Page 4 of My End (Iron Fiends #10)

Tilly

The blank canvas stared at me like it had an attitude.

It had been taunting me for the last hour. Just sat there quietly defiant while I curled my legs under me on the paint-splattered couch and pretended like I wasn’t avoiding it.

I’d tried to sleep. Really, I had.

But after tossing, turning, fluffing my pillow three separate times, and yelling “just shut off already” into the darkness of my bedroom, I gave up and wandered back down to the studio barefoot and sleep-starved.

Adam had asked earlier if I’d started a new painting. I’d lied.

Well… not entirely. I had started one. Three days ago. A layered blend of emotion and color, inspired by a dream I no longer remembered. But sometime this morning, I stood in front of it, brush in hand, and felt… nothing.

So I’d turned it to face the wall.

And now I was here, staring at the big white nothing across the room, haunted by something I couldn’t shake.

A face.

Not one from memory. Not one from my dreams.

A new one.

Rugged. Harsh.

Beautiful in a way that wasn’t conventionally beautiful. Like a mountain or a thunderstorm, dangerous but captivating.

Jake.

I didn’t even know his full name, but his face, God, his face, I couldn’t forget it. That short dark hair. The thick, well-kept beard. The sharp cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. The full lips. The unreadable eyes.

He hadn’t even smiled.

But something about him had been carved into my mind like paint onto canvas.

I stood up and padded to the window, pushing the curtain aside.

The yard was mostly dark. The lights on the far end of the lawn buzzed faintly as they cast long shadows over the manicured grass. The trees swayed gently in the warm breeze, and everything else was still.

And then I saw movement.

A figure walked the perimeter. Steady. Deliberate.

It wasn’t Jim. Too tall. Too broad through the shoulders.

It was Jake.

My heart skipped just like it had earlier when he looked at me in the driveway.

He was wearing all black again and blended in with the night except for his silhouette outlined in the yard light glow. His movements were calm but alert like he wasn’t just walking and scanning. He was watching.

I leaned closer to the glass, and my fingertips brushed it.

Then, like he felt me watching, he stopped.

And looked up.

Right at me.

My breath caught in my throat.

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. But I felt the weight of that gaze like heat soaking into my skin.

I should’ve looked away. Should’ve moved. But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

He stood there for a second too long before shifting his eyes back to the yard and continuing his patrol.

I watched until he disappeared into the trees again, swallowed by the shadows.

What was his story?

He was new, clearly. And quiet. He hadn’t said much, but that didn’t matter. He had a presence. Like he could take over a room without opening his mouth.

He wasn’t like the other guards.

And he sure as hell wasn’t like Boone’s politician friends.

There was something different about Jake. Something sharp around the edges. He wasn’t smooth. Wasn’t fake.

He felt… real.

And I didn’t know a single thing about him.

But I wanted to.

Badly.

I turned from the window with my heart pounding in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since the first time I saw my art hanging in a gallery and people stood in front of it with their mouths open and eyes wide.

That feeling.

That rush.

Jake wasn’t just in my head now; he was under my skin.

And now…

He was on my canvas.

Or he would be.

I crossed the room and stood in front of the blank square of white stretched tight across the wood frame.

This was why I’d been restless. Why I couldn’t sleep.

This was what was calling me.

Jake.

Not his name. Not his words.

His essence.

The way he stood. The way he watched. The tension in his shoulders. The heat in his silence.

I bit my bottom lip, reached for my brush, and dipped it into the deep plum acrylic that had been waiting for days.

I didn’t sketch first. I never did. I went with what I saw in my head. What I felt.

Brush to canvas, and I began.

Broad strokes. Angled lines. A face born in shadows.

Strong. Unapologetic.

Haunted.

And absolutely unforgettable.

The first line led to the second. Then the third.

I lost track of time.

The only thing that existed in that studio now was me, the paint, and the man who didn’t know he was becoming art.

Jake.

Mystery. Intrigue.

And maybe, just maybe, my muse.