Page 102 of Folds
And when I finally drift under, I dream only of him?—
Of green scales shining amber in firelight.
Of golden eyes half-lidded with want.
Of the feeling of being held so tightly by something monstrous and knowing, with terrifying certainty, that I never want to be free of him again.
chapter five
SIX MONTHS LATER
I swipe my hands against each other in an attempt to rid myself of the sawdust that coats my palms before checking the mailbox. When I pull out the paper, I quickly flip to the arts section, unable to pretend I'm not nervous to see how my most recent works have been received.
The gallery show was only a week ago, but it already feels like a lifetime of waiting. I step back inside and stand just after the doorway, letting the screen door hit me on my ass.
"And?" Bahtam asks, curled up by the fire. The wooden floor beneath him groans against his weight as he shifts.
"I haven't read it yet," I say, taking a deep breath. "Want to hear?" The paper is so fresh that the carbon ink is already staining my hands.
Bahtam doesn't answer but only raises a brow.
I smile.
“Sloane Vale’s latest exhibition, Giant of the Storm, confirms her place among the most important living sculptors working today?—”
He moves, one thick coil of his tail disappears into the kitchen while his head rests beside my shoulder, chin nearly level with the paper in my hands.
I keep reading.
“Her monumental serpent sculptures display a startling intimacy rarely found in works of such scale. Though terrifying in size, the creatures possess an unmistakable tenderness—as if the artist knows them personally.”
I laugh under my breath.
"Do you find me terrifying, then?" Bahtam asks with amusement.
I remember when the minotaur cabbie came back to the cabin a week later, only to have my naga almost murder him. That's when I learned that mated nagas are incredibly territorial.
We've decided to stay secluded rather than risk any more alpha male outbursts.
“You send shivers up my spine," I joke. "Oh, if only they knew.”
The article continues for another page about symbolism and mythological influence before reaching the part that always fascinates people more than the art itself.
“Despite immense financial success, Vale continues to live in an isolated, deteriorating cabin deep in old logging country. Friends and collectors alike have reportedly failed to convince her to relocate, raising further questions about the artist’s increasingly reclusive lifestyle.”
Bahtam's tongue flits over the shell of my ear, cool and calming.
"I've got you trapped here, haven't I?" he teases. I've come to learn he really is much more sarcastic than I would have first guessed—as long as he's warm enough to function, that is.
"Happily trapped," I mutter and shake my head before continuing.
“Critics remain divided on the origins of the artist’s obsession with serpentine forms. Some interpret the work as environmental commentary, while others point toward ancient mythological traditions or subconscious explorations of desire and transformation.”
I laugh so hard I nearly rip the paper in half.
“Subconscious explorations?” I chortle. "My desire with you, and your form, are entirely conscious…but I suppose our story is really no one else's business, is it?"
His arm wraps around my waist. "My only business is with you."
