She woke up naked beneath a torn canvas.
It wasn't the one he sketched—it was an old one. A failed painting with slashes through the chest and eyes. Still, he had laid it over her like a blanket. Like a mark.
Liora sat up slowly. The studio was darker now, silent except for the ticking of an antique clock that didn't keep time. Her thighs were sore. Her lips, kissed raw. But her mind… was sharper than ever.
Heian stood by the window, smoking a clove cigarette, staring out into the city like he was watching a dream he didn't want to wake from.
"I had a dream," she said softly.
He turned, eyes meeting hers with an unreadable stillness.
"I know," he replied. "You whispered it while you slept."
"What did I say?"
He took a drag, exhaled smoke like a confession.
"'Even her death is me.'"
Her pulse flickered.
She didn't remember saying it. But hearing him repeat it made her thighs press together involuntarily.
He walked toward her, bare-chested, his pants hanging low on his hips. He reached out and brushed the stray strands of hair from her cheek. His fingers still smelled of charcoal and sweat.
"Do you mean it?" he asked, voice low.
"Yes," she breathed.
He crouched down, face inches from hers.
"Then let me taste that truth."
Without warning, he pushed her back onto the makeshift bed of canvases. His mouth found her breast, not with gentleness but with purpose. His teeth grazed her nipple. She moaned, hips lifting, seeking more.
His hand slid down—firm, slow, controlling. He parted her with two fingers, and her body welcomed him with a gasp.
"Say it again," he commanded, his fingers circling lazily.
"Even my death... is you."
"Louder."
"Even my death is YOU!"
She came undone under his touch.
And he didn't stop. Not after the first. Not after the second.
He needed to claim every moan, every quiver, every twitch of her inner walls as his.
Because this wasn't sex.
This was possession.
This was art.
—