Page 10 of Sinful Skulls (Rebel Skull MC #9)

Chapter Ten

Daisy

I ’m practically a zombie by the time supper rolls around the next day. After we eat, Henry insists I lie down on his couch to get some sleep.

“You’re exhausted. Get some rest.”

“I’m okay.”

“Please. I understand finding out you’re adopted has turned your world upside down. You haven’t been staying up all night overthinking, have you?”

A sigh escapes my lips. It’s nice that he noticed. “I’m trying not to.”

He covers me up with a soft blanket. “Maybe you’ll have an easier time sleeping here since you’re with family.”

Maybe. I focus on the ticking of the grandfather clock across from me. My eyes grow heavier and heavier until I fall asleep.

When I wake, I find him sitting in a chair, facing me with an easel between us.

He doesn’t notice I’m awake at first. His attention is on the tip of his brush, but when it returns to me, his hand pauses midair. “You’re awake.”

I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

“Oh, shoot. I’m sorry I slept so long. I should get going.” I hurry to stand, and he jumps up to steady me by my elbow.

“You must have been tired.”

“I was. Thank you for letting me borrow your couch. It was really comfy.”

He smiles. “My house is your house. It’s late. I’ll walk you back to campus.”

The next few days go much the same. I find myself wide awake at night and then passing out on his couch each evening.

“I really need to get my days and nights straightened around,” I joke.

He holds the lobby door to the dormitory open. “I’m just glad you feel comfortable enough to sleep around me. At least you’re getting some rest.”

“Thank you for supper, and for walking me home … again.” I laugh lightly, rubbing my temple. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Daisy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The minute I step into my room, Carly tosses a pillow my direction. “Bitch, you’re so fucking lucky. Please tell me you’re fucking him.”

“Who? Henry?” I ask, dropping my bag to my bed.

“Henry? Oh my god, you are fucking him.”

I pull my head back. “No. He’s my uncle,” I admit.

It sounds weird to my ears.

“Your uncle?” She sits up on her bed.

As I’m gathering my clothes to shower, I give her the basic run down of my story. I leave out all of the unsavory details.

“That is straight up crazy.”

“Yeah, I know. So anyway, he’s just helping me with my art.”

“Still jealous,” she says, flopping back on her bed. “I would sell my soul for one night with him.”

I roll my eyes and head down the hall to shower. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I stop, reaching behind me with one hand to grab at the tag sticking out.

Is my shirt on backwards?

It is. I stomp my foot in frustration. How embarrassing. It’s been like that all day.

I continue around the corner, still berating myself. The nice thing about showering in the middle of the night is that you have the bathroom all to yourself. I step in and begin tossing my clothes onto the bench outside the stall.

As I’m bending over to pull off my socks, I notice a smudge of paint on my stomach. I stand upright. How did I manage to get paint there?

I run my thumb over it. It’s not paint. It’s blood.

My hands run over my body, searching for an injury. I even reach between my legs to make sure I haven’t started my period. Where did it come from?

I push it out of my mind and finish showering. I’m too tired to figure it out.

Until I lie down.

It begins as one tiny intrusive thought, and before I know it, it festers into a full-blown panic attack.

I feel like I’m losing my mind.

Another sleepless night, and I’m back in class. I can’t focus on anything, other than the strange knot that has formed in the pit of my stomach. This isn’t what Paris was supposed to be like. But I did want to find myself, and at least now I know why I’ve never felt like I fit in.

As soon as class is over, I rush to Henry’s office. He’s waiting as always. He must see the look on my face, because he shuts the door behind him and then hurries to close the distance between us with long strides.

“What is it, Daisy?”

“Nothing. Just feeling a little jittery from not being able to sleep at night.”

“Let’s go. You’ll feel better when we get home.” He takes me by the arm and pulls me along.

My feet get heavier the closer we get to his townhouse. He begins to tug at my elbow, keeping me moving forward.

Once we’re inside, he offers me a drink.

“No, thank you.”

He lifts an eyebrow but begins to fix supper.

“I’m not really hungry either. Um, I’m probably going to head out for the night. Carly and I are headed to Versailles in the morning with some friends.”

“Okay,” he says, waving his spatula. “Have fun and be safe this weekend.”

I stand there awkwardly for a moment. Not really sure why I’m surprised he’s letting me go. Jesus, Daisy, you really are losing your mind. Did you really think he was drugging you? You’re so stupid.

