“Drink the wine I poured you,” he insisted from where he still stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and watching me. Maybe that was the problem—his reptilian eyes were on me. I’d never painted with an audience before. Apparently, it wasn’t something I was a fan of. “Wasn’t it Hemingway who worked best when he was drunk?” Damon asked, pulling my thoughts back to the moment.
“That was with words, not paint,” I insisted, sounding snippier than I probably should, given the circumstances.
“Art is art, don’t you think?” He asked before taking another sip from his wine. Clearly, my words and tone hadn’t offended him. “I haven’t found a type of art I don’t enjoy.” He waved a hand, signaling to his apartment.
I set my paintbrush down and glanced around. Different types of art were everywhere. There were books, sculptures, and even a few shelves with old records in a corner. My paintings from the Origins series, and a few others, adorned his walls too.
“Drink,” Damon insisted again, drawing my attention back to him. “Loosen up. Good art doesn’t happen when it’s forced, which is most likely the issue you’re dealing with currently.”
I scoffed. “Then why try to have me force it?”
“Because it’s my only option.” His voice dipped low when he spoke, and a shadow fell over his face as though his mind had drifted.
“Why?” I asked, making my way to where he stood. I was ready for that glass of wine. “Why am I your only option at finding your Mystic?”
I knew I wasn’t the only person with the ability to help him in that department. There were plenty of witches who could locate his Mystic. There had to be.
So, why me? Why abduct me and force me to paint her?
Damon stepped from behind the counter, and I took a sip from my glass. He untucked his shirt from his slacks and lifted it up. The telltale blisters of the shifter sickness were spread across his washboard abs.
I took a step back instinctively, even though I knew it wasn’t contagious. Shifter sickness didn’t spread from one shifter to another upon contact. It didn’t spread by a cough or sneeze either. It just chose you when it felt like it. There was no way to protect yourself from it. It just happened. Which was one of the reasons why it was so damn scary.
Nothing was scarier than something deadly and unpredictable.
Gran told me that Tris, being the Mystic, had called all of the potential Mystics forward when she completed a spell with a witch from some swamp, but she’d also said that just because an alpha’s Mystic was called didn’t mean it found its alpha.
That was Fate’s job, and Damon was asking me to speed up that process for him.
When I locked eyes with him again, I was able to see the fear in his eyes. It shook me to my core because fear made people do crazy things. I was Damon’s only option—he’d said so himself—and if I couldn’t produce a painting that showcased a glimpse of his Mystic or where she might be located, then he was as good as dead. Which meant so was I.
The weight of that realization pressed down on me, and even my bear squirmed.
I downed the wine he’d poured and then set the glass on the counter.
“Okay,” I said, walking back to the art easel.
Damon didn’t say a word. Instead, he poured himself another glass of wine and remained in the kitchen. I knew he was silent because showing me he had the shifter sickness made him feel vulnerable. My bear and I could sense it.
Once I stepped to the blank canvas, I shook my hands out and rolled my neck before picking up the paintbrush again. Its bristles were still covered in paint, and as the aroma of it hit my nose, the desire to scratch out a word across the canvas pulsed through me again. I ignored it. Even though there was a piece of me that felt for Damon Kincaid now that I knew he was sick, that didn’t mean I was willing to show him my process.
Knowing about my gift was enough.
My gaze remained fixed on the canvas as I held the brush, poised and ready. I thought of Damon and his Mystic being happy and in love like Liam and Tris. Nothing came to me. I pushed harder and focused on what I wanted to see even more.
Still, nothing.
The hum of a cell vibrating drifted to my ears and my stomach dipped. It had to either be Nash or Gran. I prayed something hadn’t happened. My insides twisted as the phone continued to hum.
I shifted my gaze to Damon, locking eyes with him across the apartment. “Just let me answer it. Let me make sure my grandma is all right,” I said, trying not to sound like I was begging. He didn’t need to know how desperate I felt to answer my phone.
Damon shook his head. “There’s too much of a risk she will be fine and you’ll lose the motivation to do this quickly. I’m not feeling up to taking that risk.”
My bear snapped at him. He couldn’t hear her, but there was a spark of amusement that shifted through his eyes and had me wondering if it was possible for him to feel her anger. When he licked his lips, I was reminded yet again he was a snake shifter and the likelihood of him being able to taste my emotions on his tongue was high.
I directed my attention back to the canvas in front of me. This time I didn’t push. This time I didn’t force anything. All I did was close my eyes and relax. I pictured Damon in my mind. I could see his sickness and the blisters spreading across his core. Then, I pictured a woman healing him with her touch.
To my surprise, a familiar
