Strokes: A Dark Contemporary Reverse Harem Romance (Finding Their Muse Book 2)

by Bea Paige

  I feel every ounce of his disappointment and rage, it seeps across the floor meeting the water that drips from my own drenched clothes. Outside thunder rumbles, the rain lashing against the window. Lightning strikes, a great crack of light forking above us. The hairs on my arms stand upright, reacting to the electricity that pervades the room and the unspent energy that Anton is trying to hold in right now.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he says, my single step towards him forcing the words from his mouth.

  He has his back to me, his shoulders are slumped, his head bowed. Despite his physical appearance, he’s nowhere near done, and I know enough about this kind of anger to realise that if he doesn’t let it all out it will poison him from the inside out.

  “You’re father’s a bastard. Every single thing he said was bullshit.”

  Anton turns to face me. “No. He’s right. This is a poor rendition. It isn’t perfect, it doesn’t even look like you,” he says, raising a crumpled piece of paper towards me.

  “You’re wrong. He’s wrong. I saw it. That drawing is me in all my brokenness. You saw me, Anton.”

  He uncrumples the paper and holds it up to me. “It’s flat, bland. There’s no life… there’s no fucking colour!” he roars, bitter disappointment in himself and the man who’s supposed to love him unconditionally tearing through his words.

  I watch as he rips the drawing in half, dropping the torn pieces to the floor. Another flash of lightning slashes through the dark clouds, followed by a rumble of thunder.

  “Don’t you see, Anton? It doesn’t fucking matter. None of this stuff matters. The equipment in this room, the tubes and tubes of paint, the coloured pencils and pens, even those expensive canvases. None of it matters, because you took a scrap of cheap paper and a blunt pencil and drew that. It’s beautiful in all its rawness. It’s me and there’s not one spot of colour to be seen,” I implore, bending down and picking up the torn drawing, showing it to him. “Look at what you did. Look!” I order.

  But he refuses. Turning from me, he strides over to a large canvas leaning against the back wall. It’s the only one still intact. Reaching up he pulls at the sheet covering it.

  “I’ve been working on this painting for two fucking years. Two years, Rose, and I still can’t get it right. I can’t capture Amber. I wasn’t able to capture the pieces of her or the colour she bled for me. I wasn’t able to do it then, and I’m not able to do it now. It’s fucking hopeless. My father’s right.”

  I can’t respond because I am absolutely stunned by the image before me. Amber is utterly naked, laying upon a chaise longue. The proportions of her body are perfect. The gentle smile about her lips lifted in suppressed laughter, the slant of her eyes an exact copy of those I stared into a week ago.

  It’s beautiful, perfect.

  But Anton’s right, he hasn’t captured her, and it isn’t because of lack of talent, it’s because he’s missed the damn point. All this time he’s been searching for colour believing that’s what will bring his art to life and make him whole.

  But he’s so wrong. So very, very wrong.

  I look down at the torn drawing of me and see what Anton saw when he sketched it. I see a broken woman pieced back together with strength born from darkness. I see a woman needing to be free from her past. I see a woman in pain from a condition that makes her older before her time. I see a woman stripped of her one and only passion. I see a woman who has desire in her eyes for a man who’s as complicated as she is. I see an echo of a girl who survived, and finally, I see a woman who can survive anything.

  Anton doesn’t need colour.

  His artwork comes to life when it’s stripped back to the bare bones. This is where his soul lays, right here on this white sheet of paper in shades of grey.

  “You agree with my father, don’t you?” he asks, the vulnerability in his voice like acid on my skin.

  “No. That man is wrong about you…”

  “But…” Anton presses, staring at me grimly.

  “But you’re right, you weren’t able to capture the pieces of Amber, her colour, because you can’t. It’s impossible, Anton.”

  He looks at me as though I’ve struck him, the sting of my words like a handprint across his cheek.

  “You said you could help. You said you could help me to see, Rose,” he says bitterly.

  The tentative connection we held not hours before cracking under the strain. My anger for both his father and Ms Hadley flares. She brought that man here. She knew exactly what she was doing. I step forward, reaching for him. Anton steps back.

  “Anton, I can help you to understand the meaning behind a colour. I will continue to do that if you wish, but not because I want you to use it in your art, but because I need to show you that it doesn’t matter what red means to me, to Ivan. It doesn’t matter what blue means or green, grey, orange or any other colour of the fucking rainbow. Meaning is subjective. What matters is not the colours of my life, or anyone else’s but the colours of yours.”

  “You want me to fucking paint in monochrome?”

  “I want you to paint what you see, not what you don’t.”

  “Jesus, Rose, haven’t you understood anything?” He grasps my arm and yanks the drawing from my hand. “This is a piece of shit!”

  “No, it isn’t. You. Captured. Me!”

  “I haven’t, but I will. I fucking will!”

  Anton pulls me against his chest, wrapping one arm tightly around my waist. With the other he pushes against the canvas of Amber letting it crash to the ground, then kicks against a door, pulling me into a pitch black corridor. I don’t fight him off, even though I know I could. Instead, I let Anton wrench me into the dark knowing deep down that this was always going to be our path.

  But I’m ready.

