Fated (Fate of Love Book 1) Read online

  His hand no longer holds mine. I want the feel of his skin against mine. The comfort he brought me when my world was swirling in a high.

  “I can’t.” I let out a shaky breath. “The last time I painted...I don’t want to paint that again.”

  “You won’t.” He picks up a brush and runs the clean bristles over his fingers. “Please?”

  I shake my head.

  “Please, Zarah. I need you to.” He holds out the brush.

  An invitation for me to pay him back for all he’s done for me. This is what I do. Painting should be simple.

  I pull in a long breath—one that makes me not care if he’s real or not because him being here feels good. I latch onto that feeling as my breathing slows.

  Instead of mulling over all the reasons that letting myself fall into another project could be a bad idea, I reach for a clean canvas.

  XIII

  Cassius

  Zarah stares blankly at the canvas, her eyes shifting to me every few seconds and back to the creamy textured surface. The orange lights bath her in a glow that only accentuates the sadness in the curve of her mouth and the subtle pull near her eyes. She brings her thick hair over her shoulder and braids it expertly, tying it off with an elastic band. A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. It’s the fourth time she’s braided her hair. She’s stalling. Zarah pulls the band and the braid falls loose again.

  < - - - >

  “We’ve been in here a long time, Venia. I think the sun is up.” I lean forward to see the tiny strip of orange light that creeps in under the closet door then shift my eyes to her. She is furiously spinning her hair shaking her head.

  “Just a little longer. I’m still shaking.”

  I lean back against the wall, settling in because a little longer doesn’t mean anything specific coming from her. I don’t ever leave until she falls asleep. She says it makes her feel less crazy to think that I’m a dream, and I can’t risk her realizing that I’m real. Not after everything I’ve told her.

  She doesn’t stop twirling and twisting her hair to the point that it sets me on edge. I reach for her, but don’t make contact, only hover. “Hey,” I say to stop her. “Can I?” I gesture to her hand and she nods. I take her hand, pulling her fingers away. She looks at me with big eyes. “Come here.” I say again and pull her to me wrapping my arms around her shoulders. She doesn’t stop me and slouches into my chest. “What’s wrong?”

  She trembles and I pull her tighter to me, wrapping her up in not only my arms but my heart.

  “I’m scared,” she hiccups.

  “Of your dad?” I ask and she shakes her head against my chest. “Then what?”

  She leans back and immediately clutches at her hair, spinning a braid. She catches my eyes in the dimly lit little closet and her tortured expression freezes me against the wall. Slowly turning me to stone. Figuratively and literally.

  “Of me. Of this. Of what I see when I close my eyes. Of not being able to tell what’s real anymore.”

  Her wide eyes haunt me and I know what she’s really saying.

  She’s afraid of me.

  She’s afraid of what I represent to her.

  < - - - >

  Zarah’s still afraid of me—it shows in the occasional wary looks, and the way she hovers, curious but wary. She still thinks I’m proof that she’s crazy. I want to tell her the truth, but I need her to be unsure of what or who I am for a little longer. I need her to show me how she sees my world. To show me how much of it she knows.

  “Do you paint telepathically?” I ask after she stares at the canvas some more. She doesn’t look at me, or acknowledge my attempt at lightening the thick humid tension that chokes me. She hushes me and closes her eyes.

  Shadows pass across her face and she reaches out her hand to let it hover above the brushes. The whole room goes still and I have to look behind me to make sure I’m here. That this is actually happening. Her chest expands with each breath and I’m mesmerized by the dip in her collarbone and the smooth curve of her neck. She stretches her hand out farther, moving from the brushes and grabs a small graphite stick. Her eyes snap open, unfocused. She moves at the canvas like she’s going to attack it but makes a few broad light lines. Some smaller strokes later she sets down the graphite and pulls a little cart of paints close to her. She doesn’t look at me, or even seem like she is aware of my presence.

