Hale looks down at me in surprise, but he doesn’t try to stop me. None of Haven’s alphas would. They’ll only ever support me. That’s what family does.
The reporter grins at me, holding the microphone closer to my mouth, while the cameraman shifts a little closer. “The actions of the Bravonnian monarchy are nothing short of reprehensible. These new laws echo the darkest chapters of our past, policies we’ve moved past as society grows and changes. It’s deeply, deeply disappointing that, in this day and age, anyone would vote to strip so many citizens of their autonomy. I’ll admit, being rejected by the Ashbourne Pack hurt. But if being chosen meant living under a monarch who’d let this kind of regressive trash pass? Well… maybe they did me a favor after all.”
He blinks at me, as though he hadn’t expected me to have an actual, eloquent answer. Then he nods. “Thank you.”
I nod back, and move, intending to step around him, but he stays where he is. “Would you care to comment about the bonding ceremony between Isadora and the Ashbourne pack? The palace put out a press release announcing the date.”
The question lands like a punch, and I just barely manage to keep my feet under me. Hale’s dominance rises as he growls at the reporter, who takes a step back, but doesn’t scramble away like I’m sure my friend was hoping.
I swallow and keep my voice as neutral as I can. “I’m sure they’ll be very happy.” I nearly choke on the words and the reporter’s eyes light up like it’s the sound clip of the century. “I certainly hope they are.”
“Truly?” He asks, sounding for all the world like he doesn’t believe me.
“Truly.”
I glance up at Hale and he doesn’t need me to say anything before he’s ushering me away, hurrying me into the car and helping me into the front seat.
When he climbs behind the wheel, he just stares at me for a moment.
“What?”
A quick shake of his head as he starts the car, a hint of pride in his voice as he says, “That was just masterfully done, Ren. Even I believed you.”
“Well, I should think so,” I say, leaning my head against the window, watching the world pass me by. “It was the truth.”
Later, when I’m tucked in my nest, surrounded by familiar comfort, I drag my laptop to me and open a fresh browser window.
Taking a deep breath I search for Halcyon and blink at the number of paintings that come up. The artist, whoever they are, is prolific. Most of their paintings are bright swaths of color, with the impressions of bodies and movement rather than a solid form. The new series, however, is different, darker. The backgrounds are still movement and blur but they’re in greyscale. The only bit of color is from her. In the first painting of the series, she’s in the distance, sitting in a cross legged position, a moment of stillness in the swirl of black and grey around her.
She’s in focus… well more in focus than the rest of the painting, but still not fully solid. As the series progresses, she moves closer to the viewer, comes more solid, more in focus, even as the background stays the same. Blurred bodies and plants and chairs, pillows and hearts.
And as she gets closer, I realize Gabby was right. She does look like me.
A lot.
And what’s more she looks like she was painted by someone who… cherished her. Adored her. This doesn’t feel like someone who is a fan of the show. It feels like longing. It feels like… love.
But if that’s the case then the girl in the paintings isn’t me.
And for some reason, I find that heartbreaking.
I want to be the source of this admiration, this emotion, and realizing I’m not… well, that hits like a blow all over again.
I stare at the last two paintings in the series side by side. The first is the one from earlier, the woman in profile. In the second she’s gone entirely. The entire canvas is painted in grays and blacks and whites, and the silhouette of a different woman is in the center, blurry and colorless.
I don’t know how I can tell it’s a different woman from the first. But I can. It's something in the bearing. Or maybe because of the lack of color. Where the first woman was all warmth—peaches and pinks, a veritable sunrise of colors—this one is not.
It's heartbreaking, too. Like the artist is saying that with the absence of the woman, the color has been sucked out of their life. Dull. Gray. Lifeless.
Tears prick my eyes, my finger brushes over the painting on my screen.
My heart aches right along with the artist’s.
Episode 7: The Curse of Knowing
Grieves
Blood splatters the mat around me, accompanied by the cracking of my nose. Pain thunders through my face and I grin through it. My opponent, an alpha named Rodrigo who I’ve sparred with too many times to count, widens his eyes in surprise at the macabre blood covered smile.