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Chapter Seventeen

Calum–past

“You’re too serious, Calum.” Annabel is sprawled across the worn leather armchair, her legs tucked beneath her like a cat.

She sips from a crystal glass of red wine, her lips stained the same deep crimson.

Her gaze is lazy, predatory, as she watches me work.

The easel creaks under the pressure of my brushstrokes, the painting taking shape with every drag and flick of color.

“You always look like the weight of the world is crushing you.” Her voice is playful, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge.

I don’t answer, focusing instead on the canvas. It’s easier to lose myself in the rhythm of creation than to face her head-on. She shifts in her chair, the sound of silk against leather drawing my attention despite myself.

“Come on,” she purrs. “You can’t ignore me all night.”

I glance at her, the firelight casting her in hues of gold and amber. Her hair is wild, tumbling over her shoulders in loose waves, and her eyes glint with mischief. She’s a study in contradictions—chaos wrapped in elegance, shadow bathed in sunshine, recklessness cloaked in refinement .

“I’m working,” I say, my voice clipped. “You wanted me to paint. Let me paint.”

She tilts her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I wanted you to paint me, Calum. Not... whatever tortured soul you’re conjuring up over there.”

“It’s not tortured.” The words come out sharper than I intend, and her smirk deepens.

“Of course not,” she says, taking another sip of wine. “You’re just brooding, as usual.”

I bite back a retort, dragging my brush across the canvas in a harsh streak of black.

The truth is, she’s right. The painting isn’t of her, not really.

It’s her essence, her chaos and beauty distilled into color and form.

But no matter how many layers I add, it’s never enough.

She always slips through my grasp, a ghost of herself.

Annabel rises, her movements languid, deliberate. She crosses the room, the hem of her silk robe trailing behind her like smoke. Stopping beside me, she leans in, close enough that her perfume wraps around me.

“Show me,” she whispers, her breath warm against my neck.

I stiffen, my grip on the brush tightening. “It’s not finished.”

“It never is,” she says, her tone light but cutting. She steps around me, her fingers trailing along the edge of the easel. “That’s your problem, Calum. You’re always chasing perfection. But perfection doesn’t exist.”

I watch her, my chest tight with something I can’t name. “And what about you, Annabel? Are you perfect?”

She laughs, the sound rich and full of mockery. “Hardly.” Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the teasing facade slips. “I’m not as perfect as you think I am.”

The confession lingers between us, heavy and unspoken. I want to ask what she means, to peel back the layers of her secrets and lay her bare. But I know better than to push her. Annabel gives what she wants to give, nothing more.

Instead, I set down my brush and turn to her fully. “If you want me to paint you, then let me paint you. Properly.”

Her brows lift, intrigued. “Properly?”

“Sit for me,” I say, gesturing toward the fire. “Pose.”

A slow smile spreads across her face, and she tilts her head, considering. “All right,” she says finally. “But only if you make it interesting.”

She moves to the hearth, the firelight catching on the silk of her robe.

With a dramatic flourish, she slips it off her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet.

Beneath, she wears a simple black slip, the fabric clinging to her curves in all the right places.

She sinks onto the bearskin rug, stretching out like some pagan goddess, her hair spilling around her like liquid midnight.

“Interesting enough for you?” she asks, her voice laced with amusement.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “That’ll do.”

I pick up my brush again, my hands unsteady as I begin.

She watches me, her gaze unwavering, and I feel the weight of it like a physical touch.

The storm rages outside, but here, in this moment, it’s just the two of us.

The world shrinks to the sound of my brush on canvas, the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic beat of the rain.

As I paint, the tension between us coils tighter, a live wire sparking in the air. Her teasing comments fade, replaced by a charged silence. She shifts slightly, her slip sliding up her thigh, and my pulse quickens.

“Calum,” she says softly, breaking the spell.

I glance up, my brush freezing mid-stroke. “What?”

She bites her lip, a rare moment of vulnerability flickering across her face. “Come here.”

I set down the brush, crossing the room to her. She sits up, her eyes searching mine, and for once, there’s no trace of mockery or deflection. She reaches for me, her fingers grazing my cheek, and I’m undone.

I kiss her, the movement raw and desperate. She responds in kind, her hands tangling in my hair as she pulls me closer. The fire roars behind us, its heat a pale imitation of the inferno between us.

I settle her back on the rug and nestle my hips between her thighs. My hands hold her cheeks as I kiss along her collarbone, sinking my teeth into the soft flesh of her shoulders and biting down hard enough to leave marks. She squirms and sighs, moans of pleasure sneaking from her lips.

“Do you want me to stop?” I utter against her skin.

“Never,” she replies before her lips attach at my neck and suck in slow, sensual movements.

“Good. You’ll never leave me, will you?” I murmur.

“Never,” she says.

I thread my fingers into her hair, gripping tightly so she’s unable to turn away from me. “I think you like it when I own you like this. Do you like when I overpower you? When you can’t move and I can do whatever I want?”

“Yes.” She groans, head nodding imperceptibly as she arches her hips into mine. “I love it.”

“I love you,” I whisper against her lips, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

She stills, her breath hitching. For a moment, I think she’s going to say it back. But instead, she turns her head to the side, denying me her lips.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

She shakes her head, a small, bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Nothing. It’s just... sometimes I think you see me as something I’m not. Something I can never be.”

“Don’t do that,” I say, my frustration bleeding into my tone. “Don’t brush me off. ”

She looks up, her eyes shining with something I can’t decipher. “You don’t understand, Calum. You never have.”

Before I can respond, a noise outside draws our attention. A shadow moves past the window, barely discernible in the storm. My heart lurches, and I rise, crossing to the window. Peering out into the rain-soaked darkness, I see nothing. Just the wind and the waves, the storm’s fury unabated.

“Probably just the wind,” Annabel says, but there’s an edge to her voice now, a crack in her armor.

I nod, but unease settles in my chest. Turning back to her, I find her slipping back into her robe, her playful demeanor firmly back in place.

“Paint me again tomorrow,” she says, her smile forced. “Maybe then you’ll get it right.”

As she retreats to the bedroom, I linger by the window, staring out into the storm. The shadows shift and dance, and for a moment, I think I see someone standing there. Watching.

Jonathan.