Nothing about that night makes sense to me. It feels like one of those perspective paintings, where if you look from the wrong angle, it’s just a jumble of shapes and lines. But if you move to the right point in the room, the shapes align and you can see the image clear as day. I could see exactly what happened . . . if I just knew where to stand.
For now, I know one thing for certain: Cole is dangerous.
I should run far away from him.
I know this, rationally.
Yet I want the exact opposite.
I’m fascinated by him. Drawn to him in every possible way: physically, mentally, emotionally.
I’ve been reading Dracula. It’s a cautionary tale. A warning to young women not to give in to the seduction of a man who wants to devour you.
And yet . . . not all of us were drawn to Prince Charming. Some little girls ate up the stories of ball gowns and castles and knights who slayed the dragon . . .
While some little girls read the stories of a dark pathway into the woods . . . a twisted mansion with black windows and fog covering the grounds . . . That’s where we wanted to go. No matter what we might find inside . . .
I’ve started my second painting.
It will be just as large as the first—life-sized. The primary figure is part human, part animal, with a ram’s horns and bat-like wings outstretched on either side. Four arms and two sets of hands. One pair of hands are slim, pale, elegant. The other hands are thick, coarse, brutish.
I put on my music, as loud as I want because there’s no one else in the adjacent studios.
Gasoline — Halsey
Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple
The canvas seems to expand until it appears as large as the room. It fills my whole field of view, it becomes the whole universe. Each tiny detail unspools from my brush, bursting into life.
I forget about Cole.
I forget about everything outside of the painting.
Time flows by while I stand still.
I don’t even realize someone has walked through the door until Cole says, “First a saint, now a demon.”
He’s standing right behind me. I don’t know how long he’s been in the room.
I whirl around, brush upraised.
Cole looks down at me, our faces only inches apart. He’s paler than usual, dark circles under his eyes. He definitely wasn’t asleep. He might not have slept last night either.
It must be raining outside. His clothes are damp. Droplets glint in his thick, black hair, the tips wet like my brush.
The rain amplifies his scent. He smells cold and clean, like a windswept street. His eyes are black as asphalt.
“I was looking for you,” he says.
“I was hiding,” I reply.
“I know that. I know you were hiding. I also knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away for long.”
His voice is as cold as his clothes. It makes me shiver.
He knows me too well.
“It’s not a demon,” I say. “It’s the devil.”
“What’s the difference?”
“There’s only one devil.”
He smiles. Cole’s real smile is very different from the one he gives to everyone else. It’s slower. It doesn’t crinkle up his eyes. And it ends with him biting down on the edge of his lip. Hard.
“You left a gift in my office.”
The chill runs from the base of my skull, all the way down my spine. I try not to flinch. I try not to let him see how hard my heart is pounding.
“How did you like it?” I say, tilting up my chin.
Cole steps closer, slipping his right hand under my hair, gripping the back of my skull. With his thumb, he forces my chin up even further.
“I didn’t like it at all. In fact, it made me jealous.”
My skin goes from chilled to burning hot, all in an instant. My nipples stiffen under the thin material of my top. The rings stay cold like ice.
He’s jealous. He’s admitting that he’s jealous.
Cole runs his thumb across my lower lip. My sweat is gasoline. Every place he touches ignites on fire.
I hear a sharp click and the cold clasp of a manacle closing around my wrist.
Before I can move, before I can even glance down at my own wrist, Cole takes three swift steps, dragging me toward the wall. He yanks my arms over my head and handcuffs me in place, the chain wrapped around an exposed pipe.
“What the fuck!?” I shriek.
I yank on the cuffs, the metal biting into my wrists.
“This will go a lot smoother if you hold still,” Cole says.
He plucks the paintbrush out of my hand, setting it aside.