The conversation becomes increasingly tense. Outside, dawn fights for the right to exist, and the birds chirp louder. At least they can be heard well while the cars still sleep in garages or parking lots.
— What if you’re ready? — I barely whisper.
Vlad doesn’t even change expression. He leans back against the sofa and leisurely sips his whiskey.
— To think you’re ready and to actually be ready are two different things.
— And yet…
— I promise nothing, Yuliana. I can’t.
— And yet, — I stubbornly repeat.
He smiles. He beckons me with his finger. Is he checking? Or is it something else? However, I obediently slide closer. Being near this man feels like an addiction. He makes parts of my soul tremble and vibrate that I didn’t even know existed. He compels me to enjoy the aroma of his body, the scent of his aura, which touches my skin with a contrast of coolness and warmth. He evokes trust and confidence that he won’t hurt me, because he is different. Not like Volodymyr Dykyi. He doesn’t see me as inept; on the contrary, he views me as an intriguing artist with a wonderful vision of things. How can I not try when… my freedom? It’s indifferent which type.
— One should go further and that’s it, you understand? — he murmurs.
I don’t ask what exactly “everything” means and how much he puts into that word. I’m not interested in what comes next, in some distant and ephemeral future. There is only now. Him and me. And my emotions, which burn in every cell of my body while the Saint is near.
— I need you, — I whisper.
Vlad smiles. There’s no more room for mockery or audacity; he is completely serious. His eyes eloquently convey that I am mistaken. But he… He is wrong because he doesn’t understand… My whole life, I was just Yuliana Dykaya — the daughter whom her father wishes to give away in the most advantageous way, and my happiness is that this someone turned out to be Timur Dobryi, and not someone else, hungry and disgusting. He doesn’t understand that for eternity I was a girl who was supposed to please a man in bed and smile. I had no right to my own opinion. To grow. To realize my dreams. I had no freedom. I lived in fear, which hung over me like a constant threat of a dreadful ending worse than the apocalypse.
The Saint, however, has fulfilled almost everything I longed for in a short span of time. He gave me freedom. Faith. Made me feel safe, like when there was a storm, and he spent the night next to me simply holding me… Does he really think something else will stop this?
The man takes me by the chin and forces me to look at him. The touch of his long fingers burns my skin. He quietly commands:
— Close your eyes.
I comply. I shut them and wait. Warm lips cover mine. The taste of whiskey and shades of darkness slide into my soul. It warms me. The power of this man fills me, as if before him was an emptiness that longed to be tangible.
I respond. I know — clumsily, but there's no other way. I part my lips to meet his and allow my tongue to touch his. The tenderness and caution with which Vlad does all this creates confusion and resonates with a warm feeling in my lower abdomen.
His hands are on my waist. I don’t immediately register that he slowly lays me on my back while he hovers above. He covers me with his entire body, softly and gently, as if before him stands not a person, but a delicate and rare work of an artist.
Weightless movements of his body. Warm hands on bare skin, there, under the fabric of my pajama top.
I exhale shudderingly. I inhale. No one had ever touched me there. And like this. I didn’t think it could be so pleasant.
The heat in my lower abdomen intensifies. The kiss too. It becomes deeper, stronger, faster. I cling to the Saint's neck with my fingers and hold on tightly, as if fearing he might disappear. Vlad merely laughs hoarsely, yet there's not a drop of negativity in his voice; rather, I feel the same sensation as when we met in the restaurant, when he looked at me as if I were a child.
Gentle fingers of the artist outline my body. They create invisible strokes with paint and touch everywhere. I want to open up to him. To meet and greet him like flowers greet the sun and a new day.
Vlad leans on his elbows and pauses. He slowly brushes my hair away from my face with the pads of his fingers and looks into my eyes:
— I like your hair. Do you know why?
I freeze and listen to his low voice. His purring touches every atom, penetrating deeper and deeper, centering on something that only awakens when he is near.
— Why? — I boldly ask.
— Because it has a reddish tint. When the sun hits the strands, they are no longer white but rather… golden.
— You are an artist.
— That's why I see beauty right away, — he confidently cuts in.
— Am I beautiful? — it comes out bitterly.
The Saint purrs thoughtfully. He kisses me on the lips, leaving me unanswered, and slides the strap of my top down. His lips touch my bare shoulder. Slowly, to madness in my blood and head. I’m no longer worried about the danger that tangibly hangs in the air every time we see each other. I worry about nothing but his lips on my shoulder.
