Page 38 of Pink Ink

My lips part as I absorb every half-finished piece of art. I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep myself from going through the stacks of discarded canvases, and unveiling his sculptures. The easel in the center of the room beckons me closer until I’m only a couple of feet away from Shaw’s current piece.

One thing crosses my mind:He’s back.

A faceless woman stands at the edge of a cliff, staring into the distance as a taper candle melts onto her hand. Six feathered seraphim wings are spread high and proud, but she holds herself like she’s exhausted, pained, as if she’d be swaying if the painting weren’t stilled in a performance that never ends.

We aren’t looking at her front on, but from a low angle and to the side, like we’re a devotee worshipping at her altar.

I don’t know how long I spend staring at the painting. Colors have been set down everywhere except her face, like he hasn’t quite decided how she’s meant to look. The sight of her already makes my heart ache.

It’s almost unrecognizable compared to what I’ve seen of his work. This woman was painted through the lens of a lover. It’s intimate.

“Quite the piece,” Maddox says, like the first time we met.

“It’s beautiful.” It comes out on a breath, and I mean it wholeheartedly.

“Your words mean nothing.”

Two steps forward and one step back.

Irritation flashes through me. I turn in time to catch the bitter amusement passing through his expression. “Great. I’ll say it again in a year’s time while holding my bachelor’s. Or would I need a doctorate to be considered qualified by your standards?”

Shaw shakes his head, frowning at his work. “I’d say the same thing if it were Rembrandt himself telling me. It’s incomplete and lifeless, far from any masterpiece.”

“Sometimes you have to trust the process.”

“I don’t trust anything.”

“That must be exhausting.”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “There’s no rest for the wicked. I’ll take a break when I’m dead.”

I roll my eyes. How dramatic. “Or you could rest now. Have a hard reset before you end up in an early grave—which probably sounds more like a holiday for you since you seem to love all things tortured.”

The full weight of his attention falls on me, holding me in place. The violent intensity in his eyes tells me that I’m barely scratching the surface of that truth. As fucked-up as that is, it excites me.

“And you?” Maddox raises a brow. “Following a serial killer? Poetizing murder for the screen? You have an affinity for the morose.”

“I find peace in the dark and the macabre.”

“That’s awfully grotesque of you, Miss Sinaga.” A slow half smile pulls at his lips, and mine curls to match. My pulse hammers at the same time a swarm of wingless butterflies flitter through my stomach.

My cheeks heat, but I can’t bring myself to look away from him. I’ve never seen a genuine smile on him before. I wish I had my cameraon me so I could capture the moment and set it in stone the only way I know how.

In another life, I think we could be friends. There’s too much difference in this one.

And he’s an arrogant bastard.

My eyes catch the images stuck onto the wallpaper behind him, and a boulder lodges in my throat. At least six annotated printouts of Maria van Oosterwyck’s paintings, as well as countless other pieces of art done by women in the same era.

He listened to my opinion. He listened even though he thought I was wrong.

“And?” Maddox asks. At my questioning look, he gestures at his painting. “Penny for your thoughts.”

I suck in a sharp breath. My skin feels too heavy for my body. The warmth unfurling in my stomach makes it hard to think clearly. Maddox Shaw is asking for my opinion. Hewantsit. Even after everything he said.

My throat bobs. There are a thousand different things I could say. If I call him remarkable, he won’t believe me. If I say it’s lackluster, I’d be lying.

“Why is she faceless?”