  I’m ready to face my fears head on.

  I sure as hell hope he’s ready to do the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The darkness swallows us.

  There’s no light, not one shard. I already know from Anton’s story that there aren’t any windows in this room and panic starts to claw at me, knowing that the only possible escape is through a door only Anton holds the key to. I could let my fear break free, I could let it take hold until I succumb.

  But I don’t.

  I bury it. I lock it away into a prison of its own.

  I’m not Rosie anymore, I’m Rose, and I’ll survive this just like I’ve survived everything else.

  In all his tumultuous rage, Anton fails to notice that I’m not fighting back. He fails to notice that he no longer has to grip hold of me tightly, that I walk into the darkness with him.

  By his side.

  This prison is his as much as it’s mine, and I have every intention of breaking us both free.

  I hear him fumble with another door, then a blast of cold air greets us as he pushes it open. I see nothing beyond. It’s so dark it’s as though I’m blindfolded. Anton guides me into the room, his harsh breathing the only sound above the thumping of my heart.

  When I hear the door close, and the sound of a lock clicking shut, I ready myself. Digging deep, I find my voice.

  “How long will you keep me here, Anton?”

  “As long as it takes,” he responds, sharply.

  He’s already switching off, becoming the man he needs to be to do this again. Is it really so easy for him to discard the man he was last night? The man who thought only of me, and not his own needs. Perhaps that was part of his plan. Pretend it was all about me, when really it was all about him and the fucking end game.

  Kill them with kindness.

  Am I really that gullible?

  No! I’m here now because I believe he’s worth fighting for. His darkness becomes mine now, for better or worse.

  “Is there any light? You might be able to navigate your way around this room because you know it so well, but I don’t.”

  He doesn’t respond. I hear Anton moving about me, but I can’t see him, and I need to be able
to see if I’m going to help him to do the same. Strong hands grasp my upper arms, startling me.

  “Step backwards slowly,” he orders. “In a few steps you’ll feel the edge of the bed against the back of your legs.”

  “Okay.” I follow his command, and with his guidance find myself pressed against a hard surface.

  “Sit.”

  He moves away, leaving me no choice but to do exactly as he asks. The bed is firm but covered in a thick duvet and soft comforter, softening it enough to make it comfortable. The bedding is cold, and there’s a musky smell of a space that hasn’t been used in some time. With no windows to air it, the room feels oppressive… it reminds me of the cupboard beneath the decks of Cerulean Blue. Funny how smell can conjure up your worst memories. No more than a few feet wide, that cupboard had reduced the girl I was into someone primitive. It had stripped her revealing the bare bones, just like Anton had revealed in that drawing, just like the wreckage that sits in Mousehole Harbour now. My demon rumbles, reminding me of my strength.

  I can do this. I will do this.

  Taking a deep breath through my nose, I let it out slowly through my mouth. Repeating that over and over, whilst Anton moves in the pitch black around me.

  “Fuck!” I hear Anton exclaim, drawing my attention back to him.

  “Is everything alright?” I ask.

  My teeth begin to chatter, not through fear, but because I’m wet through. Now that I’ve decided I won’t let my fear of imprisonment scare me, I’m strangely calm. I need to get warm, if I don’t the stay in here will be painful.

  “The fire won’t light. This room is too cold. I don’t want you getting sick.”

  I almost laugh at that. His concern is amusing given the circumstances. I might not be as afraid as I should be right now, but that doesn’t mean to say that I want to stay locked in this damn room, especially now since Viktor and Ms Hadley are free to do as they please. I think about Erik alone in his glass cage, and wonder if Ms Hadley had more to do with that than he’s let on. Her being his mother is a huge fucking problem. But one I have no headspace to deal with right now.

  One thing at a time… one brother at a time. This time I do laugh because I sound like the whore Viktor accused me of being.

  “What’s funny, Rose?” Anton asks, his question expanding in the darkness.

  “Just something your father said.”

  “Don’t listen to that man,” he snarls.

  “I don’t. I just wish you wouldn’t too.”

  He doesn’t respond right away, but I know he’s looking in my direction.

  “Old habits die hard.”

  They sure as fuck do.

  I hear the distinct sound of a match lighting and see a tiny flicker of light illuminating the darkness and a portion of Anton’s face. I watch as the tiny flame moves towards what looks like kindling in a hearth. Within a few seconds that flicker becomes a flame and that flame spreads into a fire, filling the room with both light and warmth.

  Anton stands, approaching me. “For a moment, yesterday, I believed things could be different.” He sighs, pinching his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “I want you to know, Rose, that I was willing to try. But I can’t do that now. I can’t be that man.”

  He points to the flames in the hearth, looking at them with a mixture of awe and hate. “All I see is grey. I can’t live like this anymore.”

  “And you keeping me prisoner will change that?”

  The strength seems to leave his body as he drops to his knees on the floor before me, shuffling forward between my spread legs. His arms wrap around my hips as he lays his head on my lap.

  “Please forgive me, Rose,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath warming through the dampness of my jeans.

  I rest my hands on his back, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin material of his top. We remain like this, two broken people clinging onto one another, not knowing how to bridge the gap. Too afraid to make a leap into the unknown.