“I’ll see you Monday then?”

He nods, giving me a smile. “Sure.”

“Bye.”

“Goodbye, Daisy.”

As I’m passing through the living room, I pause, staring at the couch. My eyes lift to the easel pushed into the corner of the room. I know it’s not polite to look at another artist’s work before they’re ready to show it, but …

My feet carry me softly across the space, and I slide between the wall and the easel. The air instantly leaves my lungs.

Oh my god.

My hand flies to my mouth to stifle my scream. What the fuck is this?

It’s me. It’s fucking me! That’s what it is.

I take a deep breath. I’ve got to get out of here.

As I’m sliding out, Henry walks into the room while drying his hands on a towel. I freeze, praying he doesn’t see me. He doesn’t glance in my direction as he walks to the front door and locks it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Do you like it?” he asks, facing the front door.

I want to cry out, but no one would hear me.

He rests an arm on the wood frame and turns to look at me. “Do you like it?” he repeats.

“I’m, I’m naked,” I accuse, my voice cracking.

“I’m an artist. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I was unconscious, Henry. You didn’t have my permission to undress me.”

“Is that your biggest concern with it?”

My eyes slide back to the painting. His statement just confirmed my fears. That’s not red paint.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, struggling to steady my voice.

“Come.” He holds his hand out to me.

My gaze snaps to his.

“Would you like to finally see your father’s art?”

No. Please no.

“Take my hand, and I will show you. Soon, it will all make sense.”

I doubt that.

He walks toward me and grabs my hand, giving me no choice. I let him drag me up the stairs, looking over my shoulder at the slowly disappearing front door. We can all agree this might be my stupidest moment yet.

There’s a padlock on the outside of the door where we stop. He lets go of my hand to unlock it, and then he gently pushes me through. I tremble in the dark until he turns on the lights.

“Go on.” He holds his hand out, gesturing for me to peruse his private art gallery. The room is huge, and the walls are painted black. Each display is lit individually.

I steady myself on the back of one of the black leather couches in the room. “These are all my fathers?” I ask in disbelief.

“Not all. Some. This is our family’s private display. It’s filled with our very best pieces. The one downstairs will be added soon.”

I swallow hard and take a step back, bumping into him. He grabs my elbows, holding me still.

“Our parents were morticians,” he whispers in my ear. “Each one of the women are both model and medium.”

My ears ring loudly, and my vision blurs.

He begins to walk us around the room, pausing in front of each portrait. “They preferred to paint the dead. My brother, your father, also held that preference.” He stops at a small portrait of a woman facing away from me. “With the exception of your mother.”

I shiver at what she holds in her hand.

“She’s the only live model in this entire room?”

Henry laughs at my question. “Not exactly. My brother wasn’t capable of taking a life. He used the same source as my parents. There are plenty of shady morticians in the States.”

That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.

The next paintings we come to are a different style. My blood runs cold. If you’re wondering how this could get worse, I can assure you it does.

There is no way this is going to end well.

I need to get out of here.

“You and I share the same technique, the same inspiration. This one is a depiction of the ultimate form of submission.”

I’m frozen, almost stupefied that my current state of reality is a literal real life horror movie.

“Look at her eyes. Do you see me there, in the reflection?” His voice snakes around my throat, keeping me silent. “She gave me her life willingly. She offered me her very essence, and I used it to memorialize her.”

I stare at the woman in the throes of both pleasure and pain, relief and resistance, faith and fear. The duplicity of life, painted in her blood.

He hugs me closely. “It’s okay to embrace your darkness. Let me show you how. We’ll start with my blood, and you can create whatever your soul is calling you to paint.”

This cannot be happening.

It cannot.

“Please let me help you. I’m the only one who truly understands you,” he coaxes.

He’s not the only one who understands me.

“Let’s go downstairs. I’ve already prepared some blood for you. I think you’ll find it’s smoother than any other medium you’ve used.”

Henry spins me around, and his depravity for me to do this shines brightly in his dark eyes. I shake my head, trying to pull away from him.

“Please let me go. I’m not interested in any of this,” I whisper.

His grip tightens, and he jerks me against him. “The paintings hanging in my library tell a different story, don’t they? You’re very interested.”

“No. Let me go.” I push against his chest, and when he doesn’t release me, I begin to prepare myself for what I have to do.

I relax in his arms, dropping my gaze.