Page 43

FORTY-THREE

Trademark

Paul

I pause at the base of the stairs and stretch, a deep satisfaction humming through my muscles. The night has been long—filled with a fury of artistic creation and followed by the best sex of my life. It’s been too long since the muse’s call struck me, and fittingly; Vivianne was the one to inspire me, a perfect embodiment of desire and grace.

It’s also been too long since I embraced my raw, animalistic hunger.

Vivianne took everything I gave—every brushstroke, every touch, every part of me. She embodies temptation itself, her curves and presence igniting a fire that I haven’t felt in years.

It’s as if she turns me into a conduit, each breath, every heartbeat driven by the need to create and to claim her. My brush becomes an extension of that need, a tool of exquisite precision, drawing every detail of her body, capturing every shadow, every nuance.

There is no denying it—my art comes alive with her, every line a testament to the sensations she awakens within me.

But it isn’t enough to have her on paper. Not now. Not after feeling her, after knowing every inch of her skin under my fingertips. The sketches are the beginning but are unfinished symphonies—raw drafts begging to be fully realized.

After taking Vivianne to her room, I head back down, my steps quickening as excitement courses through me. I can almost feel the weight of the brush in my hand, the smell of turpentine and oils filling my nostrils.

The cave waits for me, a place of solitude that now feels alive with the energy she leaves behind. The silence there isn’t hollow; it’s filled with promise, with the echo of her voice, the rustle of fabric as it fell from her shoulders. The inspiration she sparked now burns fiercely, demanding to be set free on canvas.

The cave is cool and dark as I enter, but I feel no chill. Instead, a different kind of heat pulses through me—the fire of creation. I set the sketches out, the soft rustle of paper whispering her name as I arrange them across the workbench.

My fingers trace the lines, and I can almost feel her warmth, the soft curve of her waist, the gentle dip of her spine. She is art in its purest form—a living, breathing muse who gave me her trust, her vulnerability, and her beauty.

I reach for a blank canvas, my heart pounding as I stretch it across the easel. Each movement is deliberate, my senses heightened—the scent of the primed linen, the slight resistance of the frame.

I mix paints, the colors swirling together like a memory of her—ivory for her skin, a hint of blush for the warmth that spreads across her chest as she gazes at me, cobalt blue for the shadows that play across her body beneath the firelight.

The palette in my hands is her—each shade, each tone crafted to capture her essence.

The first stroke is always the hardest, but it comes effortlessly, the brush gliding across the canvas like a caress. I work swiftly, lost in the rhythm, the cave echoing with the soft, wet sounds of paint meeting canvas. Every line, curve, highlight, and shadow belongs to her. My hands move without thought, guided by something deeper, something primal.

I paint her as she was, kneeling by the fire, her head bowed slightly, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her body a vision of elegance and sensuality. There is a softness to her—a vulnerability that tugs at something deep within me—but there is also strength, an inner fire that I felt in every touch, every kiss.

I want to capture both sides of her, the woman who gave herself to me and the woman who, even now, holds a part of herself back.

Time blurs as I paint, each layer adding depth, capturing her form and spirit. I see her in every stroke—her laughter, her sighs, the way her eyes darkened with desire. By the time I step back, my body aches with exhaustion, my muscles stiff from the hours spent hunched over the easel.

But the exhaustion is welcome—a sign that I poured myself into this and gave everything I have to bring her to life on this canvas.

I blink against bone-jarring fatigue. Merlin checked in on me sometime after late morning, bringing a platter of cheese and fruits down to my studio in the cave. All five canvases are spread out, four completed, and the fifth nearly so.

Without a word, my father perused them, taking a seat until I lay down the finishing touches on the crowning piece of the collection.

In each, I place my trademark starling.

In the first one, a solitary bird with its wings outstretched is immortalized, gliding mid-flight and soaring around pillars of flames. The pose is perfect for the first of the series.

Vivianne faces away from the viewer and stares into the flames. Perhaps she’s watching that lone starling dance or waiting for a lover’s touch.

It’s unclear what thoughts flit through her mind, but one thing is sure. A delicacy embodies the pose, her nervousness evident in how she clutches at the robe, but the expanse of her bare shoulders and back hints at her seductive power.

The painting will lead the observer to want more.

That leads into the next piece.

