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She didn't flinch.
That's what unsettles me.
Every woman before her—no matter how bold—flinched. Even if only on the inside. I saw it. The hesitation. The internal scream locked behind pretty lashes and parted lips.
But not her.
Not Liora.
She let me bare her, sketch her, claim her, and still she stared through me like I was the one being painted.
What kind of woman offers herself not to be loved…
but to be ruined?
She kissed my wrist like a rosary.
Told me to make art from her wounds.
And I—like a god drunk on worship—almost obeyed without thought.
I need to be careful.
I need to remember that obsession is not the same as connection.
But I already know—
I won't remember.
I'll open her until nothing is left.
I'll use her moans as lullabies.
I'll paint her fear into beauty.
And if I lose myself in the process…
So be it.