"Paint me a heaven of love with your bloodied mouth"

Arabella Karve I pull my pale knees closer to my chest, wrapping my arms already immersed in goosebumps closer around them. The cold seems to deepen with each passing day, another day crossed off the calendar means another hour lost of light, the sun being weighed down by the chill in the atmosphere.

The fall breeze slips through the opened window, pushing my dark hair back from my face with gentle hands. It feels as though the wind doesn't care for the way I hide behind it, brushing the strands away as if it wants to see me—truly see me—scars and all.

The bay window is one of the few slivers of peace found in this fractured world, a small corner that belongs to me where I can hide away from the life that I try so hard to pretend isn't mine. It's tucked quietly away in one of the abandoned hallways of the Karve Manor, on the second floor, a place forgotten by time. The rooms beside it have remained untouched, their only visitor a thin layer of dust in the passing years.

But the real reason I have fallen so in love with this window is because of the way it overlooks the entire garden, stretching out below like a living tapestry. From here, I can pretend that I am a part of it once more, that I belong to the colors of the dying flowers and the twisting of the vines, the soft rustle of fallen leaves in the breeze—without ever having to step foot into that piece of my past.

I lean my head back against the brick wall adjacent to me, taking a deep breath of the fresh air saying hello. I exhale after a second, the air becoming a white cloud of smoke from the cold around me.

I feel weird about what happened with Eros the other day. When I snapped at him because of the frame, when all he was being... nice, as much as it pains me to say. On top of that, I don't know if I can ever bring myself to look him in the eyes again, knowing he very possibly saw me cry. And honestly, that's as pathetic as it gets.

At least he listened to me when I told him to leave, because by the time I got out of the shower he was gone. I worry about what I might have done if he had still been there.

The only reason I didn't chalk up what happened to some sort of hallucination was the glass that was cleaned up off the floor and the missing picture of me and Tara that I dropped in my frantic run to the bathroom.

I am thankful I have a copy of it on my phone, or else I would be even more livid than I already am, knowing that he threw out the last photo I have with my best friend.

He had no right to touch my belongings, let alone decide what is worth keeping and what isn't. I know that I could easily print another copy of that picture, but it's not about that. It's about the fact that he thinks he has the right to treat my property like it's nothing. He doesn't get to make decisions like that. It feels like an invasion, like he crossed a line that I didn't even know existed until now.

Suddenly, I don't feel so bad for snapping at the bastard.

"Arabella!" My name echoes down the hallway, pulling me back to my unfortunate reality of an old man charging towards me, scowling.

"Lovely to see you, too, Denix." My mouth curls into a deliberate smile, something that could be considered sweet if it wasn't for the sarcasm ringing in my words.

A frown spreads across his small, wrinkled face. "I have been looking for you everywhere young lady." He scolds, waving a frail finger that reminds me of all of the private tutors that taught me throughout my younger years.

I raise an eyebrow, looking less than amused as he tries to catch his breath in front of me. I don't bother to respond, waiting for him to get to the point.

"The one time you leave that pigsty of yours," he mumbles to himself, pulling up the sleeve of his sweater to see the watch wrapped around his wrist.

"Is there a point to this visit, or are you just here to shame my room some more?"

His eyes widen at whatever time he sees, looking like there might be a ticking bomb somewhere that is about to go off any second. "Yes! How is it you manage to forget everything?!"

"I never manage to forget how much I do enjoy these little exchanges of ours." I say, deadpan.

"We talked about this a week ago!" His honey-colored eyes are rounded with disbelief, lifting the bushy eyebrows higher up on his forehead. "The Aquilino's gala starts in an hour! Your father will throw both of us out on the streets if you aren't there on time!"

Oh shit, we did talk about this a week ago.

Julius Aquilino. The second in command to my fathers regime and one of his most trusted confidants. He has been a constant presence in my life for as long as I can remember, his role demanding that he and father operate in close quarters, navigating the many intricate layers of the mafia together.

Denix had warned me that Mr. Aquilino was hosting a gala at his estate tonight, gathering all of the major families involved in the organization. Between auctions, fundraising, and other forms of illicit dealings these families have their hands in, the event is more than just a friendly gathering—it is a lion's den. And my father just so happens to be the ringleader.

"Well then, I suppose I better go get ready." I play it cool, deciding to act like just the notion of how I'm going to spend my night isn't making me sick to my stomach. I awkwardly slide off of the bay window, still dressed in my pajama pants and hoodie from a couple days ago.

I have barely moved in days, except for the two times earlier this week when I managed to complete some online schoolwork for one of my college classes. Normally, I would attend in person so that I can at least get out of the house for a couple hours a week and see new faces, but lately, I've been even more exhausted than usual. My bones felt too heavy to move and my heart felt like it barely had enough energy to continue beating—I didn't have enough strength to get out of bed either day.

