Page 47 of The Auction
“Cass… when I’m not here anymore…”
I stop breathing.
She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her gaze fixed on the horses.
“When that time comes, I want you to keep them going. Even if you don’t race them. Just… keep them. Take care of them. Make sure they’re loved.”
“Mom,” I say, too fast, too defensive. “Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m just saying?—”
“You’re not going anywhere.” My voice breaks, and I have to look down at my plate to pull it back together. “You’re going to get better. And when you do, we’ll race them together like we always have.”
She finally looks at me. Her smile is soft. Sad. But she nods.
“I’d like that.”
Not long after, she tells me she’s tired and heads back to bed. I help her to her room, tuck the blanket around her shoulders, and kiss her temple before slipping out again.
But I can’t leave yet.
I can’t face him yet. Not with a fucking hurricane swirling in my stomach.
So, instead of driving to his building, I head for the stables.
I climb the worn stairs to the second story—the old hay loft Daddy converted into my art room six years ago. It smells like pine and dust and acrylic paint, and the second I step inside, I breathe a little easier.
The emotions are piling up, too many to hold at once, so I pick up a brush.
Because painting is the only thing that makes me feel like I still belong to myself.
The strokes are bold. Chaotic. The colors clash—deep reds slashing across pale yellows, streaks of dark green cutting through swaths of violet.
It doesn’t look like it should make sense.
But it does to me.
I can see it, even if no one else ever will.
The gaping mouth. The fists tangled in long black hair. The motion in the blurs of paint, like wind or movement or panic caught mid-breath.
It’s a woman screaming.
Not outwardly—but from the inside.
It’s me, bleeding my inner turmoil onto canvas in broad, unrestrained brushstrokes.
I don’t know how long I’ve been painting.
When I finally step back, my legs are tight from standing too long, my hands are speckled in dried paint, and the sun has shifted halfway across the sky.
Shit.
It’s mid-afternoon.
I was supposed to leave hours ago.
If I don’t get going soon, Jaxon will probably send a damn SWAT team to find me. I wouldn’t put it past him.
