Chapter 117 Chapter 117


    Once I''m certain he''s asleep, I let out a soft sigh and bend down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.


    "Goodnight, little wolf," I whisper. The familiar nickname feels even more ironic


    now.


    After changing out of my gown, I''m not even close to feeling tired. Rather, I change into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, stuffing my feet into slippers and padding down the hall to my studio. Arthur''s room is quiet and dark when I pass, and I figure he''s sleeping.


    Quietly, I enter my studio and get to work. I don''t have any particr idea in mind tonight-I just put on a pair of headphones and listen to ssical music and let my brush flow. Before I know it, shapes and silhouettes are forming on the nk canvas, my arm moving in time with the gentle strains of a symphony.


    But it''s not long before I see it.


    The figures in the painting.


    Two figures, a man and a woman, fumbling in a dark closet. A bare breast, a tonguepping at flesh, a head thrown back in pleasure. By the time I realize what I''ve done, I gasp, dropping my paintbrush on the floor.


    I''ve identally painted myself and Arthur without even meaning to.


    Stunned, I stare at the painting for several long moments, the symphony still ying in my ears. Each curve of flesh, each harsh line of that tuxedo feels like a stab in the heart. Tears begin to well up in my eyes, a hot fire burning through my low belly.


    The symphony grows in speed, the tempo turning frantic, just like my pulse.


    I can''t take it anymore. As the music crescendos, and as my vision clouds with tears, I spot a box cutter sitting on my taboret. Before I can stop myself, I''m suddenly picking it up, my arm moving on its own as I begin to sh at


    the canvas.


    Choked sobs lodge in my throat with each sh. Paint stters across my hands, my arms, my shirt, even my face, but I don''t care. Each slice feels like a release and a shard of ss in my throat at the same time. sh, cut, rip, destroy. I have to destroy every memory of him, every taste of his skin, every-


    Strong hands suddenly grip my wrist, spinning me, just as I''m about to deliver my finishing blow. The headphones fall off of my head, ttering to the floor, erratic string instruments faintly humming through the air. Arthur stares down at me, shirtless, his eyes wild and stunned. It''s only then that I notice the shreds of canvas all over the room, the paint covering my hands like multicolored blood, and the boxcutter pointed directly at his heart.


    Only, I wasn''t the one who positioned it there. It was him. He''s holding the point to his chest, right over his heart, his green eyes silently willing me from beneath a shock of ck hair.


    Cut the painting, and you cut me, his eyes seem to say.


    Trembling, I open my fingers and the boxcutter falls to the floor alongside my headphones.


    Arthur doesn''t let go. He just stares at me, our chests heaving in tandem, as the ssical music draws to a climax and then fades away.


    Only then, once the room is silent enough to suffocate, does he release his grip on my wrist. I stagger backwards and sink down onto the daybed behind me, not caring if I get paint on the pillows.


    Slowly, painfully so, he stoops and picks up a particr shred of canvas. White and ck paint smear across his fingertips as he studies the depiction of my face, eyes closed and mouth smiling.