by Bea Paige
My anger reaches new levels. I’m not sure if it’s the new found strength Ivan has given me to face Anton, or the fact that Anton reminds me so much of Roman. Either way I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve gone from being fearful to angry. Two emotions that have the greatest capacity to destroy over any other.
I hold my hand out for the joint. Anton raises an eyebrow but passes it to me after taking another deep pull. I contemplate taking a drag, but don’t. Instead, I open the window further and chuck it out before he’s even able to protest.
“What the fuck, Rose?”
I turn to face him, rising anger lapping at my strength. “You don’t get to numb the pain, Anton. If Amber is trapped in her head suffering her own kind of living hell, then the least you can do is be present when she goes through it. You need to witness what you did.”
Anton’s face pales. “I’m fully aware of what I did, Rose.” He swipes a hand over his face, then stares at me in that way of his. “But you’re right, she deserves that much at least. If I could change it, I would.”
“Don’t lie. Don’t do that,” I snap. “I’m not here because I want you to tell me what you think I need to hear. I’m here because I want to know the truth. Give me that at least. Honour the woman you screwed up by providing me with the whole story. I won’t accept anything less than the truth, Anton.”
“Fine. The truth. No holding back, but once you know my full story, I want you to tell me yours.”
“I never agreed to such an exchange.”
Anton holds my gaze, then he reaches over and unclips his seat belt, shuffling forward in his seat. He knocks on the glass partition. A second later it rolls down.
“What is it, Mr Sachov?” Patrick asks.
“Turn the car around, we’ll not be visiting Amber today.”
“What?!” I screech. “Don’t you dare, Patrick.”
He catches my eye in the rear view mirror. “I’m sorry, Miss. Mr Sachov is my boss.”
“No, Ivan is your boss, Anton is a guest in his home. I’m Ivan’s personal assistant which means right at this moment in time I say what does and does not happen. Keep driving,” I snap.
Patrick nods his head, the glass partition rising once more.
Anton slides back into his seat, snapping the seatbelt back in place.
I round on him. “What the hell was that?”
“Do you always get what you want, Rose?” Anton asks, ignoring my question.
“This isn’t about what I want. If you haven’t already noticed, this is very much about you.”
“Now who’s lying. You and I are alike, remember? You can no more stay away from me than I can from you. It’s already too late. You’re already leaking colour and you don’t even realise it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, I’m leaking colour?” I retort sharply.
“The second you agreed to be my muse it began, and the moment you revealed that deeply buried secret the wound widened. Truth has a way of cleaving open a person’s soul, Rose.”
“And I suppose the only way I can stop it is if I share my story with you, is that it?”
“No. You’ll leak more. At the end of it, you’ll either end up like Amber, or you’ll end up like me. Either way you’re fucked, so what difference does it make if I hear your story?”
Inside, my demon rises to the challenge. I laugh sharply. “Then perhaps you should’ve chosen someone else to be your muse, Anton, because only one person is going to be fucked when we’re through and it won’t be me.”
Crossing my arms over my chest and twisting my body away from Anton, I look out of the window, willing the crashing pulse of my blood to settle. The fact of the matter is, he’s right. I’ve already chosen to see this through. Being here in this car now is proof of that. Given that fact, the only thing I have left to bargain with is my sordid, fucked-up past.
And I’m not sure I can do that.
For ten minutes we don’t speak and as the car picks up speed along the motorway, I will my body to relax. I’ve no idea what to expect when we arrive. Images of a hollowed out woman rocking in a padded cell come to mind, and I wince at the horror it ignites within me. I push those thoughts aside, mulling over whether I can willingly share my story instead.
Up until recently, I’ve refused to think about Roman. Pushing all memory of him behind a thick wall kept firmly locked by my need to dance. Ballet kept me sane for years, an outlet that took up all my time, my attention and devotion. But since I stopped dancing the memories have been creeping steadily back in. Today, was the first time I’d allowed a real glimpse into the darkness of my past and it was in Anton’s presence. That must mean something.
Anton believes it’s the start of me losing my colour, my descent into madness.
Maybe he’s right.
But then again, maybe this was always going to happen. Maybe if I share my story with Anton, I’ll find another way to survive.
Perhaps we’ll find it together.
“How long do we have until we get there?” I ask suddenly, wanting to know how long I’ve got to try and control the demon clawing inside my chest. Ivan has successfully roused her, and though I need the strength she provides I don’t need the destruction she can wreak if I let her out without gaining control.
“Around an hour, possibly more if there’s traffic.”
“Good. That should be plenty of time for you to tell me how you destroyed Amber, and enough time for me to prepare for what’s to come.”
“You still insistent on hearing my truth?” Anton presses.
“You still insistent on hearing mine?” I throw back.
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose we have ourselves a deal. You first,” I say.
Chapter Nine
Anton - eighteen months ago
Amber lies on the chaise in the middle of my studio. She’s naked, her pert breasts and smooth stomach perfectly flawless. She smiles at me, her head resting on a pillow, her hand hiding beneath it. Her long hair tumbles around her shoulders, some of it splayed out behind her on the velvet cushion. She adjusts herself slightly, the curve of her hip rising as she does.