I don’t ask questions or act rightly, even now. I don’t want to. Because I desire only one thing — to continue. Having realized a few dreams, I dare to conjure up new ones. I don’t know if it’s in vain, but… while they are unattainable. It feels scary even to utter them, even to myself.
— Yuliana, — a quiet whisper in my ear.
— What?
— I think it's time to stop.
— Why? — it comes out squeakily, given the sober and firm voice of the Saint.
— It’s necessary, — he evades the answer.
The man sits up. I do too. It immediately becomes cold. I cast a cautious glance at him from under my half-closed eyes. He looks calm, just as always. As for me, I’m likely red and my breathing is too quick.
— Vlad… — I say hesitantly.
— Today I want to work on your artistic skills, — he carves out. — So, now it's time to sleep well. While morning hasn’t changed anything yet.
I don’t know how to react… Innate obedience makes me get up, yet the memory of freedom, my hard-earned freedom without knowledge of payment for it, stops me.
— I don’t want to sleep, — I mumble.
I subconsciously understand — I need to work on my character's firmness and work. Only when it concerns my brother and mother can I be confident in myself. But when it comes to myself, courage flees somewhere, and only fears stir.
— You don’t want to? — he smiles crookedly again. Does he not believe I dared to contradict him? — Well, where is it, excuse me, Vlad?
Indeed… He doesn’t believe.
— You said freedom is mine…
The Saint is already openly laughing.
— One doesn't say that tone, Yuliana. — He gets up from the sofa and kisses the tip of my nose. — Good night.
He leaves me alone in the middle of the living room. I only hear the doors of his bedroom closing. I fall back onto the sofa, surrendering to euphoria. It bursts forth in a splash of colors and sensations. It nudges me in the back and whispers that I must paint what I felt. I don’t resist. I dash into the bedroom and grab a new canvas. Following it, watercolor. I turn on the light and sit down at the easel. I can't say how long I paint, but outside, day changes to night. Summer rushes to give warmth and the gamut of its colors to us, people. During this time, a girl appears on the canvas, with red hair, in whose eyes fear dances and at the same time determination. Behind her stands him, the very one who gifts this determination — authoritative, powerful, strong. In a dark modern classical suit, he embraces her with his hands, around her shoulders, and presses her to him. His gaze is different; it embodies the emotions from Vlad's aura — with danger, influence, wildness, and a calm fury, however strange that sounds.
Tired, I put down my paints and crawl under the blanket. I fall asleep quickly and, strangely enough, don’t see any dreams, although I thought it would be different. I wake up because I feel someone in the bedroom. I open my eyes and immediately see the Saint. He sits before the canvas, carefully examining the painting. He has one leg crossed over the other, his head resting on his hand, elbow on his knee. I hold my breath. I sneak a glance at the window — dusk is obviously approaching. For the first time, I slept so long… even during the day.
— Tea? — he offers lazily.
I throw a sharp look at Vlad. The man is calm. His posture demonstrates complete mastery over his emotions and his life.
I lick my dry lips. Hoarsely I ask:
— How do you like it?
He turns his gaze from the painting and looks at me. He smiles at the corner of his mouth. He shows the lines on either side and burns blue. Deep. The kind that pulls you down because you want to know its secret.
— Why is the girl afraid without him?
The question stuns me. I know the answer, but to share it?... No. I can’t. It’s the same as letting someone look into my soul and feel the whole process of observation.
— Afraid? — I ask back.
— Isn’t she?
I swallow my saliva and throw the blanket aside. I dangle my legs over the side of the bed. The Saint is simply looking, but it feels as though his eyes are touching my entire body.
— I see a girl who longs to break free, finds support and…makes the biggest mistake of her life. Want to know what it is?
— I want to, — I answer quickly.
Vlad looks at the painting again.
— She trusts and relies on the one behind her. What do you think, is it a knife in his right or left hand?
I freeze. I still don’t get up from the bed. The Saint speaks in riddles, but… does it concern the painting? As soon as he turns back to me, I cast those thoughts aside. Of course, it's about the painting.
— He doesn’t have a knife, — I say firmly. — He protects her, at first, and then she will do it herself. Do you know why?
— Why? — the man murmurs.
— Because he will teach her. Even if he disappears from her life, she will know he gave all he could. A weapon in hand and a shield to withstand the blows.
The blue flares into flames. The flash of lightning is hard to miss, and it’s not a play of the sun, I know for sure.