  She crosses her arms for a minute, her eyebrows pulled low, then she uncrosses them and puts her hands on her hips. Her chest rises and falls as her head tilts from side to side. I wish I could be part of her at this moment. I wish I could see what she was seeing. Feel what she’s feeling.

  There’s still pieces of fear in her eyes, but she begins mixing paint. There’s a pile of thick reddish grey mixed on the palette and she snatches up a thick wide brush. Carefully she dips the bristles into a can of water and then it’s like something snaps. She shifts from careful, calculated movements to wide gestures and fast strokes. She scoops paint and slams it to the canvas, her motion erratic. Her limbs a blur as she goes back and forth from the water to the paint to the canvas and back again.

  I’m awed by her as her hair flies out around her shoulders, her lips press together in a firm line of pure concentration and her eyes are narrowed in.

  She moves like this until the canvas is a mess of color, the background roughed in and ready to work on the details of the subject, which is a figure with something on either side of it. She stops suddenly and steps backward into me, so close that I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo. She sucks in a slow breath and I find myself copying her, still unable to take my gaze off her. Unable to step away. She sets down her brush, lowers her chin toward her chest and reaches for her hair.

  She runs her fingertips run across the back of her neck, gathering the stray strands of hair, and I notice that tiny spot under her ear pulsing with each beat of her heart. There’s a tiny splash of red paint along her jaw. I can’t stop my gaze from running along her skin like her fingertips did a moment ago. The soft scent of cinnamon draws me to her and I want my lips on her neck to see if I can taste it. My fingers on her hips.

  A sudden need for her slams into me so fast and so hard I have to make a noticeable effort to stay still. To not step forward and kiss the hollow spot by her collar bone. To not run my own fingers through her hair to feel the warmth of her skin against mine.

  I swallow hard, suppressing the ridiculous idea, and force myself to look back to the canvas. It’s not like I haven’t run my hands through her hair, or touched her face or neck, but I’ve never wanted to do it more than I do now. Not only to comfort her, but for me. Of all the women that have captured my attention over the last 200 years, I've never wanted to cross the line I want to cross right now.

  Fear claws at my mind, dragging out memories. Reminders of what happened last time I crossed the line. Lena. With a sharp breath I step away.

  “You okay?” she asks, and I look anywhere but at her beautiful face. I nod and she frowns looking from me to the canvas.

  “I don’t think I know your real name, by the way,” she continues but I’m back to being distracted. She needs to stop touching her neck like that.

  “Hmm?” I mumble and shove my hands in my pockets.

  “Your name, Monet. You never told me it.”

  “Oh. It’s, uh, Cassius.”

  She smiles, her shoulders relaxing a little, which doesn’t help me at all. She picks up a small round brush and waves it at me. “How regal.”

  Her sarcasm makes me feel more comfortable. It lessens this one sided sexual tension that momentarily consumed me.

  “You can just call me Cy.” As soon as I say it her shoulders tense and her head snaps toward me. She studies me hard and a few times opens her mouth to say something but stops herself.

  “What?” I ask once she’s facing the canvas again and slowly swirling her brush through the water. She looks over her shoulder and shrugs.

  “Nothing. It’s not i
mportant. Shush, if you want me to finish this tonight.” She attempts to smile as she turns on a fan angled at her canvas. But when her attention goes back to her paints, something shifts in her. She’s not looking at me the same as she did five minutes ago. Thirty seconds ago even.

  I don’t ask about the change and pace back and forth behind her as she paints unsuccessfully trying to shake this sudden desire for her that’s consuming me from the inside out. Her movements are addictive. I want to watch her paint forever. I barely glance at the canvas.

  The number of expressions she can make on the face that I know well but until now have never really looked at is astounding. Maybe she’s not looking at me any different, but I’m seeing her as something more than I did before. I notice the way she moves her mouth when she talks. How she rests the rounded wooden end of the paintbrush under her full bottom lip when she pauses to think. How her eyeliner is perfectly straight, like only a painter could manage.