She’s flawless.
Perfect in so many ways.
I try to hide the shake of my hand, it’s not because she makes me nervous. Far from it. It’s because I understand the enormity of the gift that she gives me with her presence. It’s also because I understand the expectation she has in return, and the danger she’s in because of me.
For almost six months now, she has come to my studio. Spending most evenings here and almost all the weekends. We’ve never been anything more than artist and muse and though I know she wants more, I’ve never once tried to fuck her. That isn’t what I need or what I want.
Yes, she’s attractive, funny, sweet, kind, she’s all of that. But since the first time she tried to kiss me a week after meeting in the meadow, I’ve avoided physical contact with her at all costs.
This isn’t about sex. This has become something different.
Something far more twisted.
“Are you okay, Anton?” she asks.
“Long night,” I lie.
“Were you up late again?”
“I don’t sleep well, Amber,” I respond. Leaning out from behind the canvas, I catch the concern in her eyes and quickly retreat to where she can’t see me.
“It’s not healthy you know, not sleeping. Most of the time I wonder how you function.”
Her voice is full of concern and it makes me wince. She’s kind, thoughtful, the complete opposite of me. It doesn’t even occur to me until this moment that she’s been lying in front of me for hours now. I haven’t asked her if she wants a break, or something to eat or drink.
I’m a selfish bastard.
“How do you survive?”
“I’m used to it.”
“I wish you’d let me help.”
“You’re helping me now.”
“I don’t mean with your art. I mean with relaxing
enough to sleep.”
She shifts again, clearly uncomfortable, but her slight adjustment ruins the lines I’ve just painted, and I snap.
“Just keep fucking still.”
Amber falls silent, her smile disappearing with my curtness. I’ve become more and more sharp with her. The easy going relationship we had in the first couple of weeks has changed somewhat. I’ve found myself becoming more agitated, angrier with every passing day. Not at her, not really.
But at me.
Frustration bites at my ankles, gnaws at my mind, pecks at my soul.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to capture her.
And it’s killing me.
It’s making me fucking insane.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve sketched Amber.
Dressed, undressed. Smiling, frowning, crying even. I just can’t get it right.
Nothing I’ve painted, drawn, moulded with my fucking hands does her justice. All of them are a pale shadow to her vibrancy.
And to make matters worse, with every passing day that she’s in my presence, suffering internally from my wrath, being refused any kind of affection she’s so obviously desperate for, that vibrancy dims. She’s been leaking colour. If I could hold an empty vessel to catch it, I would.
I would capture her colour and use it to bring her to life on canvas.
But that’s impossible.
She sniffles, holding in a quiet sob. I know why she’s crying. It isn’t because I’ve snapped at her just now. It’s because she understands where this is going.
Nowhere.
She wants affection, physical contact, love, and those are things I can’t give her. I’m incapable of it.
I make the mistake of peering back around the canvas to look into her eyes. Tears well there; I watch as one rolls down from the crease in her eye and along the tip of her nose. A better man than me would get up, pull her into their arms and comfort her.
I don’t do that.
Instead, I pick up the half smoked joint, place it between my lips and light it, drawing the smoke into my lungs. I don’t offer her any.
I smoke it right down to the butt, then crush the burning embers in the ashtray.
“You know I want you,” Amber says, her voice so low it’s almost inaudible. “I come here every day, helping you, posing for you. I lay myself bare and you take everything from me with your silent stares and eyes that scorch my skin. Every day I fight with myself, knowing I should stay away, but return anyway. Why do you punish me, Anton?”
“I never asked you to come,” I respond, unkindly.
“You never told me to stay away either,” she murmurs, swiping at another tear.
She’s right, I didn’t, because I need her to stay. I know that I’m affecting her. I see the struggle she’s fighting beneath the flawless façade she presents. She’s the perfect model, and yet, if I look closer, if I really look, there are flaws that are beginning to show. Heavy bags sit beneath her eyes where the joy that once lit them has faded, the delicate bone of her rib cage seem to protrude more, and the curve of her mouth is no longer lifting into an easy smile, but perpetually sad.
“What do I need to do to get you to touch me, Anton?”
My fingers curl into my palms. I knew it would come to this. “I won’t do that, Amber.”
She flinches at the acid in my voice. Long gone is the laughter that she’d managed to pull from me the day we first met. I’ve been spiralling into darkness ever since, and so has she.
“Why?” she asks, sliding her bare feet to the floor as she sits up.
Her hair falls over her shoulders, brushing against the hard little buds of her nipples that are desperate to be sucked. My eyes graze over the slimness of her waist and the sharpness of her hip bones as she stands.
“That isn’t what I need from you,” I grind out. I’m gripping my paintbrush so tightly it snaps. The jagged shards of wood pressing into my palms.
“But it’s what I need from you.” Her response comes out as a half-sob.
Another man would do anything to be desired this much, wanted this much. They’d get on their knees in front of this woman and take her pussy in their mouth, devouring her.
