Chapter 6: Between Shadows and Firelight
I was jolted awake by the sharp rapping of knuckles on my door. Blinking through the haze of sleep, I tried to gather my senses, but the persistent knock came again, harder this time.
"Liv! Get up!" a voice hissed from the other side.
Groggy and disoriented, I sat up, clutching the blanket to my chest. "What is it?" I mumbled.
The door creaked open just enough for Claire, one of the other maids, to stick her head through. She didn't bother with niceties, her face pinched with annoyance and urgency. "Mr. Carlisle requested you. You're to meet him in his study. Immediately."
Her words cut through the remnants of sleep, leaving me wide awake in an instant. Dominick wants to see me? Now? My heart gave a strange flutter, excitement and dread twisting together in equal measure.
"W-what for?" I stammered, already throwing my legs over the edge of the bed.
Claire rolled her eyes. "How would I know? But you better not keep him waiting." She gestured toward a small package on the foot of my bed. "He sent that for you to wear."
I frowned, a nervous knot forming in my stomach. "What is it?"
Claire gave me a knowing look, smirking. "Why don't you open it and find out?" With that, she disappeared down the hall, the sound of her footsteps fading quickly.
I glanced at the package warily, the soft brown paper and neatly tied twine feeling far too ominous for something so small. Slowly, I unwrapped it, and the fabric inside slid out into my hands, smooth and slippery.
A bathrobe. Not just any bathrobe—silky, barely-there, the color of champagne, shimmering faintly in the dim light of my room.
I felt my cheeks heat immediately. This can't be serious.
For a moment, I considered ignoring the request entirely. I could throw on something sensible—a maid's uniform, even—and pretend I hadn't seen the robe. Surely Dominick wouldn't care… would he?
But something told me that wasn't an option. He wasn't the kind of man you ignored. And if I disobeyed, there would be consequences—ones I wasn't ready to face.
Swallowing my nerves, I slipped out of my nightgown and into the robe, the cool fabric gliding against my skin. It was scandalously light, more suggestion than clothing, and left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. Tying the sash tightly around my waist, I took a deep breath.
I could do this. I had to do this.
With shaking hands, I smoothed my hair and padded down the quiet, darkened hallways toward his study. Every step felt like an eternity, my heart thudding in my chest with an unsettling mixture of anticipation and fear.
When I reached the heavy wooden door, I hesitated, pressing my palm flat against the cold surface. I could hear the soft crackle of a fire from inside, and my nerves twisted tighter. Steeling myself, I turned the handle and slipped inside.
The room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows across the walls. The scent of wood smoke mingled with something richer—oil paint. I froze just inside the doorway, my breath catching at the sight before me.
Dominick stood with his back to me, tall and broad, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands smeared with streaks of paint. An easel stood in front of him, the canvas half-covered in strokes of deep reds and golds, mirroring the plush velvet couch positioned near the fire.
He didn't turn when I entered, didn't even glance my way. His voice was low, calm. "Take off the robe. Lie on the couch."
I blinked, sure I had misheard him. "W-what?"
His head tilted slightly to the side, though he still didn't look at me. "I don't like repeating myself."
My mouth went dry. "What… what exactly is this?"
"Art," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Nothing more."
I stood rooted to the spot, heart hammering in my chest. Every rational part of me screamed to turn around and leave, but there was something magnetic in the way he commanded the room, in the easy authority of his voice.
"It's just a pose," he said, his tone softening slightly, though there was still an edge to it. "I need a real model, Liv. Nothing perverse about it."
The way he said my name—like it was something personal, something his—made my skin prickle. I knew this was reckless, knew I should be questioning his motives, but I couldn't bring myself to refuse.
With shaky hands, I loosened the knot at my waist and let the robe slip off my shoulders. The cool air hit my skin, and I bit my lip to keep from shivering as I laid myself down on the velvet couch, folding my limbs as gracefully as I could manage.
The room was silent except for the soft crackling of the fire and the quiet scrape of his brush against the canvas. I could feel his eyes on me—not constantly, but in glances, quick and intense. Each time he looked up from his work, it was like a current of electricity zipping through my skin.
Minutes passed—maybe hours; it was impossible to tell. Then, without breaking his rhythm, Dominick's voice drifted through the quiet.
"Would you like some music?"
"Yes," I whispered, desperate for anything to cut through the tension.
He nodded, setting down his brush for a moment. Moving to an antique record player in the corner, he pulled a vinyl from its sleeve with careful hands and set the needle.
The familiar strains of "Hotel California" filled the room, the haunting melody threading through the firelight and shadows. My heart clenched with bittersweet nostalgia.
"The Eagles," I murmured, a smile tugging at my lips. "I used to listen to this with my dad. It was his favorite band."
Dominick's gaze flicked to me briefly, something unreadable passing across his face. "Is that so?"
I nodded, letting the memory wash over me—car rides with the windows down, my dad tapping the steering wheel in time with the music. It felt like a lifetime ago.
"You've got good taste," he said quietly, the hint of approval in his voice catching me off guard.
Encouraged by his softened demeanor, I dared to ask, "Do you listen to them often?"
He shrugged, returning to his canvas. "From time to time."
I watched him work, mesmerized by the fluidity of his movements, the way he seemed so at ease in this moment. "Do you paint a lot?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "When I have the time."
The quiet exchange felt strange but comforting, like a secret shared in the dead of night. For once, he didn't seem cold or distant. There was something almost kind in his voice—something I hadn't expected.
I shifted slightly on the couch, testing the limits of the fragile connection between us. "What are you painting?"
He glanced up from the canvas, his blue eyes meeting mine for a brief, charged moment. "You."
The word was simple, but it hit me like a tidal wave.
The fire crackled softly, the music filling the spaces between us. And for the first time since I'd arrived at Carlisle House, I felt… seen.
The silence stretched again, but this time it was different—warmer, heavier with unspoken things. I didn't know where this night would lead, or what it would mean.
But in that moment, under Dominick's gaze and the glow of the firelight, I didn't care.