Chapter Nineteen: The Girl In The Painting

Arielle smiled as she watched Nathan walk out of the store, his hands casually shoved into his pockets, his blond hair tousled from the night breeze.

With Myra away for the night, she could finally say yes to his invitation.

She knew she shouldn't.

She knew falling for Nathan Aphelion was dangerous—he was a vampire, and she was only half-demon. There was no future in this, only heartache waiting at the end of the road.

But right now?

She didn't care.

Nathan reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers as they walked down the quiet street. She didn't pull away. His touch was warm, comforting—like something she could get used to.

"Did you like the movie?" he asked, glancing at her.

Arielle nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "It was good… though I still think the ending sucked."

Nathan laughed. "I knew you'd say that. You hate open endings."

She hummed in agreement, tightening her grip on his hand. For a moment, everything felt normal—just a girl and a boy, walking under the streetlights, talking about movies.

But normal was an illusion.

Because as Nathan stopped walking and turned to face her, she felt it—the shift in the air, the way his golden-brown eyes darkened as they locked onto hers.

"Arielle…" His voice was softer now, more serious.

Her heart pounded.

"You're kind. You're sweet. You're…" He hesitated, taking a deep breath before his fingers brushed against her cheek.

Arielle stopped breathing.

No.

This wasn't happening.

He couldn't say it.

She wouldn't let him say it.

"I lo—"

"Stop it!" she interrupted, stepping back.

Nathan froze, confusion flickering in his gaze. "Arielle?"

"I am not your mate, Nathan," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. "This… whatever this is, it's not real."

His brows furrowed. "Why would you say that?"

"Because I know what happens next." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look away. "You're a vampire. You're going to find your mate one day, and when you do… none of this will matter."

His jaw clenched. "You think that's all I care about?"

She didn't answer.

Because it didn't matter what he said.

It didn't matter what he thought he felt.

This was just an illusion—a dream she shouldn't be chasing.

Arielle turned to leave—

But before she could take another step, Nathan grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

And then—

His lips crashed onto hers.

For a moment, she forgot to think. Forgot to breathe. Forgot why this was a mistake.

All she knew was the warmth of his hands on her waist, the way he held her like she was something fragile—something he didn't want to break.

And for that one stolen moment, she let herself pretend.

---

Myra sighed as she stepped out of the car, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

King had sent his driver to pick her up, but she still wasn't sure why she agreed to this.

She found him in the kitchen, which was unexpected.

King Lust—the billionaire, the infamous heartthrob—was wearing a damn apron and a hairnet, swaying his hips to a J-pop song as he mixed batter.

Myra blinked.

She had no idea whether to laugh or be disturbed.

She lingered at the doorway for a while, watching as he worked, completely lost in his own world.

He didn't even notice her until she was already halfway through eating the leftover apple pie she found in the fridge.

"Myra," he nearly jumped out of his skin, yanking off his apron like she'd caught him committing a crime. "When the hell did you get here?"

"Fifteen minutes ago."

She swore she saw the tips of his ears turn red.

"What are you making?" she asked, popping another bite of pie into her mouth.

"Chocolate chip cookies."

Myra's eyes lit up.

"Can I help?" she asked, sounding more excited than she intended.

King raised a brow. "Do you even know how to bake?"

She hesitated. "I've seen my mom do it a thousand times."

He snickered. "That's not the same thing."

Myra ignored him, grabbing a bag of flour and grinning like she knew what she was doing.

"What exactly are you planning to do with that?" he asked, amused.

"Add it to the mix, obviously."

King reached for the bag, shaking his head. "Let me do it before you—"

She yanked it away.

He pulled it back.

They both tugged harder.

And then—

The bag exploded.

White powder flew everywhere, coating them both from head to toe.

Myra froze, eyes wide.

King blinked through the cloud of flour.

And then—

She started laughing.

Really laughing.

Not a chuckle. Not a smirk. An actual, full-bellied laugh.

King stood there, stunned.

He had never heard her laugh like this before.

Before he could even think, he pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures.

"Look at us," Myra gasped between laughs, shaking her head. "We look ridiculous."

King grinned, tossing the phone onto the counter. "You should laugh more often," he said, stepping closer. "You look even more beautiful when you do."

She stopped laughing.

Her cheeks turned pink.

Damn him.

"Thanks," she mumbled, suddenly very interested in cleaning up the mess.

---

Myra couldn't sleep.

She had come here to steal Vladimir's necklace, but now she found herself standing in the old music room, staring at something she wasn't meant to see.

Paintings.

So many paintings of her.

Some were realistic—capturing her reading in the garden, staring at the moon. Others were different.

There was one that caught her eye.

A woman who looked like her but wasn't her.

She had brown hair with violet streaks, golden-brown eyes, cold and ruthless, and a presence that was strong, commanding—regal in a way Myra had never seen herself.

Who was she?

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

She whipped around, heart racing.

King stood in the doorway, shirtless, water dripping from his damp blond hair.

"You scared the hell out of me," she snapped.

He smirked. "I painted that four years ago."

Myra frowned. "That's impossible."

"I know it sounds ridiculous, four years ago I had no idea who you were" He stepped closer, his blue eyes gleaming. "I saw her in my dreams, Myra." In his dreams, seriously? Was she supposed to believe that?! She looked at the painting again, nah this wasn't her. The woman in this painting was much prettier, and obviously strong.

Then—

Her gaze landed on a different painting. A version of her, lying on red velvet sheets, barely covered.Her body exposed. Her lips parted.

Blood rushed to her face.

"You painted this?" she hissed, glaring at him. Damn pervert!

King's smirk deepened. Obviously he was proud of what he had done.

"You're my muse, Myra." He stepped forward to observe her reaction, then he chuckled, "Don't worry Myra, I am a decent guy" she rolled her eyes, yeah cause decent people drew half naked girls.

She needed to get out of here.

"Goodnight, King," she muttered, turning quickly.

As she walked away, she could still feel his eyes on her.