moments ago already forgotten. "You deserve it. For putting up with me while I was in a foul mood this whole time. And you can always come up here and paint. The light is great because of the skylights."
I agree with her. I step toward the blank canvas. I've always loved them—just bare, blank whiteness stretching over the easel. The desire to paint fuels me, rushing through my veins and filling me with the need to express myself. I haven't felt this way in a long fucking time, and with a start, I realize I've missed it. I've been so preoccupied with Kade and our stepsister, I've totally neglected my talent. It's a damn shame because I was really fucking getting somewhere with my art before Kade ruined everything.
"Are you going to paint?" June asks, barely able to hide the excitement in her voice. "I won't bother you, promise. I'll stay out of your hair." She squeezes my forearm with a soft smile playing on her lips. "I'm so glad you're getting back to it. You have so much talent, so much potential."
I smile in response, but my attention isn't on my stepsister anymore. Instead, it’s on the blank canvas before us. Wordlessly, I pick up a wooden palette and begin mixing colors. June lets me be, walking downstairs and leaving me in peace for the next few hours.
I paint without a goal in mind this time, and it's oddly fucking freeing. Art has always been a way for me to express myself. I started painting after Dad's first lesson in June's bedroom. I needed to get the pain, the emotions, out somehow. But Dad never gave a shit about my paintings. He would just grumble when someone mentioned them. Mostly, he did a good job keeping up pretenses, acting like I was still his son even though he'd told me plenty of times I was nothing but a fucking monster. But not when it came to my painting. He never supported it, but Rachel did.
June's mother was creative herself, and she loved watching me work. She told me I had the talent she'd spent decades wishing for. Even though she was artistic, Rachel couldn't paint or draw for the life of her. It made us form our own special little bond. And what did I get from that? It only hurt fucking more when we lost her, too.
I paint on the canvas in angry, sharp strokes. Color fills the surface, shades of black and purple and red bleeding into one another like a fresh, blooming bruise. I remember Dove then. June's little friend, whom I haven't heard a peep from, whom June hasn't mentioned once since I've been staying here. I imagine her, confined to her room, living with the shame of what she let me do to her. It makes my cock impossibly fucking hard, and inspiration pours from my fingers, painting the canvas in thick splashes of color.
It must be hours later when I finally step back to admire my work. It's a portrait. I didn't even realize I was drawing her until I took a step back. Dove looks beautiful. Hair is falling over her face, but the scar is still there, visible, exposed. She looks vulnerable. Pretty.
For once, I'm pleased with my work, and I clean my paintbrushes and palette in satisfied silence before joining June again downstairs.
She startles when she sees me—probably the haircut again. I don't know what possessed me to get my hair cut like Kade's. I don't want to look like him, but it does make it extra fucking easy to sneak up on June, scare her. And that makes my cock fucking throb.
I sit next to June on the white leather sofa, and she settles into the crook of my arm. I inhale her strawberry scent, wondering whether she knows the effect she has on the opposite sex. It's not just my twin and me. Every man June meets wants her, and I can fucking tell, because every time they look at her, the urge to hurt them awakens deep within me, demanding I hurt the offender. But I've been so good. Apart from the pretty memento I carved into her friend's cheek, I've done nothing to rouse June's suspicion to what I really am—a fucking monster, just like Dad used to say.
As my little sis settles against me and starts drifting off, I stare at the TV screen. But my mind is anywhere but on the show playing out