Page 20 of Craved By Gray
I glance at the girl sound asleep next to me, taking in the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and my heart swells with warmth. Her long, midnight black hair spills across the pillow like a cascade of silk, framing her features perfectly andsoftening them. Her eyelashes flutter slightly as she dreams, creating delicate shadows on her cheeks. I lean a little closer, careful not to disturb her as I grow captivated by the way the gentle morning light dances across her angelic face. I find myself questioning how a man like Stone, with his ugly heart and mug of a face, could have made something so beautiful.
“What have you done to me?”
I have never experienced a feeling like this before. It’s a crazy mix of strength and vulnerability, knowing this person could hurt me and that I could do the same. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, feeling the rush of excitement but knowing I’d jump without hesitation if it meant catching her.
And isn’t that crazy? I don’t know anything about this girl beyond the way she feels against me and that she’s the daughter of the enemy, and yet, I’d take on the world to see her smile.
I curse myself for a fool, pushing away from the girl and climbing out of bed, careful not to wake her. I walk naked to the bathroom and look through her drawers until I find a new toothbrush. I tear off the seal and clean up before grabbing a cold shower, hoping it’ll snap me out of whatever spell the girl has cast over me.
The spell stays, but I am alert after the shower.
Scarlett is still asleep when I walk into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. I dry quickly before sliding into my jeans. I figure caffeine will do what the shower couldn’t, so I leave the sleeping girl and walk to her kitchen. I find the coffee beans easy enough, but decide I might as well make us breakfast.
I scan the fridge and cabinets for something to make for breakfast, and when I find some eggs and a loaf of bread, I decide on scrambled eggs and toast. I look around for a bowl, opening one cabinet after another, and that’s when my handbrushes against the egg carton, sending one of the eggs tumbling off the counter. It bounces once, and then it shatters on the floor.
“Fuck!” I curse, looking around for something to clean up the mess. I lean down and yank open the lower cabinet, hoping to find some wipes or cleaning products, but I stop short when I see what’s inside.
Tubes of paint, brushes, blank canvases, and a jumbled mess of art supplies spill out. A riot of color that assaults my eyes. I freeze, my hand hovering.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, staring at the contents inside but keeping my hands to myself. The canvases are white and bare of markings, but most of the brushes appear to be used.
I push back from the cabinet and climb to my feet, looking around her apartment from the open kitchen, but her walls are empty. There isn’t one painting hanging on the walls, and I wonder what she does with the ones she finishes. Everything I know about this girl, I’ve heard from her best friend, but Brooke never mentioned anything about Scarlett painting.
I shouldn’t...
I know it’s wrong even as I open another cabinet, but I do so anyway, hoping to see a painted canvas, sighing when I spot the cleaning supplies. I grab them and clean up the mess. Once I’m done, everything in me pushes to close the cabinets and forget what I just saw, but I can’t ignore the nagging voice at the back of my head pushing me into curiosity.
What does she paint, and why are they hidden?
Fuck, I should wait for her to wake up so I can ask, and I almost talk myself into ignoring my little discovery when I spot something from the corner of my eye. My brows furrow as I move toward the humming refrigerator, trying to look, but thespace is too small. If I want to see what it is, then I’ll have to reach in.
I really shouldn’t...
A part of me questions if perhaps it’s evidence against Stone and the Vipers, but it’s a pathetic excuse. The spy in me wants to know, to understand this girl who’s grabbed my heart in her fists and refuses to let go, so I reach in.
My hand brushes against something cold and flat on the side of the fridge, and I already know what it is before I pull it out.
A canvas.
It’s surprisingly heavy, tucked carefully in a spot one would never think to look. I’m careful as I pull it up, slowly placing it on the counter. My gaze falls on the canvas, a stark contrast against the sterile white granite countertop. It’s a portrait, and the first thing I notice is the vibrant splash of colors and bold strokes. Don’t know much or anything at all when it comes to paintings, but I can tell this one’s new.
And those eyes... I’ve seen them in the mirror for past twenty-eight years.
The eyes are painted a deep cerulean blue, captivating in a way I’ve never seen before. Scarlett managed to capture the intensity I’ve been told they carry, and so much depth. It’s almost like a reflection of my soul. A startlingly accurate piece of myself laid bare on canvas.
And she did it in my absence.
She could have used a photo, but something tells me she didn’t. It’s a crime for her to hide such talent behind these walls. To rob the world of her gift. Even so, I don’t blame her for doing it. I’ve seen how the world likes to destroy beautiful things.
This is not something I was supposed to see, and yet, all it does is send me falling deeper in love with her.
A quick flare of shame for exposing what I imagine was supposed to stay hidden filters in. It’s clear, from how the painting supplies were stored, that this is a secret she wanted to keep for herself. With a last glance at the painting, I slowly return it to its previous position, careful not to scratch the surface. With the painting secure, I turn to lock the cabinets, ready to get back to what I was doing before I was distracted.I’ll play it off like I didn’t see anything until she’s ready to share this part of her life with me.
I find the bowls this time, and as I turn to place one on the counter, the front door suddenly bursts open with a bang, shattering the quiet of the kitchen. A strong wave of trepidation and tension rolls in, accompanied by the heavy thud of footsteps.
I quickly turn round, braced for danger when I am met by an angry set of eyes, face red with anger.Large burly figures, faces I’ve gotten to know over the last couple of weeks, stand behind him with their presence a palpable threat. The man’s eyes drop to my shirtless torso, and if possible, his face gets redder, turning a frightening shade of beet.
“Stone.”
