Page 50 of Sparks of Insanity
Again he shrugged. “I’ll think of something. There must be something you’d want, that you like.”
I opened my mouth, and he shook his head, lifting a finger in the air.
“Nothing sexual, Ember.”
“Why are you calling me that?” It felt like a bigger betrayal than it probably was, because he was acting like we hadn’t spent so much time together, like we didn’t know each other better than we fucking knew anyone else. He was acting like I didn’t matter to him at all.
Is this just how men act once they’ve got what they want from a woman? Did I misjudge the person I thought he was, did I see him through rose-tinted lenses or something?
“Ethan-”
“Mr E. We’re moving back to a safer relationship between us, Ember. That means no more crossing lines, and no more stepping over boundaries. This is for the best, I promise. I won’t hurt you again.”
I almost threw my coffee in his face, but I knew it’d burn him, and even though I was heartbroken, and so furious, I couldn’t do that to him. Instead I slammed it down, and stalked away from him.
“Ember!”
“Fuck you, Ethan. You can’t promise you won’t hurt me again, because you already are!”
Ethan
I AGONISED FOR MOST of the fucking night after I made it back to my room, and this was the only thing that made sense in my newly fucked up mind. Reverting back to a time when we were both safe from each other, before we’d lost anything to each other, was the only way to survive this entrapment situation. Ember needed boundaries again, because she functioned better that way, because it gave her stability and comfort, and I needed them there to keep her safe from me.
When I woke with her in my room this morning, it was from another sadistic dream about her. This time I was suffocating her with a pillow as I fucked her. What the hell had gone wrong in my brain? This isn’t stuff I find sexy or arousing. It’s terrifying. Horrific. Soul-destroying. Had everything that happened forced some kind of mental break, or a break from reality? Was I fantasising about this sick shit, or was it my mind just warning me of what could happen, if I didn’t put safeguards in place to protect her?
I never expected her to take it well, but I did expect her to understand that it was the only way we could proceed. She’s highly intelligent, just like her older brother, the one with the IQ that makes him probably the deadliest person I’ve ever met.
I let her run to her room like a child, while I checked out her art room. It was basically just an empty room, but there were stacks of easels, note pads, paint, pens, pencils, the works.
A theme of some sort was the best idea, but I was drawing a blank. What the fuck should I set as her first challenge, and what’s to stop her just throwing this stuff at me, and telling me to go to hell? Without known penalties or rewards, what’s her incentive to even try?
Anything I could threaten her with would either get me a response of ‘fuck you’, or would turn sexual. Hell, anything I imagined with her made me think of fucking sex, but there hadto be something. And what about rewards? Again, the same issues applied. Either it wouldn’t be enough of an incentive, or it put her at risk.
Fuck.
“I have some demands,” Ember said from behind me, shocking me out of my thoughts, and making me drop the tube of paint I’d picked up.
“Shit.”
“No, I’m not painting that. If that’s the best idea you have, then I fear for your mind.” Cheeky little minx.
“Tell me your demands.”
She placed her hands on her hips, sassing me with her posture, as much as the look on her face. Oh, and I haven’t even heard what sassy words are going to come from those pouty lips yet.
“You have to be in the room when I work. I can’t… I can’t be isolated like that. It’s not good for me, emotionally.” I nodded, because that was fair, right?
“Understood. This is all about helping your mental health, so of course. Is that everything?”
She walked around, inspecting the kit that her dads had had delivered, I’m assuming from her own supplies, although there were multiple items still in their packaging.
“I get to choose the form my art takes. Sometimes I prefer pen and ink, sometimes something looks better in watercolour, and so on.” Again, like I have a clue about this stuff.
“Agreed. I’m absolutely on board with both of these ‘demands’. Is that it?”
She crouched, and rummaged through the boxes of brushes and bottles of whatever the hell it is that artists use to clean brushes, or whatever. She fussed with her t-shirt, tying it in a knot at her waist.
“I have to wear what’s comfortable while I work, because I might need to sit for long periods of time, or do a lot of stretchingto get to the canvas, so you’re not going to dictate anything to me about that stuff. I wear what I wear. Agreed?”