  “For what?” I eventually ask, as he sighs heavily.

  “Purging my fucking soul.”

  He rears upwards, pulling me up with him. His hands find the hem of my jumper and he yanks it up over my head, pulling off my t-shirt with it. Reaching behind my back he unclasps my bra, throwing it to the side. Then running his hands down my arms, pulls them out towards him, crossing them at the wrists. I know what he’s about to do, and I don’t stop him. If this is what it takes, then so be it.

  He needs to feel in control, and despite everything, I give him what he needs without question. I’ve already submitted to him by stepping into this room. By the time we leave, he will have submitted to me in return.

  Holding me in place with one hand, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a length of thin rope, winding it tightly around my wrists he binds them together. Once he’s certain they’re tight enough he drops to his knees and pulls my trainers and socks off. My breathing hitches as his fingers graze across my stomach, his hands finding the zipper. Undoing my jeans, he pulls them down roughly, taking my knickers with them. I step out of them, my fucking heart racing. Is he going to fuck me like he did Amber?

  He remains on his knees, his hands clasping my ankles, his head bowed.

  “I didn’t want this for you, you have to believe that,” he murmurs, regret leaching from his voice.

  “I know that,” I respond softly.

  He looks up at me, confusion in his eyes. I brush a strand of hair out of his face, my fingertips lingering against his cheek. He leans into my hand ever so slightly, and then, as though burnt, he stands abruptly.

  “Sit in front of the fire. Get warm,” he demands, stepping away from me and towards the door.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, something close to sadness settling around my shattered heart. Suddenly, it becomes hard to breath.

  “I’m going to check on Erik. I’ll be back,” he says tightly, before stepping out into the hallway, leaving me alone and breathless.

  By the time he returns I’m staring into the pitch black. The fire has long since gone out, there’s not even any burning embers left. I spent the majority of time alone mesmerised by the flames and wondering how I could undo the damage of a life lived without colour, how I can get Anton to see. It came to me suddenly about twenty minutes ago, an idea forming in the ever growing darkness.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long,” he says, stepping into the room.

  “How is Erik?” I ask.

  “Erik is Erik.”

  “What does that mean, Erik is Erik?”

  “It means nothing. He’s fine. He asked after you.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes,” Anton snaps.

  “What did he say?”

  Anton quietens then eventually, after sighing heavily, responds. “Amongst other things, Erik quoted some long dead poet called Rumi; ‘What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is your candle.’”

  “That’s beautiful,” I whisper, and so very apt. I get the distinct feeling that Erik isn’t just trying to reach Anton, but me too. I send him a silent thanks.

  “Erik always knows what to say. It’s a pity he can never listen to his own advice,” Anton responds.

  “What were the other things?” I ask.

  “They were private. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fair enough,” I respond, not pushing further. Now isn’t the time.

  The tense moment between us is broken by the sound of something heavy being dragged through the door before it clicks shut, the lock turning once more.

  “Do I need to worry about what that is?” I ask, shifting into a sitting position. It doesn’t matter how much I peer into the darkness, when there’s not even a crack of light or even a tiny ember, I can’t see a damn thing.

  Which is perfect for what I have in mind… ‘Darkness is your candle.’

  “It’s just my art equipment, Rose, that’s all.” Anton explains. “I haven’t murdered my father, if that’s what yo
u’re worried about.”

  “If you did, I suspect he would’ve deserved it,” I retort.

  “I’m capable of many things, Rose, but killing a man in cold blood isn’t one of them… that isn’t me.”

  “Not even someone like Roman?” I press.

  I know Roman was a bad man. What he did to me is proof enough of that, and though I can’t hate him for it, I’m honest enough with myself to know that much.

  “There are far worse things than death, Rose,” he says softly.

  He's right, there is.

  I hear him place the items on the floor then move around in the dark, searching for the light switch. I found it earlier, hidden beneath a panel on the wall. The single bulb above lighting up the room the second I turned it on. The light was too harsh, too bright. It illuminated the room making it a more threatening space in the light, than without it. It’s no more than a large cupboard dressed up to feel like a bedroom rather than what it is; a prison.

  It was no great heartache when I flicked off the light switch, removed the bulb and crushed it beneath the mattress of the bed.

  I’m fully aware that Anton could go and get another one to replace it, but I’m counting on him not wanting to leave the room when he hears what I have to say.

  Anton flicks the switch, and when the light doesn’t turn on, he swears under his breath.

  “Problem, Anton?” I ask sweetly, too sweetly.

  “What have you done, Rose?” His suspicion roused immediately.

  “I took out the bulb, smashed it.” I shrug, even though it’s pointless given he can’t see my nonchalance.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because we’re moving onto the next colour, and what better way to understand it than to submerge ourselves within it entirely.”

  “Jesus, Rose.” He steps towards the door, stumbling a little. “I don’t need to understand black. I know it well enough already,” he says.

  I hear the tell-tale click of the lock being undone. He’s about to leave and if I can’t get him to stay then we’re both fucked. Pushing off the bed, I stand and take three steps towards him. I miscalculate the distance and crash into his chest.