Chapter 23
Aaliyah
After the tailor had taken my measurements, I left the room and found Tristan in the hallway. He was staring at me with those wild eyes, as if he was about to devour me. He didn't say anything as he walked toward me.
"Come with me," he said.
He took my hand, leading me down the hallway to the last room. Then he opened the door, gesturing for me to go in.
Stepping inside, my breath caught in my throat. The room was large, with high ceilings and chandeliers hanging overhead. The walls were lined with art—paintings of ancient Lycans, battles between Vampires and Lycans, and portraits of Tristan's family. The centerpiece was a painting of Hayley, dressed in a long historical ball gown. Her hair was curled.
"When was this?" I asked, pointing at the painting.
"That was in the 18th century, during a ball."
"She looks so much younger here."
"Hayley inherited my mother's beauty," he said with a smile.
My eyes fell on another painting, and they widened. My cheeks flushed as I stared at it, unable to look away. It depicted a woman lying in bed with another man.
He stepped closer, a smirk on his face. "Surprised, little mouse?"
I turned to him. "Why did you bring me here?"
"To paint you."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Sit there," he said, leading me to a couch against the wall. I sat down, and he smiled.
"It would be nice to have your painting hung on this wall," he said.
After arranging his painting tools, he stood at the other end of the room, occasionally glancing at me. I shifted uncomfortably, my heart racing with nervousness.
"Why do you seem so surprised?" he asked, his eyes sweeping over me, lingering on my face before returning to the canvas.
"I've never been painted by anyone before," I said.
He chuckled, dipping his brush in paint. "Once we're married, you'll grow tired of me painting you all the time."
"There was a man I killed many years ago. He was a werewolf guard who fell in love with Hayley."
"You killed her lover?"
"It was taboo back then for a guard—especially a werewolf—to fall in love with a Lycan. My father ordered his execution."
Now I understood where Tristan inherited his traits. His father was evil, cunning, and ruthless.
"Hayley cried herself to exhaustion when she found out about his death, so I decided to paint him for her," he said.
I furrowed my brows. "You painted him?"
"Out of pity. I couldn't bear to see Hayley cry."
"Where's the painting now?" I asked.
"With Hayley. She's kept it ever since I gave it to her as a gift," he said.
I swallowed hard, feeling a cold chill run down my spine. I always felt uneasy when he spoke of death.
"Your father," I said. "It seems like you took after him."
He frowned, gripping the brush tightly. "I am nothing like my father."
"You hate him for killing your mother, but you also know that—"
"Quiet!" he yelled.
I gasped, shrinking into the couch.
"Be still," he ordered.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "It's just... after my mother's death, I can't stand hearing anything about him. I am nothing like my father."
I said nothing, trying to stay calm. I didn't want him to think I was afraid of him; that might make him snap.
The next twenty minutes passed in silence. I was growing bored as I sat there, and eventually, my eyelids fluttered shut, and I drifted into sleep.
When I woke up, I sat up on the couch, feeling a cramp in my waist and legs. I had been sitting for too long. How long had I been asleep?
I looked around and saw the gallery was empty. Where was Tristan?
My eyes landed on the canvas at the other end of the room, and I stood up. He had captured a small part of my face in the canvas. A small smile appeared on my lips as I gazed at it. Looking around for Tristan, I noticed something I hadn't seen when I first entered the room. Hung on the wall were paintings of beautiful women.
The first woman was tall, with pale skin and blonde hair. She wore a long corset gown and had a soft, innocent smile.
The next painting depicted a woman with darker skin and short curls, sitting in an armchair with a black cat on her lap. The third was of a pale-skinned woman with long ginger hair and green eyes, like Hayley's, making her even more striking. All the women were beautiful, but they were different from the other paintings.
Despite the smiles on their faces, I noticed a hint of sadness in their eyes. Who were these women?
Hearing the door creak, I turned to find Tristan walking toward me.
"Little mouse?"
"Who are these women?" I asked.
His expression turned serious. "They're from my head."
"They look so real and beautiful," I said, stepping closer. "But something is off about them. Their eyes are filled with sadness. Why did you choose to paint them like that?"
"Like I said, they're from my head. I envisioned them this way."
I was about to ask another question when he held my chin. "You ask too many questions. Lunch is ready."