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“You painted this? It’s…it’s breathtaking, Raf…”
A man like him probably didn’t need the ego boost, but even so, you were impressed. The most recent piece to grace his canvas stroked your own ego as well.
A small smile tugged at his lips, the kind he wore when he wanted to be humble but couldn’t quite manage it. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, bare save for a splash of blue paint across one collarbone and a dried streak of something darker along his forearm.
He watched you, but said nothing. Only raised an eyebrow, inviting you to go on. Nothing seemed amiss really, he was always like this, wasn’t he? A little like: go on, tell me more about how great I am.
You stepped closer, studying it with open admiration. Breathtaking, that really was the word for it. No better way to describe it.
The painting depicted you—not just a flattering version, but something deeper. Something intimate. Your pose was natural, relaxed, like he’d captured you mid-thought. Just a little exposed, chastely sexual. Some skin on display, but strategically covered by the ocean blue blanket draped over your form.
Still, as enticing as it was, as glamorous as it depicted you…the eyes. The eyes were haunting.
Vulnerable. A little…scared? Pupils just a little bit too sharp, as if caught in headlights.
As if alarmed.
“I don’t even remember you taking reference for this,” you murmured, tilting your head. “When did you paint it?”
His voice came gently from behind. “I never need a reference for you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Right, of course. Stupid question.”
You traced the swirls of color with your eyes. Lavender shadows in your hair, a rose-gold flush to your skin, hints of silver laced into the folds of fabric.
And yet, there was one tone that didn’t fit. A dull crimson, muted like dried blood, formed the background in rough brushstrokes. It looked like it had been smeared on with fingers rather than a brush. It was surprisingly crude considering the usual graceful care Rafayel painted with. You could only assume it was very deliberate, then.
“What color is this?” you asked, pointing.
“That?” he said, stepping close behind you. “That’s envy.”
You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Looks more like dried blood to me.”
It was a joke.
“Maybe it is.”
He didn’t seem to be joking.
Rafayel said it smoothly, with a smile.
For the briefest moment, a little paranoid thought crept in. Still, you dismissed it. Instead, you gave a soft laugh, trying to dispel the tension.
“You're such a freak sometimes.”
“I’m an artist,” he corrected, leaning forward to murmur the words just above your shoulder. “You know what we do to preserve beauty? Whatever possible.”
Your smile faltered. Again, he sounded way, way too serious about this.
He brushed your hair aside with paint-stained fingers, like he was clearing the way to your throat.
“You know how difficult it is to create a pigment that captures the precise shade of your skin when you blush? I’ve tried everything. Shell dust. Pearl. Flower pollen. Fish scale. Nothing was right.”
You turned to face him. “What…did you use, then?”
Rafayel’s lashes lowered. Long and beautiful, his hooded eyes gazed through them.
“It’s better if you don’t ask. Just know I only use it for you.”
Something deep in your gut twisted. “Raf—”
“Do you remember that man?” he interrupted, voice still soft. “The one who kept messaging you. Saying he missed you. Kept calling you his first love?”
You froze. His question was so out of the blue, so sharply worded, it felt like a slap.
“I don’t know how true that was, I just remember seeing those messages on your phone and realizing someone like that was still a part of your life…”
Rafayel was wistful.
“I gave him a call myself. I warned him. Nicely, at first. Told him you’d moved on. That you had
me
now. But he didn’t respect that. He kept pushing…”
He lifted your hand, kissed the back of it. You felt his lips tremble faintly.
“He said you’d always belong to him. That he knew you better than anyone else ever could.”
Your breath hitched. Your eyes matched your painted gaze.
“Rafayel…”
Keeping your hand in his tightening grip, he gestured with his spare towards the grand canvas he was so proud of. Every lash of passionate color. Every intricate, spiraling detail. Every little fleck of red.
His smile widened. “Now, he’s part of one of my masterpieces. That’s as close as he’ll ever get to you.”
That sick, disgusted feeling swelled within you, panic rising, fresh sweat breaking through your skin as you tried to break free from his hold at the same time. Still, he didn’t let you go.
“You said it yourself,” he whispered.
“It’s
breathtaking
.”