Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
I stretch, my bones cracking in protest, and give a little yawn. “I was eating. I had peanut butter straight from the jar. And coffee.”
“That is not eating.”
“Says you.” I smirk, then hesitate. My fingers tighten around the doorframe, and suddenly the bravado feels heavier to hold. I chew my lower lip, glancing back through the door toward the canvas propped up against the wall. “I was… working on something.”
Bane’s eyes flick to where I look, and he pushes off the wall in one fluid motion. “Show me.”
I stay planted. For once, not out of defiance but out of something sharper. More uncertain.
This is stupid. It’s just a painting. Just something I do every few years when I get a hare up my ass. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except it does.
Bane sees too much already. What if he sees this, then sees right through me in a way I don’t know how to undo?
I almost tell him never mind, that I was kidding, that it’s a giant erotic mural of him on a horse just to see if he’ll blink, but it’s too late. He’s already moved, already stepped past me into the room, already standing in front of the canvas.
And he’s staring.
I tap my foot and bite my bottom lip.
My painting stands there, raw and open, like I cracked open my ribs and smeared my insides across the canvas.
The woman in the painting is almost swallowed by darkness. She’s a silhouette of curly hair barely discernible from the midnight tones that press in around her. But at her center, in the place where her heart should be, embers burn. Small, fragile. Flickering against the vast nothingness.
Bane doesn’t speak.
I shift from foot to foot, my stomach twisting. I hate this. Hate waiting. Hate that I want him to like it. Hate that I care.
“Well?” My voice comes out breezy and fake. “I was thinking of calling it ‘Brooding Asshole Watches Wife Paint.’ Too on the nose?”
His head turns toward me, slow as a glacier. His face is unreadable, but his eyes…
There’s something there. Something deep and raw and so overwhelming I have to look away.
“You did this,” he says, voice thick. “You painted this.”
I roll my eyes, because obviously, but my throat feels tight. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just something I do when I get the urge. No big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Why didn’t you tell me you’re an artist?”
His voice is soft, but there’s something behind it that roots me to the floor. A heaviness. A weight.
I swallow. Shrug. Try to ignore how my chest feels like it’s caving in. “I’m not. I just play around sometimes. Not very often. It’s just a painting, Bane.”
His hand moves before I realize what’s happening, brushing over my arm, his thumb dragging over a stray streak of paint on my skin. He lifts his hand, staring at the dark smear on his fingertips like it’s something sacred.
Then he turns back to the canvas, his throat working. He doesn’t say anything else.
But he doesn’t have to.
Then, without a word, he moves. Strong arms wrap around me, his body anchoring mine in a way that feels like protection, like reverence. His embrace is firm but careful, like he’s afraid if he holds me too tight, I’ll slip away.
I freeze at first, because this—this softness, this quiet—is not something I’m used to. But then my muscles melt into him, exhaustion winning over instinct. My forehead drops against his chest, and for the first time in days, I let myself breathe. Just for a second. Just here, in the warmth of him.
His hand moves, slow and steady, up and down my back. No demands. No expectations. Just… holding me.
It’s almost too much. The kindness of it. The weight of him letting me rest for once instead of pushing or pulling or fighting.
I can’t let it stand.
I tilt my head back against his chest, peering up at him with a smirk. “So, uh… you do know this shirt was expensive, right?”
Bane exhales sharply, a sound that’s almost a laugh but not quite. His arms don’t loosen. If anything, they tighten. “I don’t care.”
I poke at his chest. “You say that now, but wait until you realize I used oil paint and this stain is forever.”
His grip shifts, and he finally pulls back just enough to look down at me, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice so low I barely catch it, he murmurs, “So be it.”
I roll my eyes, but inside, I feel... happy. The fire that’s burning in the painting—I feel it inside me now. Bane makes me warm and safe in ways I never knew were possible. Before, I felt like a jackal, afraid and always hungry for scraps.
On the rare occasions I do paint, it’s because there’s some feeling inside me that I can see in my mind but not name, and I can’t rest until I’ve gotten it out of me.