Especially that portrait in front of her.


    M could see it instantly—the woman who painted it must have been on the edge of madness. The canvas was saturated with intense, almost hysterical emotion; every brushstroke screamed with frenzied hatred. The woman in the painting must have desperately wanted to drive a steak knife into the man''s throat, but she couldn''t do it. All that rage and bitterness could only spill out onto the canvas.


    Now, atst, M understood.


    This was why, in seven years with the Montgomery family, she''d never once seen Felicity paint a portrait. Maybe it was disgust. Maybe it was fear. Whatever it was, the woman never again put a human figure to canvas.


    This was the first time M had seen someone painted by Felicity''s hand: vivid, strange, taken to the absolute extreme-a work of undeniable genius.


    She''d always known Felicity had a gift for painting people.


    M felt herself drawn in by the painting''s raw emotion. Without thinking, she reached out to touch it—when suddenly, a sharp weight pressed down on her shoulder. She cried out in pain, feeling something warm and wet. The wound must have reopened.


    And she felt as if she mighte apart, too.


    ...


    Cossio had woken up.


    Hearing her cry, he quickly apologized. "Sorry, I forgot about your shoulder. Does it hurt?"


    His innocent tone only made M angrier. If she weren''t so afraid, she''d have snarled right back-Why don''t you try shooting yourself and see how it feels, you two-faced bastard! She wished, not for the first time, that he''d just drop dead.


    But of course, that was impossible.


    She knew, with icy rity, that the man before her was as beautiful and deadly as a poisonous flower.


    Touch him, and you die.


    Her shoulder bleeding heavily again, M was half-carried into the room next door -a bedroom adjacent to the studio.


    The wolf was there, too.


    As soon as she entered, the wolf caught the scent of blood and immediately tensed, growling and ready to pounce, until Cossio barked amand in Italian. The animal ttened itself against the ground, keeping its distance, not daring to move closer.


    M sat down on the sofa.


    A maid came forward to tend her wound while Cossio took a seat across from her, his gaze fixed on the blood soaking through her bandages. He spoke softly, "Sorry. I didn''t mean to press on your shoulder. Why didn''t you say something?" M red at him. Get lost!


    She really... had nothing left to say.


    Once her wound was cleaned and redressed, the heady scent of roses filling the room, exhaustion finally overtook her. Shey back on the sofa and drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.


    When she woke,


    The room was pitch ck. She blinked, disoriented, then sat up with a start. How could she have fallen asleep here?


    Only then did she realize her heavy dress had been reced with a light nightgown. By the faint moonlight, she nced around, and her eyes caught on a painting she recognized hanging on the bedroom wall.


    It was an oil painting of a faceless woman.


    It looked eerily like the one from the hallway-both faceless, but this one was painted in brighter colors, strangely out of ce in the lush, shadowy room. Suddenly, it dawned on her:


    She was probably in Cossio''s master bedroom.


    ...


    Realizing where she was,


    M sat very still on the sofa, not daring to move.


    In the pale moonlight, she studied her surroundings. The wolf was asleep on the floor beside the enormous, canopied bed. Was Cossio in there, too?


    Just then,


    A faint scratching broke the silence-the sound of a pencil moving across paper. Soft, almost inaudible.


    M rose quietly, holding her breath as she followed the sound. She saw a narrow shaft of yellow light spilling through a half-open door leading to the adjoining studio.


    Someone was in there.


    She hesitated, then reached for a white veil from a silver tray on the table. She draped it over her face and, shrouded in gauzy fabric, stepped softly into the studio.


    The pencil stopped.


    The man at the easel turned to look at her, his voice calm and gentle. "Why not sleep a little longer?"


    M shook her head.


    He stood and took her hand, settling her beside him at the easel. "Then keep mepany while I work. That''s how you used to do it."


    By now, she was used to these strange, inexplicable things Cossio would say to her. It seemed his mind was always slightly adrift-whether drunk or sober, he lived in a dream that wasn''t quite real.


    And if she ever spoke the truth, that dream would shatter.


    Of course,


    When that happened, she''d be finished, too.


    M kept her wits about her.


    She wanted Cossio to remain lost in his dream, but she knew his patience had limits. When he finally realized the truth, when he woke up, that would be the start


    of real madness—and her situation would get even more dangerous.


    The trouble was,


    She had no idea when that moment woulde.


    As her thoughts raced through everything that had happened these past days, M suddenly reached out, gently taking his hand-the one holding the paintbrush.


    The studio was utterly silent.


    She waited, tense, but when he didn''t pull away, she let herself breathe again. Guiding his hand, she let the brush fall to the canvas.


    With the veil over her eyes, she couldn''t see what she was painting-she had to rely on instinct alone.


    But that was enough.


    Moving his hand, she mimicked Felicity''s signature strokes, painting with wild, confident lines. In just a few bold sweeps, a raven sprang to life on the canvas- ck wings outstretched, perched between life and death.


    She felt it instantly—


    Cossio''s breathing changed, deepening.


    She couldn''t help but smile.


    If the real, awake you is too dangerous, then please, stay lost in your dreams


    forever.


    After all, no one knows better than an artist how to-


    Create a dream.