But I won’t.
She’s beautiful, innocent in so many ways, but I don’t want her that way. I drop the broken paintbrush, it clatters to the floor. Paint flicking across the wood… a colour I can’t fucking see but a colour that she tells me is the same as her hair.
Amber, I’m told, is the colour of the sun at dawn, the shade that slips silently between yellow and orange. It’s the colour of a gemstone that seeps from trees trapping insects, preserving them within its warmth. It’s wisdom that takes an eternity to form.
It’s the name of a young woman who desperately needs to be loved by a better man than me.
Amber is the dappled remnants of a memory trapped forever in the past.
It’s a colour I’ll never see despite this woman’s efforts to show me.
“Anton, please, touch me,” she begs, baring her body and her heart.
I stand abruptly, anger coursing through me. I swing my arm wide, knocking the easel sideways. She lurches for it, her pretty breasts jiggling as she moves. I grab her wrists before she can stop the canvas from crashing against the floor and yank her against my chest.
Amber takes it as an opportunity to wind her arms around my back, snuggling against me. So desperate for any attention that she’ll take the scraps I give her, even the angry ones.
My hand reaches up, fisting her hair. I pull her head back sharply.
“I won’t love you Amber. I can’t do that. But if you give me what I want, I might fuck you.”
She draws in a shocked breath.
Amber wants hearts and flowers. She wants whispered words of love. She wants the romance of storybooks and movies. She wants passion and laughter. She wants the impossible.
But then so do I.
“Tell me what you want. Tell me what I must do,” she responds breathlessly, innocently.
I want to bleed you of colour.
She doesn’t know what she’s asking. Her chest heaves against my own. It would be so easy to take her, to push her against the table and fuck her.
Maybe I should.
But it wouldn’t get me what I want, and it wouldn’t give her what she needs.
I yank her head back further and bend over her arched neck, running the tip of my nose against her skin. My mouth finds her ear and I bite hard. Hard enough to draw blood.
“I want you to fucking bleed for me,” I growl into her ear.
She stiffens in my hold, her heart a frantic butterfly beating against the cage of her ribs.
“What?” she stutters, her voice mixed with the sharpness of pain and the hollow depths of fear.
I wipe the tip of my finger over the blood dribbling from her ear and smooth it between my finger and thumb. All I see is a dark shade of grey.
Fucking grey.
“Blood is red, but I don’t know what the fuck that looks like…” I snarl, smearing the warm liquid over the smooth skin of her cheek.
“Anton, please…” her voice begs me to let her go, but her body tells me something else. She pushes herself closer against me.
“You want this?” I taunt, rubbing my cheek roughly against hers, her blood on my skin now.
“Yes.” She grips me tighter.
“You want me to touch you?” I grab hold of her breast and squeeze hard.
“Yes,” Amber whimpers, her voice cracking.
Tears cascade from her eyes, but she doesn’t try to pry herself out of my hold. On the contrary she presses into me harder despite the hurt I’m causing.
“Then you have to give me everything in return. I want it all, Amber. You bleed for me, you give it up and only then will I fuck you.”
“How?” she whimpers.
Stepping back, I release her. She stumbles backwards, her teeth chattering. Her eyes widen as she reaches for the s
pot I bit her, wincing when her finger grazes against the wound.
“You should go.”
She shakes her head, despite the pain I’ve caused, that I am causing.
“YOU NEED TO FUCKING LEAVE!” I roar, and yet she remains.
Tears fall unbidden now, her vibrancy leaking with every damn drop. I can’t lose it all. If she insists on staying, then I won’t watch it drain away.
I must do something to make it stop. I need to capture it first.
In two strides I pull her into my arms and crash my lips against hers, kissing her ferociously. It’s a cruel kiss, lacking warmth and compassion, but she grasps at me as though I am the oxygen she so desperately craves. When I let her go with a shove, she is panting, her skin covered in goosebumps, her eyes holding a mixture of fear and desire.
“You should’ve run,” I sneer, hating the same viciousness in my voice. Hating the twisted bastard I’ve become. She doesn’t deserve it, but I can’t seem to stop.
She rocks on her feet, part of her wanting to run, but an even bigger part needing to stay.
“I’ll wait for your love,” she responds, lifting her glistening eyes to meet mine.
She’s still so certain that I’m capable of such an emotion. Still hopeful despite how I’ve treated her.
I shake my head.
“You are capable of it, Anton. I believe that, even if you don’t,” she says it defiantly, with such conviction that I almost believe her.
But how can a suffocating swathe of smoke be anything other than the lingering stench of a life half lived?
“Then you’ll be waiting forever,” I respond, grabbing her wrist and pulling her across the room. With my free hand I push against the edge of a large canvas. It slides across the floor revealing a locked door hidden behind it.
“What’s this?” she asks, her voice quavering once more. Fear constricts her words.
I look down at her, bringing my hand up to cup her face. It’s a tender gesture and one she grasps onto. A tiny smile lifts the corner of her lips, but it soon disappears.
“This, this is where I’ll absorb your essence, your colours, Amber. You should’ve run.”