CHAPTER 73: THE PAINTING OF DOOM

André and Vivienne were still sitting in his study, both of them naked, bodies tangled with sweat and messy hair. The afternoon sun cut through the tall windows, illuminating piles of papers, ink pots, and books scattered across the dark wooden floor. The room smelled of ink, wood, and lingering sex, like an artist’s studio gone wrong. André’s hands traced along her bare skin with slow, deliberate movements, fingers teasing her without ever leaving her, making her muscles betray her brain. She felt like a violin and he was plucking every string until she made a sound she didn’t want to make.

Vivienne stared at him, her mind scrambling. Is he really okay? she thought. Why is he so quiet? Did I say something stupid? Oh gods, I am going to die in this man’s lap and he’ll probably laugh at me while I choke on my own stupidity. Her heart thudded like a drum in her ribs, echoing in her ears like war music. Every tiny brush of his fingers felt like a threat wrapped in a caress, like a knife dipped in honey. Her brain screamed at her to get up, run, bite him, do anything — but her body stayed exactly where it was, hot and trembling, stuck between rage and lust, like a cat trapped in a sunbeam with no escape.

The silence was unbearable, stretching between them like a living creature. It crawled up the walls and clung to the ceiling beams, heavy, sticky, almost audible. Vivienne’s stomach churned as every nerve in her body screamed for something to happen. She could hear her own breathing too loudly, and it felt like the sound of betrayal. He’s looking at me like I’m food, she thought. Not even food. A dessert. Something sticky and sweet that he can drag his fingers through and lick off slowly. Oh my god. She pictured herself on a silver platter like a cake. Finally, she broke the tension, voice soft and cautious, almost squeaky.

"Are you... okay? You’ve been quiet. Really quiet. Are you okay?"

André’s head tilted slightly, his lips curving into a slow, teasing smile. His eyes flickered with something unreadable — hunger, amusement, madness, maybe all at once. "Forgive me," he said in a soft, mock-serious voice. "I was too busy admiring you. You are so beautiful that I... forgot how to breathe."

Vivienne blinked at him. Forgot how to breathe? What kind of melodramatic line was that? Her face twitched but she tried to hide it behind a polite, neutral expression. Meanwhile, inside, she was screaming. This is my life now. Naked in a study with a man who speaks like a poetry book written by a demon. Her inner self was slamming its head on a wall.

He leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss behind her ear. Her body jerked involuntarily, knees trembling under her as she tried not to betray herself. This man is mad, she thought. I thought something was wrong with him. But it’s nothing. Nothing at all. He’s just completely fucking insane. God, I hate this demon. Her inner voice had started pacing, hands on its hips, like some tiny furious version of herself yelling at her real self: Get out, Vivienne. Run. Climb out the window. Do a backflip. Pretend to faint. Anything.

He smirked, clearly enjoying her inner chaos as much as his own. The curve of his mouth said I know exactly what you’re thinking, little thief, and that only made her skin prickle more.

"You really are beautiful, Vivienne," he said, and his tone shifted to something exaggeratedly corny, as though he were performing for an invisible audience. He dragged out her name like it was a song, like he was announcing her to a crowd.

Vivienne’s mind scrambled. What now? What now, you demonic prick? She forced a small, curious smile, outwardly playing innocent. "What?"

"You are more beautiful when you are bare," André continued, voice slow, almost reverent. "When your skin is flushed and wet, I could look at you all day. I wish you would never dress again." He leaned closer, whispering, "It turns me on."

Vivienne’s brain went completely black. What the fuck? she thought. He is insane. This man is fucking insane. You like me naked? Obviously, I am beautiful. But he sounds like he wishes he could paint me, spread me on canvas, and showcase me in the town square of Ravelle. God, why do I live in this nightmare?

Her mind started running wild: a mental picture of her standing in the middle of Ravelle’s market square, naked, while André in a velvet coat sold tickets to look at her. Come see my favorite toy, she wriggles if you poke her. She imagined a sign with her name on it: "Vivienne the Exotic Creature." She almost choked on her own laugh at the image.

She forced a laugh, trying to cover the tremor in her voice as her stomach churned. Laugh, Vivienne. Laugh and vomit internally. Everything is fine. Fine? Not fine at all. Holy hell, not fine. She laughed again, louder than she meant to, and it came out like a bark. "Ha—ha—ha..." she croaked, then cleared her throat, her cheeks burning.

André’s eyes glittered, watching her reaction closely. She must be annoyed. But she thinks I am joking. I am not. She is mine. Every part of her is mine, and she will remain mine until I break her completely. His mind was like a locked room full of knives.

He shifted slightly, dragging his knuckles down her spine like he was sketching on her with invisible ink. He wanted to see how far she could stretch before she snapped.

He kissed her neck again, softly this time, almost tenderly. Vivienne smiled in return, though she wanted to throw up. Smile, you fool. Smile while your entire body betrays you. You are alive, dying, terrified, disgusted, and... wait, am I enjoying this? God help me, do not let me be enjoying this. Her stomach flipped like a drunk acrobat. Her skin burned under his touch like a candle left too close to fire. She felt like she was in a dream she couldn’t wake from, a fever dream with velvet curtains and claws.