Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
The release hits hard, a white-hot wave that crashes through me, the pleasure so intense it buckles my knees. I brace against the tile, my legs unsteady, a guttural moan tearing from my throat, muffled by the pounding spray, but her name is a silent scream in my chest—Amelia, Oh Amelia, Oh my love. My heart is a wild drumbeat echoing her name. I switch off the shower and the sudden silence is deafening. I lean my forehead against the cool tile and listen to the sound of my labored breathing. My body is spent, but guilt is seeping into me, heavy and cold, like the water now trickling down my back.
Slowly, stiffly, like an old man, I move away and towel off. I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror; my eyes are dark, haunted by the harsh truth.
I’m in love with a woman I can never have.
Chapter
Twelve
AMELIA
The studio’s golden light has faded to a soft silver, moonlight streaming through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the bookshelves and the easel where I stand. My brush hovers over the canvas, a dragon’s emerald scales half-formed, their shimmer a challenge I’ve been wrestling with for hours. The air smells of turpentine and old leather. The familiar smell is a quiet comfort, but my heart is restless, a tangle of emotions I can’t unravel. I dip my brush into a blend of teal and gold and stroke carefully, but my focus wavers, drifting to Max—his gaze at lunch.
A soft creak at the door pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance over, startled.
Jason is standing at the doorway, his small frame silhouetted against the hallway’s dim glow. His dark curls are mussed, his gray eyes wide and curious, clutching a stuffed bear to his chest. He’s in pajamas, blue with little stars, and his bare feet shift nervously on the hardwood.
“Can I come in?” he asks, his voice small, almost a whisper.
I smile, set the brush down, and wipe my hands on a rag. “Of course, Jason. Come see.” I gesture to the canvas, and he pads forward, hesitant at first, then faster, his eyes locking on the dragon in wonder. His gaze is rapt, like he’s seeing a world unfold. He stops beside me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of soap on his skin.
“Is that… a real dragon?” he asks, his voice tinged with awe, his bear dangling forgotten at his side.
I laugh softly, kneeling to his level, my jeans brushing the rug. “No. There are no more dragons. Only stories about them. This one’s lost its wings, but it’s still fierce. Want to hear about it?”
He nods, his shyness completely gone. I pull over a stool, helping him climb onto it. “It’s about a dragon who fought a big battle,” I start, my voice low, weaving the tale I’ve been illustrating. “It lost one of its wings, so it can’t fly anymore, but it learns to use its heart to protect the forest.” Jason listens, his eyes never leaving the canvas, and I feel a warmth bloom in my chest, a connection sparking between us. He is a strangely timid boy, quieter than I’d expect for a boy of his age, but his fascination with my work is genuine, unguarded, and total.
“Can it still breathe fire like Deanerys’s dragon?” he asks, his voice bolder now, leaning closer to the painting.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, grinning. “Big, hot flames that light up the whole sky.” I mimic a whoosh with my hands, and he giggles, a sound so pure it catches me off guard. We talk about dragons and forests, and I show him my sketchbook and let him flip through my drawings. His small fingers trace a winged creature, and he asks if he can draw one someday. “Anytime you want,” I promise, and his smile is a gift, bright and real.
When his yawns grow frequent, I glance at the clock—well past his bedtime, surely.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” I say, standing.
Obediently, he takes my hand, his grip warm and trusting, and it warms my heart. This is Max’s son. He could easily have been mine if Dad had not lied.
His room is down the hall, a cozy space with navy walls, glowing stars on the ceiling, and a bed piled with superhero sheets and pillows. I tuck him in, the duvet soft under my fingers, and grab one of my books from his shelf—a story about a brave fox.
“Do you want me to read you this one?” I ask, picking up a book by his bedside.
He nods and curls up as I read. I keep my voice soft, so the words are a lullaby. His eyes droop, and soon he’s asleep, his bear tucked under his chin, his face peaceful.
I slip out, closing the door quietly, and return to my room, the moonlight glowing faintly into the room. I climb into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, but sleep won’t come. Max is in my head, his hug from earlier a brand on my body, his loosened tie, and tattooed forearm. Visions I can’t shake. I’m happy being here next to him and Jason, but damn, it’s still hard. The truth—that he’s not my brother—burns in my chest, but telling him now feels more impossible than ever before. Feels like a betrayal of Sara and Jason.