Page 36 of His to Haunt

“How should I sit?” I ask from the sofa when I return.

“Lay on your side.”

I do as I’m told, stretching out over the velvety fabric with my legs stacked, resting my head on my elbow.

He glances at me from his easel. “Other side.”

I flip, repeating the staging of my body.

“Lay your head down. Arms relaxed.”

Right. I forgot that he likes them dead.

I lower my hands to my chest, resting my face on the sofa’s arm. I open my mouth, sticking my tongue out to the side stupidly.

“No, Leena,” he laughs—an actual laugh, tickled, amused, as if a human is buried in all that white, chiseled stone.

“Chin up. Top-down,” he orders, composure restored, like he’s done this a million times before.

Heated nervousness flushes through me as I quickly slip my arms from my dress, pulling down to my waist before putting my arms back into place—lace-covered boobs on full display.

He looks at me, analyzes me momentarily, then continues his work. His professionalism does make this less awkward, at least.

“Did you…paint Rachel?”

He looks up from his work briefly.

“Yes, of course.”

“What about the painting of her in the red dress?”

“Mm. Yes.”

“And that one,” I say, pointing to the row of canvas at the back of the room.

He looks at it, lost in thought for a moment, then nods, saying nothing.

“You two were close?”

He sighs. “Hold still.”

I’m unsure if it’s the topic or if he likes to work quietly, but I decide to drop it for now. I have other questions.

“Why do you paint them dead, Zand?”

This question seems to amuse him, a hint of a smile edging his mouth. “Not all. Close your eyes, Leena.”

“Mostly.”

“Perhaps I like to paint what I can’t have. Peace, beauty, finality.”

I consider this, trying to understand his perspective, that he is lacking these qualities in his life. So, the man is unsettled, then.

“But why so much blood?”

“Mm. I don’t only paint what I desire. I also paint what I know. There is no escaping the blood of my past. I used to try to run from it…but I learned to embrace it. Now close your eyes.”

His words ring like a dark riddle, which must have something to do with the old Byron family trade. Is this how Rachel felt? Was there no escaping the blood of being a mortician’s daughter?