Chapter 8 Artgasm

I couldn't sleep.

I lay awake in my room, eyes fixed on the ceiling, Andrew's words spinning in my head like a sick melody on repeat.

Strippers. Scandals. Wicked bachelor.

I wasn't naïve. The way Killian Wolfe made my body vibrate, twice, in less than twenty-four hours, told me everything I needed to know about the kind of man he was. Even the way he kissed had warned me. He'd touched women before. Many, probably.

But hearing it out loud, from someone else's mouth, stripped the fantasy clean. It left me raw with the truth.

And still, I craved him.

God, I was such a fool.

I slipped out of bed, pulling on a sweater over my camisole. My feet moved on instinct, guiding me down the quiet hallway. I eased the door open to the one place in this house where I was allowed to be myself: the art room.

It wasn't the chaotic, lived-in space I'd had in university, where spilled turpentine mingled with cold coffee, canvases leaned against the walls like forgotten dreams, and freedom dripped from every corner. This was something else. Polished. Curated. A gift from Richard Lancaster to his only daughter.

An olive branch disguised as a cage.

See? it said. I let you have your little hobby.

I stood before a blank canvas, moonlight bleeding through the tall windows. The room smelled like rosewater and oil paint, too clean to feel real.

I dipped a brush into crimson. The color bled like guilt.

My hands trembled. It had been weeks. Maybe months. Somehow, painting had stopped being enough.

The brush met canvas. Every stroke felt like peeling open a wound I wasn't ready to name. My heartbeat staggered, uneven, like it had forgotten how to exist in this place, these designer walls and curated silences.

And still, I couldn't scrub the feel of his hands from my skin.

Killian Wolfe.

His name echoed through me. Not just in thought. In breath. In pulse.

And just like that, the room wasn't silent anymore.

His breath was in my ear. His mouth on my neck. His hands gripping my waist like he wanted to memorize my bones.

My stomach twisted.

I pressed harder with the brush, dragging it in a sharp line across the canvas. Too much pressure. Too much red.

It streaked like a scream.

You don't even know him, the voice in my head hissed.

You gave yourself away, for one night. One mistake. One man you'll never see again.

Only that wasn't true. Not entirely. I had seen him again.

And I'd let him take me again.

Just once.

Just twice.

The memory struck like an earthquake beneath my ribs.

My hand slipped. Crimson spilled across the canvas like a gash. My breath caught in my throat.

I dropped the brush.

"Shit," I whispered, stumbling backward. My heel hit a stool and I caught myself against the wall, struggling to breathe.

This wasn't what art was supposed to feel like.

It was supposed to free me.

But now it felt like chains. Like the only way I could speak the truth was to hide it in paint, and pray no one saw the shape of his mouth in the shadows I drew.

He was everywhere, Killian Wolfe. In the songs I couldn't listen to anymore. In the water that ran too hot in the shower. In the ache in my thighs I woke up with after a dream I didn't ask for. From a memory I couldn't burn.

And Victor...

God, Victor.

My fiancé had texted me that morning like nothing had changed.

Dinner at a private opening. Black tie. Be ready by seven.

I hadn't replied.

Not because I wanted to hurt him.

But because every word he sent felt like a leash. I couldn't look at Victor without seeing Killian's mouth on mine. His weight over me on the couch. His voice, low and ruined, like none of it was supposed to happen.

But it had.

And Victor would still show up. Smiling. Immaculate. Perfect.

I pressed a hand to my chest. My heart wasn't just racing, it was running. Fleeing something I couldn't stop thinking about.

How could one night do this to me?

Enough to make me do it again?

It felt like I didn't belong in this life anymore. Like I couldn't breathe in this city, this body, this name.

I caught my reflection in the corner mirror, stained with old paint. My hair was in a messy knot, strands falling around my face like wilting ivy. My camisole slipped slightly off one shoulder. My collarbone still bore faint marks.

I stared at them.

Fingerprints. Ghosts. A bruise, nearly gone, but enough to whisper;

Killian was here.

And he had given me the best sex of my life.

"I'm losing my mind," I said aloud.

The studio said nothing back.

I slid down to the floor, knees drawn to my chest, arms wrapped around them. I sat still, like maybe if I didn't move, I wouldn't fall apart.

I thought about how easy it had been to give in to him. How natural.

Like my body had always known him.

Like every lie in my life had led me to that moment-breathless, begging, morals gone.

A knock at the door.

I flinched.

Not Killian. Not Victor. Just a maid, probably. Sent to remind me I was expected. That I had to play the part again.

Victor must've called the estate when I didn't answer.

I stood slowly.

I grabbed a charcoal pencil. Sat back at the canvas.

And I began to sketch.

Not a rose. Not a Wolfe. Not a wedding dress.

A woman.

Naked. Broken. Half-turned. Her face lost in shadow.

And behind her, just the outline of a man.

Only his hands were drawn in detail. One on her hip. The other on her throat.

Not choking.

Not hurting.

Claiming.

By the time the maid knocked again, more insistent this time, my fingers were black with charcoal. But my breathing was steady.

The door creaked open.

"Miss Lancaster?" the maid said softly. "The driver is downstairs."

"I'm not going."

A pause.

"Shall I inform Mr. Victor?"

"No," I said, still staring at the sketch. "Tell him I had a headache. Tell him... something."

The maid left quietly.

I turned back to the woman I'd drawn.

She didn't know who she was yet.

But she would.

She would.