Three starlings cartwheel through the flames, immune to the destructive heat. Her nervous energy dissipates somewhat, and she lounges on her side, still staring into the fire but more relaxed and exposed. The robe has eased low on her hips, accentuating the contours of her body and giving an observer a more intimate taste of what will come next.

With each pose, I add more birds, all sweeping and dancing among the flames. They are but an afterthought when framed against the perfection of Vivianne’s naked form, but they serve a purpose.

If I can’t have her in this life, at least a part of me will be immortalized with her on canvas.

My eye captured the radiance of her skin and the golden river of her hair flowing gently down her back.

Vivianne’s beauty is achingly perfect, but what makes her remarkable is how she is so disarmingly unaware. Her skin is flawless, and she favors simplicity, preferring to wear as little jewelry as possible, which makes the perfection of her skin even more remarkable.

Perhaps that’s why her skin glows.

Her inner beauty, the spark of the gentle creature inside, lights her eyes and softens her features. When she smiles, my heart stutters. Vivianne Faulks allows me to re-create the masterpiece of God’s creation, and I doubt I will ever share this work with the world.

An overwhelming sense of possession has me gritting my teeth.

She belongs to me, and I hate that I must give her up.

Her hair was the hardest to capture. It falls like liquid sunshine, the color so pale that it merely accentuates the fairness of her skin. The strands flow across her shoulders, and they plunge down her back in cascading waves, where they gather in a line around her hips.

They part here and there, allowing glimpses of the bare skin beneath. Firelight reflects on the strands, picking up the vibrant copper undertones. Those stolen glances of what lies beneath the shroud of her hair draw the eye and stir an ache for more.

I am careful to paint without exposing her nakedness. The beauty is in the hints revealed and the carnal pleasure a man might enjoy if he were lucky enough to be granted access to her seductive treasures.

She is a woman meant to be worshipped, and I place her on an impossible pedestal. This is most evident in the final pose. She might be the one in supplication, but that potency remains.

The fifth and final piece is placed on the largest canvas. Initially, I intended to make all the pieces the same dimensions, but as I paint, it becomes clear this pose demands something more.

She kneels before me, head bowed with the grace of a woman fully in her element. Flames peek from behind her, swaying with vibrant energy. Heat fills the canvas, the wrath and fury of the flames building, refusing to be contained and condemned to die into ashes. They are a wild force of nature, like the woman kneeling in the foreground.

The fire sparks behind Vivianne’s naked form, sending showers of red outward, growing more intense as they rampage across the canvas. And, dancing among the flames, swirling and gliding, starlings appear.

At first glance, the murmuration looks like thick smoke, each bird but a speck on the canvas. Long gray wisps twine around the flames, caressing the fiery entity with a lovers’ embrace. In some places, the touch is light and soft; in others, the birds gather in much darker tendrils, some nearly black.

There is a sense they want out of the flames, where they can ravish and devour or adore and worship the woman who kneels before the flames.

The entire painting glows with the vibrancy of the reds and oranges spilling from the fire, the blackness of the devouring swarm, and the golden beauty that takes center stage.

A yawn escapes me. I need a nap before facing tonight’s crowd and have run out of time. Merlin hurries me from my work, forcing me up the stairs, where he marches me to my room and tosses me into the shower. Not one to normally coddle his son, Merlin makes an exception today.

My tuxedo lies on the bed. Bleary-eyed, I find the cold water invigorating, and the stiff double espresso Merlin poured for me wakes me up. I dress hurriedly and then run down the stairs to the cave to clean my brushes. Even there, Merlin lends a hand, cleaning and straightening the studio.

I climb the curving stone steps and grab another shot of caffeine from the kitchen, feeling more alert and ready to face the coming evening. I tug at the bow tie, loosening it slightly, and settle it over my neck where it doesn’t choke my throat. It’s time to collect Vivianne and begin the winding drive down the mountain to the lake.

The rustling of silk draws my attention upward. Vivianne appears at the top of the stairs, and my heart stops as I stare at the woman I claimed last night. Shimmering ivory drapes her frame, revealing much more than it conceals. With her head held high, she glances down at me, with no sign that she knelt naked before me only last night.

Exquisite.

Perfect.

There are no other words to describe the heart-stopping beauty above me. Her hand rests on the balustrade, and her fingers tremble as she grips the carved wood. A smile lights her face like she’s been waiting all day to be with me.

I feel the same.

