CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
NOT A CONTINUATION FROM THE LAST CHAPTER
The night was quiet except for the faint scratching of a brush against canvas. Serafina sat hunched over the easel, her hair pinned loosely, strands falling across her cheek as she leaned in closer to the unfinished painting. Her eyes narrowed with concentration, the lamplight turning her skin to gold, making her look almost like part of the art itself. The creak of the studio door barely registered until a familiar voice broke the silence.
“You would starve to death if I let you.”
She turned, brush still in hand, to see Dario standing there with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and a plate of food in the other. His grin was infuriating, smug and boyish at once.
Serafina smirked. “Maybe I prefer paint to bread.”
He crossed the room in easy strides, setting the plate on her work table before leaning against it. “Then I should not bother saving you, should I? A tragic end, drowned in colors.”
She rolled her eyes and set her brush down, though her fingers twitched like she already missed it. “You are interrupting.”
“I am rescuing.” He poured the wine, handing her a glass before taking a slow sip of his own. His gaze wandered to the canvas behind her. “Besides, you forget the world exists when you paint. Someone has to keep you human.”
Serafina raised her brow, taking the glass. “And that someone is you?”
He stepped closer, lowering his head until his forehead brushed against hers. “Always.”
Her laugh broke the stillness. Playful, unguarded. She pulled back just enough to grab her sketch pad, flipping it open to a blank page.
“Stay still,” she commanded.
Dario blinked. “Am I a dog?”
“A muse,” she corrected, already sketching quick strokes, capturing the way his hair curled at the edges, the shadow under his jaw. “Do not move.”
His grin widened. “If I am your muse, then I should be allowed to see what you make of me.”
“Later,” she murmured, refusing to look up.
He waited all of ten seconds before reaching out to snatch the brush from her hand, laughing when she gasped and swatted at him.
“Dario!”
“You take this too seriously,” he teased, holding it out of her reach. “Paint me with your eyes instead.”
She lunged, nearly tumbling into him, her laughter spilling out in spite of herself. He caught her easily, one arm around her waist, the other still holding the stolen brush aloft. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Her hands rested against his chest. His heart was beating hard, faster than the moment called for. Their eyes met, and the playfulness softened into something warmer, heavier. Dario lowered the brush, letting it clatter onto the table. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against hers in a kiss that was neither hurried nor uncertain.
Serafina melted into it, her arms winding around his neck, her body pressed to his. It was a kiss full of youth and promise, tasting faintly of red wine and something she wanted to believe was forever.
When they finally broke apart, she smiled against his mouth. “You ruin everything. Even my sketch.”
He grinned. “Then let me ruin you too.”
She smacked his chest, but the blush blooming on her cheeks betrayed her. For a moment, all felt simple. The world outside, with its names and power and obligations, did not exist. Only the two of them in the dimly lit studio, her half-finished painting and his laughter filling the air.
But the moment shifted, almost too quietly to notice.
“You ever think about what comes next?” Dario asked, his tone lower now, threaded with seriousness.
Serafina pulled back, blinking. “Next?”
“Children. Legacy. What we leave behind.” His eyes were fixed on her, steady, searching. “A name that lasts. Something ours.”
The warmth in her chest flickered. She shook her head, her smile wavering. “We are barely more than children ourselves.”
“You are wrong. We cannot stay suspended in youth forever. One day soon, people will expect more of us. They already do.” He reached for her hand, squeezing gently. “I want that future with you, Serafina.”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to believe him, to hold onto the promise of love untainted. Yet the weight in his words unsettled her. Legacy. Inheritance. Names. These were not dreams. These were chains, wrapped in silk.
She forced a smile, leaning back just enough to escape the intensity of his gaze. “You sound like an old man.”
He chuckled, but it did not reach his eyes.
The unfinished painting behind her seemed to watch in silence, its subject incomplete. A face without form. A story not yet told. And Serafina, brushless and breathless, wondered for the first time if their love would ever be free of the shadows that surrounded them.
The knock came sudden and sharp against the studio door. Serafina stiffened, her hand frozen halfway to the wine glass. Dario moved first. Quick, practiced. He crossed the room and pulled the door just wide enough for a folded set of papers to slip through. The messenger was gone before she even caught a glimpse of him.
Her brow furrowed. “Who was that?”
“No one important,” Dario replied too quickly, tucking the papers into his coat pocket.
Serafina’s eyes narrowed. “Then why do you look like you have been caught?”
He smiled, but the curve of his mouth did not reach his eyes. “You doubt me?”
“I question secrets,” she said softly. Her brush still lay abandoned on the table, her sketch unfinished. “You told me I was your world. But sometimes, it feels as if you live in two.”
Dario’s jaw tightened. He stepped toward her, closing the space between them until his shadow covered her completely. His hands cupped her face with a tenderness that clashed with the steel in his gaze.
“You are my only world,” he said firmly. “These papers, this name, this family… they mean nothing without you. Never doubt that.”
Serafina searched his face, desperate to find certainty in the words. Yet something coiled in her chest, a thin wire of unease pulling tighter with each breath.
Still, when he kissed her, she let herself sink into him. His lips were warm, steady, almost desperate in their need to convince. He held her close, whispering against her skin, “You are mine. Always.”
Her doubts quieted, but they did not vanish. They lingered in the corners of the room, in the silence after his words, in the half-lit canvas waiting behind her.
The fire crackled low in the hearth. The wine sat untouched. Dario pressed her close as if he could keep her questions from surfacing again.
On the easel, the unfinished canvas glowed faintly in the lamplight. A child’s face began to take form in paint, the eyes too sharp, too unfamiliar. Watching. Waiting.
And in that silent gaze, a wedge had already been driven, though neither of them yet knew how deep it would cut