Ruth’s POV
He asked me casually, like it was nothing. Like asking me to dinner wasn’t suddenly a test I didn’t know I was supposed to pass.
Emmett stood by the window that morning, hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking out over the field like he could already see the night ahead.
“Marcus is cooking,” he said, not looking at me. “He wants you to come by tonight.”
The words were light, almost lazy. But the name tightened something in my gut.
Marcus. I remembered him from the gallery, the way he’d hovered behind Emmett like a shadow wearing charm for skin. He’d smiled at me with teeth too clean and eyes that didn’t blink enough. There was something about him that felt too smooth, like he’d been sanded down until there was nothing left but pretense.
I thought about saying no, I thought about lying. Maybe I had a headache, maybe I was behind on work. Maybe I just didn’t want to see someone who made my skin crawl. But when I opened my mouth to speak, I couldn’t force the word out. Emmett looked at me then, and the weight of his gaze pulled everything else under, so I nodded.
By evening, I was standing on the front step of Emmett’s house. It was modern, flat lines, tall windows, dark wood, but it sat deep in the trees, far enough from the road that even silence echoed. There was no sound but wind through branches and the soft gravel crunch under my boots. The door opened before I knocked.
“Ruth,” Marcus said with a wide grin, apron dusted with flour. “Muse and madness. Welcome.”
He stepped back and gestured for me to enter. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms dusted with seasoning and oil. He looked completely at ease in the space, like he’d lived there forever. Like it wasn’t Emmett’s house, but his. That thought settled low in my stomach and stayed.
Inside, the air was warm. Herbs, garlic, something slow-cooked in broth filled the kitchen. It smelled like comfort. Like home. But it felt like a set, staged, performed, the kind of domesticity built to make you drop your guard. Emmett was already there, leaning against the far counter, glass of wine in hand, watching. He hadn’t spoken yet. His eyes flicked to mine, then away. He didn’t smile.
“Sit,” Marcus said, waving at the barstool. “I’m making everything from scratch tonight. Nothing store-bought. You deserve better than preservatives.”
I sat, mostly because standing felt confrontational. Emmett stayed back, swirling his wine, the liquid catching the light like blood. He hadn’t taken a sip. Marcus talked as he cooked, narrating every step like a man performing for invisible cameras. “See, most people overheat garlic. That’s where the bitterness comes in. But slow, controlled heat-” he glanced at me over his shoulder, “-that’s where the magic lives.”
I nodded politely, fingers twisting in my lap. I couldn’t stop scanning the room. Too many knives, too many clean surfaces, too many eyes that weren’t mine. We ate at a long table beneath a single buzzing light. The food looked beautiful, smelled even better. But every bite felt like it cost something. I didn’t know what yet, just that I’d pay for it later.
Marcus led the conversation like a conductor, his voice always one beat ahead. He asked questions. He told stories. But it all came back to me, my work, my process, my past. Then, halfway through the second glass of wine, he tilted his head and said, “That one piece… the one with the shoreline and the figure disappearing into the tide. The brushwork in the waves, that was pain. You don’t fake that kind of grief.”
I froze, that painting had never been exhibited. It never even left the studio. I only ever showed it to Emmett. I turned to him, silent. He didn’t meet my gaze. He just sipped his wine like he hadn’t just given someone else my ghosts to dissect.
“You showed him?” My voice came quiet, but edged.
He still didn’t look at me. “It came up.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep the food down. “That painting wasn’t finished.”
Marcus smiled as he cut into his steak. “Sometimes unfinished things say the most.”
The conversation shifted, but the taste of betrayal stayed on my tongue. I tried to redirect, tried to regain control of the moment. “What do you think makes art good, Marcus?”
He leaned back, wiping his mouth with the corner of a napkin. “Rawness. That’s it. The nerve beneath the skin. Pain. Fear. Pleasure. Doesn’t matter which, you just have to be willing to bleed it out.” He said it so casually, like all three were interchangeable. Like none of them could ruin you if you weren’t careful.
Emmett’s voice cut in, sharp. “This isn’t a critique session.”
Marcus chuckled. “Of course not. I’m just feeding her.”
But the way he said it didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like a warning. And for the rest of the night, even as I smiled and nodded and thanked him for the meal, I didn’t stop feeling it. The sensation of being watched. Not welcomed, not wanted, just studied.
Like a canvas someone had already decided how to finish.