Sleep is rare for me anymore, food is getting more and more unappetizing by the day, and the reason I keep giving myself to continue trying is quickly beginning to drown in the emptiness I can't seem to shake.

There has been no point in changing.

"You have half an hour, Arabella!" The hoarse voice yells behind me. "Make yourself look presentable for once!"

I wave over my back, hoping his own words blow back and smack him across the face.

Mumbling threats under my breath—to no one in particular—I slip into an elegant black evening gown that's gone untouched for months, its fabric whispering of forgotten nights. The flowing skirt, crafted of dark chiffon layers, cascades gracefully to the floor, trailing just a few inches behind me with every step. The tight bodice tightly hugs my form, its off-the-shoulder neckline accentuating the soft curve of my collarbone.

I slide on a pair of silk, black gloves that reach just above my elbows, the dark material contrasting against the crystal choker resting against the column of my throat.

In a vain attempt to revive the life back in my pale skin, I frame my eyes in storms of black, the dark shadow settling into a sultry gaze. I paint my cracked lips in a crimson red, and beneath a mask of porcelain foundation, I blur every imperfection, as if hiding the surface could bury what lingers underneath.

I bury the scar beneath layers and layers of makeup, each stroke an attempt to erase both its present and the past it carries.

It's better, but if you look close enough, you can still see the faintest trace of the jagged mark carved permanently into my skin.

Running my fingers through my loosely curled hair, I grab my long overcoat from off of the bed and prepare myself to play the perfect part as the Karve daughter.

I reluctantly descend the set of stairs branching into the foyer, draping my coat over my arm. The golden railing guides my hand down the steps I take into the bright room, still never quite able to shake the need to admire it, despite seeing it nearly everyday. Between the gold pillars stretching like silent sentinels along the walls, and the diamond chandelier casting a warm glow across every object, it still manages to steal my breath, no matter how familiar its beauty has become.

But this time, it's not the golden pillars or the diamond chandelier that capture my attention, leaving me breathless.

This time, it's the dark figure effortlessly leaning against the piano in the corner, every shadow in the room clinging to him like he belongs to the night itself—or maybe the night belongs to him.

Eros is dressed in an all-black outfit, consisting of dark slacks molded perfectly to his frame, and a black dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the top of his sternum. He looks beautiful in a way that feels almost unreal, a presence that seems to bend the air around him and make it too thin for everyone else to inhale a full breath of air.

He looks like a God. A God with olive skin, and dark tattoos, and a silent promise of something dangerous—something irresistible.

A God whose alter I would gladly burn to the ground in return for my own salvation.

"You asshole." A pointed glare settles across my features the moment I stand in front of him, craning my neck up to reach his eyes.

He cocks an eyebrow the second I open my mouth, his eyes leaving a trail of fire as they travel down my body, and then back up to my scowling face. "Nice dress, princess."

I roll my eyes, "Don't 'nice dress' me. Where the hell is my picture?"

He shrugs while studying me intensely, even though he looks distracted and like he could care less about what I am saying.

I grind my teeth together at his reaction, "don't touch my shit next time."

"Believe it or not," he pushes off the piano, taking a step closer to me. I stand my ground with a glare, even as he drops his head a little, as if he was telling me a secret that only I am allowed to hear. "I don't play by your rules." His voice lowers a little, those cold eyes framed by thick lashes, looking down at me.

"You are pushing your luck, Eros Vandare." I stab my pointer finger into his chest, narrowing my dark eyes up at him. He looks the opposite of intimidated.

Goddamnit, he looks like he is enjoying this.

Heat radiates off of him, igniting small sparks across my skin like fallen embers.

I go to pull my hand away, but before I even have the chance to register what's happening, his large hand is wrapped around my wrist, tugging my entire body forward. I almost crash into his solid chest, losing my footing before I balance myself with a curse.

The speed of his movements are unnerving—too smooth, too effortless, as if he always has already anticipated every move anyone around him could make. My pulse pounds beneath his touch, my lips curling as I fight against his steel grip.

"I'll take my chances. " He says calmly, his grip not enough to hurt—but enough to show who has the power between the two of us.

"Rot in hell," I bite out every word.

"Don't worry, when the time comes I'll be right there beside you." His eyes clash with mine like fire and ice each threatening to be the end of one another. He suddenly lets go.

I tug my wrist away from him and back up, trying to fight the urge to take off my heel and shove it somewhere that will really hurt.

"You are infuriating." I scoff angrily, turning on my heel and storming out of the foyer. I need to get away from him and that obnoxious face.

