Page 95 of Thirst
“Yeah.” Her nod was small, resigned. The look on her face—the hopelessness, the understanding that nothing had changed—hurt. The fake smile was gone, a small mercy. But I’d do almost anything to see the real one again. “You made your choice. And I’ve made mine.”
“Nyx…”
Her shoulders hunched. “Leave it, Cain.” She headed for the door, Demon trotting alongside her.
Yeah, I really wanted to punch something.
Back inside, my gaze fell on the sketchpad, thick with the pictures she’d made in the past couple of nights.
That was it. That was what she needed.
She wasn’t just sketching to pass the time. She was an artist, starving for the tools she didn’t have.
I couldn’t give her freedom. Things with Nazaire had gone too far; letting her leave now would paint a target on her back.
But this? I could give her.
As soon as I left her, I contacted an art shop on the mainland and paid extra to have art supplies expressed to the island on the Tuesday ferry: canvases, paints, brushes, a palette and a palette knife, the whole arsenal. That night, I brought them to her myself.
When I let myself in, she was stretched out on the couch, dark red curls spilling around shoulders, glowing against the deep blue cashmere sweater I’d bought her. She glanced up—eyes dull, flat—until she saw the canvases under my arm.
“What’s that?” She sat up, gaze flicking from the three canvases to the bag in my other hand.
“A gift.” I put the canvases on the floor beside the couch and handed her the bag.
When she peeked inside, her breath hitched. “You brought me paints?”
She brushed her fingertips over the tubes, slow and reverent, like they were something precious. And for the first time in days, her hazel eyes had some light in them. Just a flicker, but something in my chest warmed in response.
I crouched beside the couch, looking into the bag along with her. “I don’t know if they’re the right kind, but?—”
“No, these are perfect.” She lifted one of the brushes. “This is even the brand I use. And bristle brushes, not synthetic. How did you know?”
“I asked the owner of the store. She’s a painter herself—seemed to know what she was doing.”
She nodded. “Well, thanks.
“You can thank me by painting something.”
My reward was a brief, real smile. “I will, yeah.”
Our gazes snagged, and my own lips lifted in response. The warmth in my chest flared brighter. My heart smacked against my ribcage, a near-painful beat.
For an instant, I caught a flash of emotion from her—hope and something else, like recognition. Like she was seeing something she hadn’t let herself believe.
An answering hope ignited in me.
A curl had fallen forward over her shoulder. I reached out, taking my time, giving her a chance to pull away. When she didn’t, I rubbed the silky strands between my thumb and forefinger.
Her chest expanded in a slow breath. Then she rolled her lips in and leaned away. The curl slid from my fingers.
I sank back onto my haunches, reminding myself to be patient. We were on opposite sides of a war, and no amount of touches or gifts could change that. I had to see this thing with Nazaire through and hope that someday she’d forgive me.
She turned back to the paints, lifting each tube from the bag and lining them up on the coffee table with the brushes and the rest of the supplies. Focused. Careful. Already slipping away from me again.
I pushed to my feet. “I should go. Let you paint.”
Another jolt of emotion, disappointment this time. “Oh,” she said.
