stack.
“I said don’t touch anything, Penny,” he growls, his voice a low warning.
He’s behind me in an instant, his presence overwhelming. The heat radiating off his body is sudden, potent, and utterly distracting.
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the worn covers of the sketchbooks. The tension in the air is suddenlyelectric.
“Are these… your drawings?” I ask, my voice a whisper.
The risk of irritating him further is high, but the pull of discovering another artist’s work is stronger. It’s an unspoken code, a sacred trust.
He lets out a frustrated sigh, but doesn’t move to stop me.
My fingers trace the faded cover of the top book, then I carefully open it.
And my breath hitches.
It’s a charcoal drawing, completely raw in it's beauty.
A twisted, gnarled tree, its branches reaching like skeletal fingers towards a turbulent sky. The detail is incredible, the emotion palpable. It’s dark, moody, violent even… not my usual style.
But still, it's undeniably beautiful.
“Edward,” I breathe, turning another page.
This one depicts a wolf standing alone, its gaze piercing, its posture wary and protective, set against a backdrop of craggy, unforgiving peaks.
Another turn of the book, and this time I'm staring in awe at a soldier, his face shadowed, his eyes haunted, dissolving into a swirl of smoke.
These aren't just sketches. These are fragments of a soul.Hissoul.
My fingers tremble as I turn page after page.
They’re all like this—dark, powerful, full of a raw, almost agonizing emotion. Landscapes that weep, animals that snarl, figures that dissolve into shadow and pain.
They depict the very essence of what this lonely man feels but cannot say.
“These are… incredible,” I finally say, my voice thick with sheer surprise. “They’re… you’re an artist, Edward.”
He says nothing, simply standing behind me, his silence a heavy weight. I can feel his gaze boring into the back of my head, probably expecting me to mock him, to trivialize his pain.
But I can’t. I simply can’t.
I turn, still holding the open sketchbook. His face is unreadable, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes now, a flicker that wasn’t there before.
The soldier from the drawing. That's him.
“Edward,” I repeat, my voice soft. “I mean it. These are truly amazing. The emotion… the detail… it’s breathtaking. You're an inspiration.”
He looks away, clearing his throat. “They’re just… something to pass the time.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head firmly. “No, they’re not ‘just something.’ This is real art. This isprofound. This is what I came up here to find.”
My eyes ignite with a newfound purpose, a genuine fire that finally breaks through his defenses.
