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“Get out of our suite.”
Grinning, Maxwell took a long hit of his joint, pulled out a lighter, and headed over to my mouse. “Keep these.”
With her free hand, she took the joint from him.
Maxwell set the lighter on the easel and walked off. “I’m going to bed. Whatever voodoo shit happened tonight and whatever Cartel shit is going to happen tomorrow, I want to be fresh to death and well-slept.”
I sipped my tea.
Maxwell left.
Emily continued painting, her brush strokes growing bolder as she worked on detailing the large building. The structure had an imposing aura that seemed reminiscent of something historical, perhaps even biblical.
Is it the Tower of Babel?
I almost asked as I placed the tea on the tray.
But then, she left the building alone, dipped her brush in brown paint, went to the corner of the painting, and began tracing the image of a little girl.
What are you painting?
I couldn’t wait for her to speak because I had so many questions.
What happened with Delphine’s healing? And how did you figure out that there are more personalities?
Still, a sense of tranquility washed over me as I watched her.
Emily’s focus was absolute, each stroke of her brush deliberate and filled with an emotion she couldn’t voice but could vividly express on canvas.
The room was silent, save for the soft swish of her brush and the occasional distant murmur from the bustling city of New Orleans below our window. This serene bubble we found ourselves in felt miles away from the chaos and danger that awaited outside.
There was something mesmerizing about watching her create, watching her bring to life something beautiful from a palette of colors.
This was another reason why I had fallen in love with her long ago in New York. She’d created these breathtaking lions that seemed to jump out from the canvas.
I smiled.
A killer and an artist wrapped into a sexy body.
My eyes followed her movements, admiring the graceful way her hands moved with precision and care. The tension that had been my constant companion began to ebb away, replaced by a warm sense of pride and affection for the woman before me.
Emily, my mouse, had faced so much, yet here she was, resilient and strong, pouring her spirit into a canvas that could hold it.
Tension left my shoulders.
The soft lighting of the room, the gentle hush of the night, and the rhythmic sound of Emily’s painting lulled me into a state of contented drowsiness.
My eyelids grew heavy, the weight of sleep pulling them down despite my desire to stay awake and watch her.
No. Stay up. I want to see what she finishes with.
I fought against the tide of sleep, wanting to be present for her, to share in this moment of peaceful creation, but the comfort of the room and the late hour conspired against me.
Before I knew it, my efforts to remain vigilant gave way to the comforting embrace of sleep.
I will just rest my eyes.
Slumped on the couch, I drifted off, the image of Emily painting the last thing I saw.
