Page 42 of The Tyranny of our Longing

She gasped as his lips broke from hers, his hand pushing into the tangle of her locks, his teeth grazing over her jaw and down her throat. His body drove her deeper into the hard surface behind her, and with frenzied fingers, she freed him of his jacket, then moved down to the tight space between them, fighting the buttons of his trousers.

With a growl that was barely human, Nathaniel tore into the neckline of her nightdress, her fevered skin connecting with the cool surface behind her. Her head fell back as her body arched into his, the tatters of her gown slipping from her shoulders, the shimmering fabric falling away to pool at his feet.

There was a moment of stillness as his ragged sigh met her chest, his fingers digging into the stiffened flesh of her thigh. Then he raised his head, breathing heavily, as if waiting for her approval.

Phaedra opened her eyes, her fraying voice ready to consent, to urge, to beg, but froze as she saw the look on his face.

His eyes burned like dark jewels in the half-light, the heat of the moment still aflame in his cheeks, but the way he searched her face spoke not of barely restrained desire but of bewilderment. And a held-back fear on the point of breaking.

“What is it?” she choked out, her voice cracking on the words, her heart hammering against his palm. The rush of blood was loud in her ears, and she had a sudden sense of dread climbing up her spine, as if something was very, very wrong.

And then she saw it, the burst of color coming to life in the periphery of her vision, pulling at her gaze with a force that could not be denied.

She barely noticed as she was carefully lowered to the ground, her hand pulling the ruins of her nightgown closed over her body, her feet moving mechanically toward the mantel and the wooden panel framed above it.

Toward the painting she did not remember finishing.

The painting she had yet to start.

CHAPTER 33

Phaedra stared up at the painting, a feeling so close to madness hovering over her that she dared not move. Thoughts buzzed around her like an angry swarm, ready to strike, to push her under into the swamp of hysteria waiting at her feet.

What was this? What was happening?

Her eyes moved over the two figures depicted in wax, a young woman and an older man sitting at a piano, their backs turned. The woman played, her hands poised nimbly over the keys, while the man had one of his hands around her waist, the other accompanying her song. Yet despite the apparent congruence of their joint endeavor, their postures told another story—a glaring difference in their states of mind.

There was a sense of oblivious joy radiating from the woman, a freedom celebrated as if she had never known it before. The man, on the other hand, felt different. There was a silent tension in the lines of his body, his grip on her too tight, his fingers rigid as if he would be holding himself back, almost to the point of pain. And over it all, draped across the edges of the frame in frills and waves of unearthly color, the green dress shone radiant, affixed to the woman’s form.

Phaedra shook her head, unable to form words.

When had she done this? Why could she not remember?

Because it was her work, of that she was certain. She recognized the colors she had mixed, the layers and patterns in the wax that were so uniquely hers, and yet…

She felt Nathaniel step to her side, and she turned to him with a desperate hope that he could somehow make sense of what was happening, but he continued to move, halted only by the table before the fireplace. His head swung slowly from left to right, as if he would take in the entirety of the wall inch by inch, and when her gaze finally followed his, she understood why.

The painting above the mantel was not the only new addition. Flanked on each side, two other pieces hung on the wall, the three usurping the places of the portraits that had been relocated to the ballroom.

“What is this?” Nathaniel asked, his own incredulity lacing his voice. “When did you paint these?”

He turned to her, the expression on his face a kaleidoscope of so many things she never wished to see there. Confusion, uncertainty, suspicion. Distrust.

But her words were lost to her own jumbled mind, because what could she say? How could she explain when she herself could not understand?

He turned away to brace himself on the table, as if it would pain him to continue looking at her, and the notion tore into her more than the fear shuddering to life in her bones.

She watched the tense lines of his shoulders as he hung his head, his palms pushing against the tabletop before him. But only when his fingers jerked, his hands balling into white-knuckled fists, did she see the fading light catch on the strips of tattered green strewn across the surface in front of him. The remnants of the fabric she had used for the dresses.

But before she could put together what this meant, to determine a timeline of how—if at all—this could have happened, he spoke, his tone colder than the chill in the room. “Did you take the journal?”

Phaedra blinked, the accusation like a slap across her face, harsh and sobering.

“No!” she cried. “How could you even think—” Yet her words sputtered even before she could finish the question, because if what he was implying was true, that these new paintings had indeed depicted the entries she was yet to hear, this was the only explanation. Or, at the very least, the only sane one.

She swallowed, flecks of light swimming in her vision. “I did not take it.”

“Then how?” He whirled toward her, his hands flying out to gesture to the panels, the irritation in his always collected voice making her flinch. There was a ferocity in his eyes that did not belong, twisting his features into forms they were not meant to take.