God of Malice (Legacy of Gods #1)(9)

I’m…a painter, too. I guess. A sketcher and a dabbler in contemporary impressionism. I’m just not as defined as my siblings.

And definitely not as technical or talented.

Still, the only place I want to be right now is the small nook in my art studio.

My hand feels cold and stiff as I open the door and step inside. The automatic lights illuminate the blank canvas lining the walls.

Mum often asks where I hide my paintings, but she never pushes me to show them, even though they’re just in the closet on the far wall where no one can find them.

I’m not ready to let anyone see that part of me.

This part of me.

Because I can feel the darkness shimmering under the surface. That suffocating urge to let it consume me, eat me from the inside out and just purge everything.

My fingers tremble as I pick up the can of black paint and splash it on the biggest canvas available. It smudges all the others, but I pay it no attention as I grab another can and another until it’s all black.

Then I get my palette, my red colors, my palette knives, and my large brushes. I don’t think about it as I create bold strokes of red, then I kill the red with the black. I even use the ladder, sliding it from one end to the other to reach the highest point on the canvas.

I go at it for what seems like ten minutes when it’s actually a lot longer. By the time I step down from the ladder and slide it away, I think I’ll collapse.

Or dissolve.

Or maybe I could just go back to that cliff and let the lethal waves finish the job.

I’m panting, my heart pounding in my ears, and my eyes are about to bleed the same red on the painting I just finished.

This can’t be.

This…just can’t be.

Why the hell would I paint this…this symphony of violence?

I can almost feel that raw touch on my heated skin. I can feel his breath over me, his control, and how he took it from me in return. I can see him in front of me with those dead eyes, tall like the devil and with the same imposing presence, his way of taking everything from me.

I can almost hear his mocking voice and his effortless manner of speech.

I can even smell him—something woodsy and raw that causes my air to get stuck at the back of my throat.

My fingers slide to my neck to where he touched me—no, choked me—when a zap slashes through my body and I drop my hand, startled.

What the hell am I doing?

What happened earlier was obscure, disturbing, and absolutely not something I should paint with these raw details.

I’ve never even drawn anything this big before.

Wrapping my arms around my middle, I’m about to hunch over from the assaulting pain.

Shit.

I think I’m going to throw up.

“Wow.”

The low word coming from behind me startles me and I flinch as I turn my head to face my brother.

The more approachable of the twins—thankfully.

Brandon stands near the door, wearing khaki shorts and a white shirt. His hair, a realistic imitation of dark chocolate, flies in all directions, as if he just rolled out of bed and landed in my studio.

He throws a finger in the general direction of my horror-esque canvas. “You did that?”

“No. I mean, yeah…maybe. I don’t know. I certainly wasn’t in my right mind.”

“Isn’t that the state of mind all artists strive for?” His eyes soften. They’re so blue, so light, so passionate, like Dad’s. So troubled, too.

Ever since he developed that strong aversion to eyes, Brandon hasn’t been the same.

It takes him a few steps to reach my side and wrap an arm around my shoulder. My brother is about four years older than me and it shows in every contour of his face. In every sure step he takes.

In every calculated move.

Bran has always been orange to me—warm, deep, and one of my favorite colors.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, silently eyeing the painting. I don’t dare to look at it or how he studies it.

I almost don’t dare to breathe as his hand lies nonchalantly on my shoulder like whenever we need each other’s company.

Bran and I have always been a team against the tyrant Lan.

“It’s…absolutely fantastic, Glyn.”

I stare at him from beneath my lashes. “Are you teasing me?”

“I wouldn’t do that about art. I didn’t know you were hiding this talent from us.”

I would rather call this a disaster, a manifestation of my fucked-up muse, than talent.

It can be anything but talent.

“Wait till Mum sees this. She’ll have a blast.”

“No.” I step away from him, the reassurances from earlier fading into terror. “I don’t want to show her… Please, Bran, not Mum.”

She’ll know.

She’ll see the violation in the bold strokes and the chaotic lines.

“Hey…” Bran pulls my shaking body into a hug. “It’s okay. If you don’t want Mum to see, I won’t tell her.”

“Thanks.” I bury my face in his chest, and I must dirty his clothes with all the oil paint, but I don’t release him.

Because for the first time since the ordeal, I can finally let go.

I feel safe from everything.

My own head included.

My fingers dig into my brother’s back and he holds me. Silently.