Silence.

It hangs between us, her looking down on me and me staring up at her, speechless and in awe. It makes me wonder if Merlin was rendered similarly mute by the woman he loved. If Brigitte’s beauty transcended the generations, I finally understand Merlin’s lifelong ambition to settle a long-festering score.

Vivianne glides down the stairs, her grip firm on the railing and her gaze latched hard on me. The clicking of her heels adds a rhythm to the soft beating of my heart. Her gaze scans the foyer, perhaps looking to see if Merlin is waiting.

I clear my throat, trying to find words adequate to praise her beauty, but find myself spellbound and entranced by the vibrancy of her eyes and the pillow-soft cushion of her lips.

Finally, she reaches the bottom step. Uncertainty flashes in her eyes.

I come to her, hands outstretched, my mind set on what must happen next. My pulse pounds through my veins as I cup her face, tilting it toward me, closing the distance between us in a breath. Her eyes widen, a flicker of surprise as I claim her mouth, my lips pressing against hers with a demanding hunger, urging her to open to me.

After last night, a raw, feral edge will always hum between us—an undeniable current that will mark every touch, every glance. No matter what comes next, there’s no turning back. That wild need has been unleashed and will always be there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to ignite again.

The determined strokes of my tongue, combined with sharp nips at her lips, have her lips parting. I’m mindless with the need to possess and claim, my ears roaring with the power of my blood coursing in my veins.

She trembles against me, and her fingers trace the buttons of my shirt. Instead of pushing me away, she finds the lapels of my tuxedo and grips them hard. Without relinquishing my place at her lips, I reach for her nape, twining my fingers in her long hair. With a firm grip on her head, I control every bit of this madness.

Her quickening breaths flutter across my lips, even as her tongue ever so tentatively slides against mine. I grind against her, letting her feel her effect on me, and dig my fingers deeper into her hair, pulling her closer and obliterating any space between our bodies.

Her eyes squeeze shut while she whispers her need, “Paul…”

She wants this as much as I do, and desire trembles in the tiny catch of her breath. Capturing her parted lips again, I drink in her taste, rolling my tongue against hers in a desperate dance. She moans into the kiss and presses her body against mine, eliciting an answering groan from me.

I nip at her lower lip. “ Ma chére , you have no idea how much I want you.”

The caustic sound of a throat clearing behind me cuts off the kiss. I wrap an arm around her waist and turn to look over my shoulder, fury pounding in my chest.

How dare he.

“What?” I bark.

“Your car is waiting,” Merlin says with a disapproving frown. “If you don’t leave presently, you will be late.”

Hell, I don’t want to go to the damn auction anymore, preferring instead to take Vivianne upstairs to my room, where I will strip her of the ivory silk.

Vivianne’s face flushes, and she glances down, perhaps ashamed of Merlin watching our passionate embrace. I place the tip of my finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up. With the pad of my thumb, I trace the seam of her swollen lips, bruised by the ferocity of my kiss.

“I’m not ashamed for taking what I want, and you shouldn’t be ashamed for giving it to me.”

Her eyes widen as my words sink in, but then a smile curves her lips. With her gaze holding steady, she takes in a breath and inclines her head.

“As you wish.”

“Come,” I say, acknowledging the truth of Merlin’s words. “Anthony is correct; we are running out of time.”

I help Vivianne with her wrap, a poor defense against the chilly temperatures outside, but it will be warmer once we reach the valley floor. Anthony pulled the car around the front and kept the engine running, allowing the heater to warm the inside. Taking her arm and placing it on mine, I lead her outside.

The winter trees tremble in the lingering cold, their branches still dusted with the remnants of snow slowly beginning to melt, leaving droplets that glisten in the pale light. Though the air carries a faint bite, it’s softened by hints of something fresher—damp earth, the first promise of thaw. The breeze is gentle, no longer the harsh, biting wind of deep winter, but a cool breath that stirs the brittle twigs and the few stubborn leaves clinging to the branches.

Clusters of gnarled twigs stretch upward from the garden beds, their limbs bare but showing signs of life beneath—tiny buds, tightly closed, hinting at the green to come. The mostly dormant bushes are flecked with the first hints of new growth, fragile shoots that cling to the promise of spring. The ground, a mix of frozen patches and softening earth, gives off a faint, loamy smell, rich and full of life stirring beneath the surface. In the distance, the trees creak softly, waking from their long winter slumber, their rough bark rougher still with the cold yet warming slightly with each passing day.

