Chapter 9 The Way She Burns

• Arias’s POV
• I didn’t sleep.
• Not truly.
• I lay on the leather couch in my office for hours, staring at the ceiling, still feeling the shape of her face in my hand. Still inhaling the phantom scent of her hair, the warmth of her breath when she leaned into me—so fragile and so unaware of what she’d done to me with that single, unconscious surrender.
• I’d touched women before.
• I’d fucked them. Commanded them. Left them with no strings and no promises.
• But this was not the same.
• Lidia Avallon wasn’t a woman you conquered.
• She was one you unraveled.
• And something in me—something dangerous—was already pulling at the first threads.
• It was barely past seven when I stepped out of my apartment and crossed the hall. The guards didn’t question it. The system wouldn’t alert Matias. I had codes no one else did.
• And I wanted to see her before the rest of the world woke up. Before the mask slid back into place on her face and her walls came up like steel barricades. I wanted to see her raw. Unfiltered.
• And I did.
• Through the glass door to her studio, I saw her.
• She hadn’t heard me yet.
• She stood barefoot again—bare legs peeking out from under a long black shirt that might’ve once been a dress or maybe just another piece of armor she forgot to put on properly. Her hair was up in a messy knot. No makeup. No façade. Just her.
• She was already painting.
• And fuck me—she was gorgeous.
• Her movements were slow but precise, brush gliding over canvas like it belonged there, like she was guiding some invisible force only she could see. I couldn’t see what she was painting yet, but I could feel it.
• Like watching a storm build beneath her skin.
• Every muscle in her back was tight, her shoulders hunched with quiet focus. I saw her wince once—her ribs, maybe, or her shoulder—but she didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause.
• That kind of discipline?
• It wasn’t learned. It was forged.
• I leaned against the doorframe, silent.
• Watched the way her body moved—not with grace, but with grit. With defiance.
• Like every stroke of the brush was an act of war.
• And the canvas?
• It was losing.
• I finally knocked. Once.
• She turned slowly, startled. Eyes wide. Grey. Tired. And still… alive.
• Like smoke that refused to clear.
• “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said, stepping inside. My voice was low, measured, the way I always spoke when I wanted something badly. “I just wanted to see what your mornings look like.”
• She tilted her head slightly, guarded. “Do you always watch your artists work at sunrise?”
• “Only the ones who make me feel things I don’t know how to name.”
• She blinked at that. One heartbeat. Two.
• Then turned away.
• But not before I saw it.
• The faintest flicker of pink in her cheeks.
• She didn’t answer. Just dipped her brush again and moved back to the canvas.
• I approached slowly, giving her space.
• “What are you painting?” I asked, genuinely curious.
• She didn’t look at me as she replied. “I don’t know yet. It started as a silhouette. A man. Now it’s… fire.”
• “Is it me?” I said before I could stop myself.
• She froze for half a second. Just a twitch of her wrist.
• Then, softly: “Maybe.”
• Fuck.
• My throat tightened. I stepped closer, careful not to touch her, but close enough that I could smell the faint sweetness of her skin again.
• “You didn’t sleep,” I murmured.
• She shrugged, still painting. “Not used to comfort.”
• I didn’t respond. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t sound like a promise I shouldn’t make. So instead, I asked the question that had been haunting me since last night.
• “Are you always this quiet?”
• She stopped then. Fully stopped. The brush hovered in mid-air.
• And she turned to me slowly, those grey eyes locking onto mine.
• “No,” she whispered. “I just don’t like wasting words on people who only want to hear what suits them.”
• Christ.
• That mouth. That mind.
• She wasn’t just fragile.
• She was sharp.
• “I don’t want what suits me,” I said, stepping closer. “I want truth. Even when it burns.”
• Our eyes held.
• The tension stretched between us—electric, magnetic, and dangerous as hell.
• I didn’t touch her.
• But fuck, I wanted to.
• I wanted to press my fingers to the curve of her jaw and tilt her face back and say things I wasn’t supposed to say.
• Like come closer.
• Like let me protect you.
• Like I’d kill for you and not lose a single hour of sleep.
• But instead, I said the only thing that felt safe.
• “You’re an extraordinary artist, Lidia.”
• She looked down.
• Whispered, “That’s not the part of me you’re looking at.”
• I gritted my teeth. Her voice was calm, but not flirtatious. It wasn’t an accusation—it was a challenge.
• And she was right.
• But I wasn’t ashamed.
• “I’m looking,” I said quietly, “because there’s no part of you that isn’t art.”
• She said nothing after that.
• Turned back to her canvas.
• Dismissed me with silence.
• And yet… she didn’t ask me to leave.
• So I didn’t.
• I sat in the corner chair and watched her paint.
• And for the first time in years…
• I felt like I could breathe.