  I notice her shoulders and the curve in her waist where her t-shirt meets her torn jeans. The way she taps her foot and shifts her weight from hip to hip. Being next to her makes me want to throw any set of rules out the window. The longer I look at her the deeper that feeling gets.

  Desire is the exact opposite of what I should feel for her.

  But the harder I try to stop the need to touch her, the deeper the need digs into my soul.

  Time to sit and focus on anything but her.

  < - - - >

  “Almost done,” she says after hours of painting, and I spring to my feet from my spot on her couch. When I reach her she’s yawning and stretching her neck from side to side. I try to reply, but when I see what she painted my mouth stays open and nothing but air comes out.

  The painting is Serissa and two Hellhounds on long silver chains. She’s looking over her shoulder but walking away. The long wet pavement has a puddle with a reflection in it. The reflection is me. The pavement is the alleyway where I met Serissa earlier.

  Zarah painted my memory. A memory she shouldn’t know, because I’ve never mentioned Serissa. Not now, not in the closet, not ever.

  Zarah’s face washes over with worry as she looks between her painting and me.

  “What is it, Cassius?” she asks, her voice wavering.

  I can’t stop myself from stepping up to her. “Can I touch you?”

  Her nod is slight.

  I cup her face in my hands, lean down and look into her eyes, not knowing what I expect to find there. I don't even care that my body is beginning to turn to stone. I need to see what's in her mind. How she knows what’s in mine.

  “How do you see these things?” I mutter, not really to her because I’m aware of what she thinks already. She steps away from me, breaking eye contact.

  “Because I make them up. I told you that. Because you are part of my imagination. So is she.” Zarah points to me, then the painting of Serissa, then finally to the wall where all her paintings are spread out. “So are they. This is all in my head, Cassius.” Her words sound broken.

  She lets her brush clatter to the floor, paint splattering up her jeans and on her shoes. She turns and walks to the small open kitchen, then ducks behind a divider to what I guess is her bedroom.

  “Zarah,” I say.

  “Don’t. I can’t do this. Just go, Cassius. I’m done. Please, just go.” Her voice trembles worse.

  “Ven–” I start and she cuts me off.

  “I asked you once, in my closet, If I asked you to leave would you? You said yes. I’m asking you to leave now.”

  She's never spoken to me like this before. She is getting stronger. But she’s going to need a lot more strength than this, because scanning all the paintings along the wall, there’s no way this is the last I’ll see of her.

  With or without me, her fate extends far beyond the mortal world.

  < - - - >

  Once Zarah's loft is dark and silent, I place all her paintings back against the wall. I know she’ll wake up and wonder if our night really happened. And that's what I count on. She's been through so much I want to keep her out of my world for just a little while more. I lock the door that has no stairs to it. I have to get away from her, especially now that the pull seems to be stronger than just wanting to help.

  I need distance—at least until I come up with a plan.

  Scanning the room one last time brings my attention to this new painting, the one of Serissa. I sigh deeply like I haven't slept in days. I grab the painting before slipping out of the loft.

  I know what I have to do. Something I avoid at all costs.

  I have to talk to my mother.

  < - - - >

  Mother sits in front of me, stunning but no more maternal than the last time I spoke with her. Her hand rests on the arm of a gold and white chaise lounge in the middle of her massive marble home and her fingers tap on the flawless white fabric. Huge pillars shoot up into the air on either side of her but the over sized extravagance of her home doesn’t make her look smaller in the least. If anyone can fill a room with presence, it’s my mother.

  “Cassius, to what do I owe the visit?” she asks, her voice smooth and kind.

  “I need to ask you some questions, Mother. But I need straight answers,” I say and she narrows her golden eyes at me. She gestures to the chair across from her with a wave of her hand and I sit. I roll my shoulders trying to gather up all the bouncing thoughts and she frowns.