Above, the sky is no longer the relentless gray of winter, but a softer, lighter hue streaked with hints of blue, as if the season itself is cautiously lifting its veil, making way for the first whispers of spring.

I love early springtime in the Alps, where the scent of pine intermingles with the fragrance of flowers. Vivianne should see my home when the celebration of spring brings life to the world.

I help Vivianne into the silver-gray Mercedes and cruise down the long drive, snaking toward the highway. The soft leather embraces each of us, surrounding us with the finest German engineering luxury.

With Vivianne so close, I’m only half aware of the world outside. My hands stroke the wheel, much as I’d like to stroke the curves of her body, and I work the stick with an almost soundless changing of the gears.

As the car sings its way down the winding mountain roads, I relish the engine’s roar and steal glances at a quiet Vivianne.

She sits with her knees pressed together and her hands clenched in her lap, an unusual sign of nervousness in the usually poised beauty. A sigh escapes her lips, and she tilts her head to follow the road’s twists and turns.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

Her smile lifts my spirits. “A little. Just the jitters. Surprisingly, I’m more excited to see what will be there. I shouldn’t be looking forward to it so much, considering I disagree with everything associated with this event. The artwork they’re selling belongs in museums, not hidden from the world, but this is the only time I’ll ever have a chance to see these pieces. I suppose I’m looking forward to it.”

I reach over and grip her hands, stilling the nervous twisting of her fingers. “Just be yourself, ma chère . It’s too easy to get caught up in the mystique. Best to forget what brought you here and enjoy the evening as a lover of the arts.”

She gives a fractional nod. “I think that’s good advice.”

“Our intent,” I remind, “is simple. I’ve employed your services to help me assess the value of the pieces placed for auction. That’s exactly what we’ll do and all you’ll focus on.”

She tugs a hand free from my grip and raises it to play with the swan cameo hanging around her neck. “And then there is this…”

“Does it bother you that I placed it there?”

She glances out the window and nibbles at her bottom lip. “Knowing what it means to you,” a tight nod bobs her head, “it’s overwhelming, but I like it very much.”

“That necklace is merely a symbol.” I grind my teeth, unsure whether to finish my thought but unable to hold it in either. “The future is not written, my dearest Vivianne. We can write a future we both desire.”

“I know…but my father?—”

“Has only the power you give him. And, Vivianne?”

“Yes?”

“I’m powerful too.”

“I know.” She bows her head.

Vivianne speaks very little after that exchange, making the ninety-minute drive down the mountain tense. Still, she doesn’t reject the possibility, which spurs me to consider an alternate ending to our weekend.

We wind down to the valley floor, and the heavy grip of the snow begins to ease, the air less dense, less suffocating. The white landscape thins, replaced by patches of bare earth and frost-kissed rock.

As we come around a hairpin curve, a solitary tree appears ahead, stripped of its leaves and standing stark against the muted backdrop of late winter. Its bark is dark, almost charcoal, and free from the weight of snow, but its branches sag beneath an eerie burden—birds, so black they seem to drink in the weak sunlight, like ink stains against the pale sky.

The tree is alive with them, the branches bending under their collective weight, a living shadow that flickers with movement.

The rumble of the engine disturbs the eerie stillness, and in a sudden, chaotic burst, the crows take flight. It’s as if the tree itself explodes into the sky, the birds lifting in a swirling mass of dark wings, their feathers glinting with faint, oily hues as they rise.

The sound is immediate—piercing, harsh, discordant cries cutting through the quiet. Their raucous calls overpower everything, penetrating the thick, cushioned luxury of the car. The din swallows the steady hum of the engine, the tires on the road a distant memory as hundreds of crows wheel above us, their voices filling the air with wild, unsettling energy. The sky darkens momentarily with their mass, blocking out the light as they circle and scatter, a writhing cloud of black.

Vivianne casts an anxious glance skyward. “I’ve never seen so many crows. Do you know what they call a flock of crows?” Before I can respond, she supplies the answer, “They call them a murder. I always thought that was an odd name…A murder of crows.”

A shiver works its way down my spine. I’m not a superstitious man, but even I recognize an omen. With Nicholas on the loose, I must keep a protective eye on Vivianne and never let her out of my sight.