The door falls shut behind me, opening just a heartbeat later with a set of footsteps following closely behind. A black suv is parked right outside, and I send a quick thanks to God that Mr. Failor is already here.

The thought of waiting outside in the cold with the man who irritates me more than anyone else is enough to make me shudder. The idea of being stuck in that kind of company right now sounds like my own personal purgatory.

I—less than gracefully—pull open the car door, slipping into the backseat as quickly as I can. I gather my dress in my hand, slamming the door shut behind me the moment I am settled on the leather seat. My fingers fumble as I flip the lock, just in time for Eros to reach the door.

He stares blankly at me through the window, taking a deep breath. I wouldn't be surprised if he rips the door straight off the hinges at this point.

"Open the door." His deep voice is muffled from outside the car, yet his words are so perfectly clear. Along with the irritation in them.

I point to my ear, tilting my head in confusion.

"Arabella."

"What?" I mouth, carefully enunciating the word to piss him off.

Before I can continue taunting him any more, the click of the doors automatically unlocking distracts me. I snap my head towards the front seat, Mr. Failor flashing me a sheepish smile through the rearview mirror.

"What the hell?"

"I apologize, Ms. Karve, but I am under strict orders that you are never to go anywhere without being escorted by your bodyguard."

"Traitor." I murmur under my breath, Eros pulling open the door.

I crawl to the other side of the back seat, my knee getting caught on my dress and almost sending my tumbling straight over the edge. A deep sound pulls my attention to Eros's side of the car—the sound more of an exhale than a chuckle, but still a sound that seemed like a faint sign of amusement.

"I'm sorry, do you have something to say?" I bite out while settling in my seat. He merely watches as I calmly flatten out my dress, as if I didn't just do one of the least attractive things a woman could possibly do.

"No," he turns his head away from me, but I don't miss the small tug of his lips.

I roll my eyes, turning to look out my own window.

The car hums to life a second later and pulls off of the curb, the engine becoming the only sound filling the thick air.

I am silent for the entire drive, watching the passing trees that became nothing more than a golden and auburn blur, the car speeding past them without a second glance. My thoughts are just as fleeting as the trees passing by, a tangled blur of branches and roots moving by too fast to be anything more than chaos.

I don't have social anxiety, but walking into a gala where every guest carries a weapon concealed beneath layers of silk and tailored suits—where pleasantries are just another form of deception and the air is thick with unspoken threats—is more than intimidating. It's stepping onto a battlefield disguised in gold and crystal and too bright of lipstick, where violence is the only moral and no one questions the weight of a gun resting against a rival's ribs.

There are very few people born into this world who still have a sliver of humanity, who remember what it's like to be gentle, to trust—to love.

And I am afraid sometimes that I am not one of them.

The car slows as it approaches a gravel road, the tires crunching against the coarse surface. Ahead, a set or ornate iron gates are pushed open invitingly, almost swallowed by the thick trees that border them. They stand tall, their twisting filigree weaving intricate patterns under the rapidly fading light.

The air feels heavy as we drive down the road filled with expensive cars parked along the sides, even more expensive people all travelling up the road towards the estate waiting just beyond the bend.

I inhale sharply, my gaze sweeping across the grounds unfolding in front of me.

Ahead, the home rises from the landscape, its presence almost unworldly. A circular driveway wraps around a stone fountain in the center, the water flowing in graceful layers. Hidden lights illuminate the extent of the property, from the far off distance to the opulent garden, spreading for what looks like miles—all the way to the fountain with the cast of light shimmering on the water's reflection.

The manor itself is nothing less than magnificent. The architecture is like nothing I have ever seen before—rich with gold accents that catch your eye from every angle. The walls are all built with a honey-colored stone, looking like it must have been here for centuries, guarding every family who has enough money to flaunt an entire castle as the place they go to rest each night.

A wide staircase frames the entrance, ivy crawling up the trellises and along each wall. Pillars support the main entrance, entrapping the arched doors of heavy oak, carved with history and family crests.

Bright colored dresses and dark colored suits are everywhere, feline smiles and careful pleasantries adorning the property.

Everything here feels carefully curated, as if the entire structure was built to impress, to awe, to flaunt. There is something haunting about its perfection, not one brick or vine out of place.

There is no room for anything less than perfect here, and I suddenly feel like a thorn pushing my way through the many layers of a rose, a flaw in a scene without any.

"Ms. Karve, we have arrived." Mr. Failors soft voice pulls my eyes away from the window, doing nothing to ease the daunting pounding in my ears.

The car slows to a stop in front of the imposing staircase, my heart along with it.

Heads turn, smiles slip, eyes widen.

And I want nothing more than to go home.

꧁꧂