  “Well I can’t exactly give you straight answers if you won’t give me straight questions, son.”

  I breathe out slowly. It always bothers me how much my mother intimidates me, so I scrounge all the courage I have and start talking. “What would Serissa stand to gain by having me as a partner? And what would make her come back now? Right before I’m to gain my full god status back?”

  My mother purses her lips for only a moment before they stretch into a smile.

  “Serissa has a great many plans, my dear, but they all come down to power. To know how she gains from you, you can look at what you stand to lose.” Her riddle makes my leg shake. I knew I wouldn’t get a straight answer. I hang my head in frustration before looking back at her. I’m not going to win this. I never do.

  “What do you know about the Unfated? I saw three of them together. Why would they be hunting a mortal?” Maybe a change of subject will help.

  “The Unfated are driven by a desire that neither you or I can understand, Cassius. They have no purpose. No fate. Therefore they want all. They want everything and nothing. They are neither here, nor there. They belong nowhere. That is an unsettling thing to think about. But for them to work together is unusual. An outside force must be controlling them. Promising them something that they would all desire.” She leans back, steepling her fingers, and looks at me like she’s done talking.

  “Which would be what, Mother? What do they want?” And I thought the Moirai were frustrating.

  “Life. Access to a world. Our world, the underworld, or even the mortal world.”

  I pull my eyebrows together in deep concentration and my mother leans forward and touches my knee.

  “Are you in trouble, Cassius?” she asks, and I nod.

  “I think so. I just don’t know why.”

  “What mortal are these Unfated hunting? What is this person to you?”

  I look anywhere but at Mother’s face, rolling my shoulders again, and debating what to say.

  “Does it have to do with your assignment?” she continues.

  “Sort of. My assignment knows her.” It’s only a partial lie. I wait for Mother to call me out on the omission. But she doesn’t.

  She stands and moves from her blindingly white chaise to a blindingly white chest of drawers against a white and smoke colored marble wall where she pulls out a small box.

  “She must be a special girl. The Unfated don’t go after just anyone. You wish to protect her, I assume?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I just need some time to figure it out.”

  I don’
t tell my mother that Serissa is the one controlling the Unfated. I’m afraid she’ll interfere seeing as Serissa’s last big plan was the reason mother cursed me. My mother hates to be reminded of the constant tension that lingers between us. I also don’t tell her that I really don’t care about my assignment anymore, for a lot of the same reasons. Even if Max is my last one. If I have to, I’ll just Fate him to this Taylor girl and never look back. But right now I need Zarah around. And to do that, I need Max. I need everyone to think my dealings in Seattle are all just business.

  “You may leave her this.” Mother opens the box and places a gold necklace in my hand. A dagger hangs from the chain beside a small heart engraved with intricate designs.

  “A necklace?” My voice rises in confusion.

  “This is not just a necklace, son. It is the protection of the gods. It will shield her soul from any who would want to harm her. Even from you.”

  She purses her lips in a tiny smile and like always I’m awed by her and the way she can look at me like she’s looking into my soul.

  I lift up the small fragile piece of jewelry. My mother may be a terrible mother, but she’s never given me a reason not to trust her. I even get why she stripped me of my power and banished me to the Fates. I’m still angry with her. But I get it. Basically, I slept with the enemy. To go against my mother, I sought out that which would hurt her most. Serissa. My affair with Serissa is the reason she cursed me, to figure out what real love looks like. To understand it’s true meaning. I deserved what I got, but that doesn’t change how I feel about my enslavement.

  “And for you, your weapon is of no use to you against the Unfated. So take this. It is mine, but I don’t need it here.”

  She hands me a small knife and I can’t stop a short laugh from spilling from my mouth. “Really? I’d be better off with a butter knife.”

  She rips the knife from my fingers and spins it sharply in her hand. The air makes a zinging noise, and a flash of silvery blue blinds me as the tip of a four-foot blade is placed against my neck.

  Terrible mother.