— Hmm, — he only replies. — Tea. — He reminds. — First, that and the breakfast that turned into dinner, and then we will do what we were supposed to…
The Saint exits the bedroom, and I don’t know what to think. We are going to do what we were supposed to… Is he talking about painting or… our kisses?
Slowly, I get up and walk to the bathroom. The man is already in the kitchen; I hear soft music playing, he's even humming something and probably cooking. So, I wash up quickly. I brush my teeth and tie my hair back in a ponytail. I throw a light robe over my pajamas, ignoring all the clothes my father bought. Only after all the manipulations do I head to the kitchen. Vlad is just pouring boiling water into the teapot, so the pleasant aroma of forest herbs fills the room. The microwave beeps, and it turns off. From there, a heady aroma wafts, a completely different smell: meat, spices, greens, and potatoes.
I sit at the table while the Saint sets it, and only then do I allow myself to glance at him again. Tall, broad-shouldered, with tanned skin. They say about such men — a fatal man. His blue eyes enchant. They don’t attract, rather they scream danger, but once you get caught in their hook, it’s all over. The strength of character dances around the body with a palpable aura. Influence and understanding of one’s significance envelop the man like fog. You can’t see it, no, you just… know it.
— Enjoy your meal, Yuliana. — He smiles and sits down across from me.
I blush. I lower my head, trying to hide it. He saw… He saw that I was looking at him like a lovesick girl.
— Thank you, you too, — I whisper.
The fork in my hand trembles; I am scared to pour the tea, so the Saint skillfully serves me and adds gruffly:
— I can feed you.
I quickly lift my gaze and stare in astonishment at the blue. Dark. Viscous, worse than tar. It catches and doesn’t let go.
— Why?
— You have problems with your appetite, I noticed.
— I just don’t give food much significance.
— That’s a shame. Eat. Everything.
And I eat. To my own surprise, everything he put on my plate, which consists of potatoes, meat, cheese, plenty of greens, asparagus, and creamy sauce. A portion for a man, but I manage it and even wash it down with tea.
After dinner, we go to the studio. Vlad sits me down at one of the canvases where a painting is already made. He asks me to finish it while he sits on the floor, propping his back against a long pillow and watching every movement.
Memories of my past life drawing from nature don’t give me peace. I want him to sit behind me again and guide my hand. At least that way, if we’re not continuing our nighttime kisses. But Vlad is unyielding; my initiative is unlikely to be welcomed. So, I shove my desires as far away as possible; I’m used to it, and I examine the painting. The outlines of a dark road leading into the forest thickets are depicted. The trees in it are dark, practically black, without a single ray of light. The area is swampy with no hint of grass or flowers.
— Do you want me to finish it in this style? — I ask without even turning my head toward the man.
— And how do you want? — he lazily replies with a question. — I asked you to finish, but I didn’t say how. Surprise me.
I nod. I take a brush and paints and start. I mix colors, add lighter tones, shades, rays of sunlight that break through the dense thickets and fall to the ground. In those spots, flowers instantly bloom: a scattering of small white heads. The grass becomes juicier. I try to remove all the dull shades so the painting becomes to my liking.
I enjoy immersing my thoughts completely in painting, as everything else ceases to exist. But this time, I notice something different in myself… I no longer flee from reality, I don’t paint because my father’s reproaches and insults hurt. No negativity spills onto the canvas, which remained in my soul after his screams. Since living with Vlad, I have never heard anything similar and… I feel released. Breathing has become easier. Living. Really living. I fully realize this now, in this moment, while the brush passionately guides the strokes of the grass.
Now I paint what I really want. What Vlad spoke about on our first meeting — joy and tranquility.
I detach from the painting and scrutinize the results. I smile. The drawing has become significantly lighter, more positive, and filled with hope. The rich shades of paint are pleasing to the eye. I want to look and look.
— It's done, — I say quietly.
Vlad rises from the floor and approaches the painting. He stands behind me. My breath catches instantly. There’s a distance between us, but I feel the man’s warmth. I immediately want to lean back, but I mentally forbid myself. I wanted more, I responded to the Saint’s provocation, yet between us, this changed nothing. It didn't bring us closer, despite my desire for that, I don’t even understand why. I just need him. He pulls me in. Like a spider that has woven a web and caught me, now playing. Is everything like that?
Suddenly his hands rest on my shoulders. The thin fabric of the robe allows his warmth to pass through. His breath brushes against my ear — Vlad leans toward me.
— Better than perfect, Yuliana.