An Unwelcome Guest.
1064 Words
(Sapphire’s POV)
His kiss still burned on my lips long after he pulled away.
I stood there, breathless, trapped between the wall and his body, my chest rising and falling against his. He didn’t move, didn’t soften, just kept me caged with those piercing gray eyes that saw far too much.
That saw more than I wanted him to see.
This husband of mine.
“You can’t keep doing that, Mr Blackwood.” I whispered as I brought my hands to my trembling lips, though my voice shook more than I wanted it to.
His jaw flexed. “And you can’t keep testing me, Mrs Blackwood.”
I shoved lightly at his chest, but it was like pushing against stone. “I am not your property, Damian. You don’t own me.”
The corners of his mouth lifted, though there was nothing amused about it. “You keep saying that, but you forget that you’re mine in every way possible.”
My heart gave a traitorous jerk at those words. It annoyed me. How dare he make me feel this heat, this spark, when all we were supposed to be was an arrangement?
I finally pushed past him and stormed into the living room, my heels clicking against the marble floor. “You’re impossible.”
“The sooner you get used to it, the better for you.” he muttered, following me with that infuriating calm stride.
I spun around, glaring. I have had enough.
“Why do you even care if I talk to Luke? He is my friend.”
Something sharp flickered in his eyes. “Friends don’t look at you like that.”
I froze. Luke? No, he couldn’t. I almost laughed at him. Luke was the one person I knew who would never look at me sexually.
“Don’t try to deny it.” Damian’s voice hardened. “You laughed with him today in ways you’ve never laughed with me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
For a moment, his raw honesty left me speechless. Then I found my voice. “You’re jealous.” It came out as a whisper.
He didn’t even try to deny it. He stepped closer, the air between us thickening with heat. “Damn straight I am.” He growled lowly.
The words slammed into me, knocking the air out of my lungs. Jealous. Damian Blackwood, the cold billionaire who never let anyone close, was jealous over me. Because of me.
I almost laughed out loud. Almost.
I hated how much that admission thrilled me.
“I can’t do this with you right now,” I said, turning away before he could see my flushed cheeks. “I need air.”
Before he could stop me, I retreated into my studio—the one place in this penthouse that felt like mine. The canvases lined the walls, brushes scattered across the table, the faint smell of paint clinging to the air.
Since the wedding, my entire collection had been transferred to the house.
I knew that he was aware of the fact that I was an artist, but I doubt he had seen my work. Or was even interested.
Oh well.
I grabbed a brush, dipped it in dark crimson, and dragged it across the canvas. The strokes came frantic, messy, as if my hands were painting what my heart couldn’t say out loud.
When I stepped back hours later, my breath caught.
The painting was of a man. Damian. His figure shadowed, his face half-hidden, but his eyes. Those gray, burning, relentless eyes stared out at me from the canvas. And around him? Chains. Chains I hadn’t consciously painted, binding his wrists, his throat, his chest.
I staggered back, my hands trembling. Why had I painted that?
A knock startled me, but before I could answer, the door opened. Damian stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the painting.
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered deep in his eyes when they met mine.
“You see too much,” he finally spoke.
It was soft. Very unusual.
I clutched the brush like a weapon. “Maybe you’re the one who hides too much.” I said, swallowing hard.
He came closer, slow and deliberate, until I could smell his cologne, sharp and dark like him. “If you want to survive in this world, Sapphire, you’ll have to learn when not to dig too deep.”
My throat went dry. “And if I already have?”
His eyes darkened, the chains on the canvas seeming to burn between us. “Then you better be ready for what you’ll find.”
And then, before I could ask what he meant, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and his jaw clenched.
“What is it, is something wrong?” I asked, fully unnerved by the way his whole body went rigid.
His gaze cut to me, sharp and unreadable. “Your father.”
My blood ran cold. “What about him?”
Hopefully he was dead.
Damian’s lips pressed into a hard line. “He’s here. Downstairs.”
I swallowed yet again. This time in rage.
So he wasn’t dead. Sad.
I took a minute to prepare myself.
What had he come here to do? To gloat over his success?
He got his wish. I was married to the man he wanted me to get married to. What more did he want?
“I can see your thoughts as they run all over your face, blue eyes.” Damian said, bringing me back to the present.
I sigh and looked up at him.
He walked closer.
“You, dear wife, should know how to keep your emotions away from your face. Don’t let people see what you feel at a particular moment.” He lectured.
Subconsciously, I nodded. He was right.
He was right.
Wait…
“Blue eyes?” I asked him.
My husband simply rolled his eyes.
“Isn’t your name coined from the color of your eyes?” He asked back.
“A question for a question, I see.” I smiled genuinely for the first time in a long time.
He grunted.
“Your father. Downstairs, remember?”
Oh, that. I breathed in deeply.
I can do this.
“Let’s get this over with.”
- Writer
