Chapter 6

The calm, methodical way she prepared was the most unnerving thing Dominic had ever witnessed.

Hazel directed him like a surgeon' s assistant. She had him set up her favorite easel by the window, the afternoon light spilling across the pristine white canvas. She asked for her smallest sable brushes and a porcelain bowl to be placed beside it.

Her movements were slow, weakened by her stay in bed, but they were filled with a chilling purpose. She was treating this grotesque request like any other art project.

Finally, everything was ready. She sat on the edge of the bed, the canvas within arm' s reach, and held out her wrist again.

"I' m ready," she said.

Dominic stood frozen, the silver scalpel feeling like a block of ice in his hand. Every instinct screamed at him to throw it away, to beg for her forgiveness, to end this madness. But her cold, challenging eyes held him captive. And the ghost of Julia' s lost child weighed on his conscience.

He took a shaky breath, knelt by the bed, and pressed the tip of the blade to her skin.

It was the softest skin he had ever touched. He felt the faint, steady pulse beneath it. His heart hammered against his ribs. He couldn' t do it.

"Do it," she whispered, her voice devoid of fear.

He closed his eyes and pressed down.

A thin line of red appeared on her wrist. It welled up, forming a perfect, crimson droplet that slid down her skin and fell into the white porcelain bowl.

Another followed. And another.

Dominic' s hands were shaking so hard he had to pull away, a strangled sound escaping his throat.

Hazel didn' t even look at the cut. She picked up the bowl, her expression one of intense concentration. She dipped her finest brush into her own blood and touched it to the canvas.

The first stroke was a deep, sorrowful red.

She worked in silence, her movements fluid and practiced. The only sounds were the soft swish of the brush and the faint, rhythmic drip of blood from her wrist into the bowl. The room began to fill with the coppery scent of it.

Dominic watched, horrified and mesmerized. The painting began to take shape. It wasn' t an abstract swirl of grief. It was a face. A baby' s face, sleeping peacefully. But its eyes were closed too tightly, its lips tinged with blue. It was an image of beautiful, tragic death.

As she worked, the color drained from her face. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on her forehead. Her hand, the one holding the brush, began to tremble. But she didn' t stop.

The cut on her wrist continued to weep blood. The bowl was halfway full.

"Hazel, that' s enough," Dominic finally choked out, his voice hoarse. "Please. Stop."

She ignored him. Her focus was absolute. She was pouring all her pain, all her betrayal, all her shattered love onto that canvas. The painting was breathtakingly beautiful and monstrously sad.

Finally, she laid down the brush. The last stroke was complete. Her hand fell to her side, limp.

She looked at the finished work, a bitter smile twisting her lips.

"Here," she said, her voice a faint, airy whisper. "A blessing for your child. A testament to your love."

Then, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she crumpled forward, collapsing off the edge of the bed.

Dominic lunged, catching her just before she hit the floor. Her body was limp and terrifyingly light in his arms.

He looked from her ashen face to the bloody painting, and the full weight of what he had done crashed down on him. This wasn't atonement. This was torture. He had taken her greatest gift, her passion for art, and twisted it into an instrument of cruelty. He had drained the life from her, literally.

"Medic!" he roared, his voice cracking with panic and self-loathing. "Get a doctor in here now!"

He held her close, her head lolling against his shoulder. She was so cold.

Her lips moved, and he leaned in to hear her faint whisper.

"It' s over, Dominic."

He tried to soothe her, to tell her she' d be okay, that he was sorry, so profoundly sorry. "No, Hazel, don' t say that. I' m here."

With a last, monumental effort, she lifted her head. Her eyes were unfocused, but they found his. She pushed the bloody painting towards him with a weak, trembling hand.

"Take it," she whispered. "And may you and Julia enjoy your future together. May you both rot in hell."

Her arm fell away. Her head dropped back against his chest.

Dominic' s eyes fell to her wrist. The cut was still sluggishly oozing blood, staining the white sheets of her bed.

A primal fear, cold and sharp, seized him. He looked at her still face, her closed eyes, the faint blue tint to her lips. The image burned itself into his mind.