Wild & Wicked

Chapter 4

After their conversation, Mrs. Hawthorne escorted Arabelle to her room. It was large and lavish, with a canopied bed, an ornate vanity, and a window that overlooked the wild gardens below. Yet despite its beauty, the room felt impersonal, as if it belonged more to the house than to her.

She set her sketchbook on the desk and began to unpack, her mind still replaying her encounter with Lucian. He was unlike anyone she had ever met—sharp, enigmatic, and undeniably scarred, both physically and emotionally.

Curiosity tugged at her, but she pushed it aside. She was here to work, not to unravel the mysteries of her employer.

Later, she ventured downstairs to explore the manor. The halls were silent except for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. She passed through a dining room with a table long enough to seat twenty, a music room with a grand piano covered in dust, and a gallery filled with more of those haunting portraits.

When she reached the gardens, she paused. The air was crisp and cool, and the roses that climbed the stone walls seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight. She wandered through the maze of hedges and fountains, her sketchbook tucked under her arm.

It was there, among the roses, that she heard his voice.

“You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

She turned sharply to see Lucian standing a few feet away, his figure partially hidden in the shadows.

“No,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “Should I be?”

His lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Most people are. They just don’t admit it.”

Arabelle tilted her head, studying him. “Is that why you hide in it?”

For a moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped closer, the moonlight casting harsh lines on his scarred face.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “Or perhaps it’s the only place I feel at home.”

Arabelle’s grip on her sketchbook tightened. There was something in his voice—a weariness, a vulnerability—that caught her off guard.

“Why did you choose me for this commission?” she asked, the question escaping before she could stop herself.

Lucian’s gaze held hers. “Because you see the world differently. And I need someone who can see what others can’t.”

Her chest tightened at the weight of his words, but before she could respond, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving her alone among the roses.

That night, back in her room, Arabelle stared at the blank page of her sketchbook. Her hand hovered over the paper, hesitant, before finally moving. The lines she drew were sharp and angular, capturing the intensity of Lucian’s gaze, the harsh beauty of his scarred face.

When she finished, she stared at the sketch, her chest tightening with a mix of unease and fascination. Lucian Devereaux was a puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve. Yet, she couldn’t deny the pull he had on her, as if his secrets were tied to something deep within herself.

Setting the sketchbook aside, she climbed into bed, the flickering shadows on the walls lulling her into a restless sleep.

The next morning, Arabelle woke to the sound of faint knocks at her door. She groaned, her muscles still heavy from sleep, and sat up just as the door creaked open. Mrs. Hawthorne’s stern face appeared.

“Mr. Devereaux requests your presence in the study,” the housekeeper announced, her tone curt.

Arabelle rubbed her eyes. “When?”

“Now.”

Mrs. Hawthorne’s sharp delivery left no room for negotiation, and Arabelle quickly got dressed. She slipped on a loose sweater and jeans, refusing to dress for formality, and followed the housekeeper’s brisk pace through the labyrinthine halls of the manor.

The study was smaller than she had expected, though still richly furnished. Heavy wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound books that looked as though they hadn’t been touched in years. A large desk sat near the window, and behind it, Lucian waited, his broad shoulders tense and his scarred face partially obscured by the dappled light filtering through the curtains.

“Miss Leclerc,” he said, gesturing for her to sit in the chair across from him.

She hesitated before lowering herself into the plush seat, her hands resting uneasily in her lap.

“Good morning to you, too,” she said, her tone clipped.

Lucian’s lips twitched, a fleeting ghost of a smile. “I’ll spare you the pleasantries. I brought you here to discuss the commission.”

Arabelle leaned back, folding her arms. “I figured as much.”

He regarded her in silence for a moment, his dark eyes assessing. Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk toward her.

“This is the contract,” he said. “It outlines the terms of your work here.”

Arabelle reached for the paper, her eyes scanning the text. It was written in precise legal language, but the gist was clear. She was to paint a single portrait of Lucian—a full-body piece in oils—and would be compensated with a sum that made her jaw drop.

“This… this is a fortune,” she said, looking up at him in disbelief.

Lucian nodded once. “It’s the value I place on your talent and discretion.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Discretion?”

“The portrait will remain here in the estate,” he explained. “It’s not for public display, nor will it ever be.”

Arabelle frowned. “Then why commission it at all? What’s the point of paying this much for something no one will ever see?”

Lucian leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Let’s just say it’s a matter of… necessity. My reasons are my own.”

She held his gaze, searching for answers in the hard lines of his face, but his expression betrayed nothing.

“And the condition?” she asked, setting the contract down. “The part where I have to stay here?”

Lucian’s jaw tightened. “Yes. You’ll live at the estate for the duration of the project. I want no interruptions, no distractions. You’ll have access to the studio, the gardens, anything you need to complete the work. But you don’t leave until it’s done.”

Arabelle felt a chill run down her spine. The idea of staying in this isolated, shadowy mansion with its brooding owner was unsettling, to say the least.

“That’s… unusual,” she said cautiously.

Lucian’s expression didn’t waver. “Do you have any reason to distrust me?”

She hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t know him well enough to trust or distrust him. But there was something about him—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on—that made her uneasy.

“What if I say no?” she asked, her voice steady.

Lucian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then you’re free to leave. The choice is yours. But consider this: opportunities like this don’t come often. I’ve chosen you for a reason, Miss Leclerc. Don’t waste it.”

The weight of his words hung in the air. Arabelle stared at the contract, her mind racing. The money would save her gallery. It would buy her time to create without the constant pressure of looming bills. And yet…

“What happens if I don’t finish?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lucian’s gaze darkened. “You will finish. I have no doubt of that.”

Her chest tightened at the certainty in his voice, as if failure wasn’t an option. She picked up the contract again, her fingers trembling slightly.

“What if I want changes to the terms?” she asked, testing the waters.

Lucian arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“For one, I want to be able to contact my assistant, Sophie, while I’m here. No isolation.”

His lips curved into a faint smile, but it wasn’t entirely warm. “Reasonable. Anything else?”

She hesitated. “That’s all for now.”

Lucian nodded, and a flicker of satisfaction passed over his face. “Good. Then we’re agreed.”

Arabelle exhaled slowly and reached for the pen he offered her. Her hand hovered over the paper for a moment before she signed her name.