Chapter 62 Art
Ava
The dress clings in all the right places, silk sliding over my skin like it was designed with me in mind. The deep brown fabric warms against my complexion, rich and smooth, the open back dipping just low enough to tease without crossing into scandal. It feels elegant. Dangerous in a quiet way. Controlled.
My nails are glossy, freshly done, catching the soft light as I smooth my palms down the curve of my hips.
Two days ago I looked like a sleep-deprived disaster wrapped in leggings and stress. Tonight?
Tonight I look like I belong on someone’s arm.
I take one steadying breath, then step out of the bedroom.
Liam is standing in the living room, hands tucked into the pockets of a thick blue coat. The firelight flickers behind him, painting shadows along his jaw. The faint scruff on his face makes him look unfairly good. Effortless. His dark jeans fit him like they were tailored, his shirt stretching across his chest in a way that makes my stomach dip.
But it’s his eyes that stop me.
He’s staring.
Not casually. Not politely.
He’s taking me in like he’s memorizing every detail. His tongue slides out to wet his lips, slow, deliberate. Heat flashes across his face before he reins it in, but I see it.
A slow smile curves my mouth.
“You said I should make you regret it,” I murmur, stepping closer, my voice low and teasing.
His nostrils flare.
In one swift movement, his hands slide to my hips and then lower, gripping me firmly and pulling me flush against him. The sudden contact steals my breath.
“If you tease one more time,” he says against my ear, voice rough and strained, “I’m going to forget we had plans.”
A shiver runs down my spine. My body reacts before my brain does, warmth blooming low in my stomach.
His lips brush along the side of my neck, not rushed, not frantic, just slow enough to make my knees soften. His hands hold me like he needs to feel that I’m real. That I’m here.
“Liam,” I breathe.
He lifts his head and kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not cautious. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a decision. His mouth presses to mine with heat and certainty, and I melt into it, fingers curling into the front of his coat. His hand slides up my back, fingers spreading against my bare skin, sending a rush of sensation straight through me.
For a moment, there’s no lodge. No weekend. No arguments. Just us.
Then he pulls back abruptly.
His breathing is heavier now, his forehead resting against mine as he closes his eyes like he’s physically restraining himself.
“You keep testing me, Snowflakes,” he murmurs.
“And you keep losing control,” I reply softly, dragging my nails lightly down his chest.
A low sound rumbles from him. He catches my wrist, lifting my hand and pressing a slow kiss to my palm before stepping back, creating space before we both forget how to behave.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, adjusting his coat. “Before I change my mind.”
I bite my lip, satisfaction curling warm in my chest.
Oh, this date is going to be fun.
The museum is quieter than I expected. The kind of quiet that feels intentional, like even the air knows to lower its voice. My heels click softly against the polished wooden floors, the sound echoing faintly as we walk. The lighting is warm, golden, carefully angled to bring the paintings to life.
Centuries of stories line the walls. Portraits with knowing eyes. Landscapes frozen in time. Scenes of love, war, longing, and an endless sea of magic. I couldnt stop staring, even when i tried, my eyes couldn't look away.
Liam’s hand rests at the small of my back as we wander. Not possessive. Not heavy.
Just there.
I stop in front of a portrait of a man in a wide-brimmed hat, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes almost following us.
Liam leans in slightly, his breath brushing my ear.
“That guy looks like he’s judging me.”
I glance at him. “Maybe he knows you’re trouble.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Or maybe he thinks you’re the one corrupting me.”
I turn to face him fully. “You? Corrupted? Please. You’ve been a lost cause for years.”
His mouth curves slowly.
“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “you keep choosing me.”
My pulse stutters.
I lift my chin, pretending indifference even as my heart flutters traitorously in my chest. “You’re convenient.”
His fingers press lightly into the fabric at my waist. “Liar.”
The way he’s looking at me makes the room blur slightly at the edges. Like the paintings have stepped back to give us space.
The museum feels smaller suddenly. Closer. Charged.
He leans in, stopping just short of my lips. Not touching. Just hovering.
My breath catches.
A sharp, polite cough cuts through the moment.
We both turn.
An older woman stands a few feet away, her expression tight and unimpressed, arms folded neatly as if she’s guarding centuries of art from hormonal chaos.
Liam exhales a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ll behave.”
“For now,” I add sweetly.
He threads his fingers through mine, squeezing gently as we move to the next exhibit.
As we walk, I glance at him from the corner of my eye.
He looks lighter.
The tension that had been coiled in him earlier has loosened. The anger has faded into something steadier. Intentional.
This isn’t just a distraction.
It’s a statement.
He didn’t bring me here to prove something to my father.
He brought me here to remind me that I’m not something that needs to be sacrificed.
And as we wander past oil and canvas and history frozen in gilded frames, I realize something quietly powerful.
No matter how loud the world gets, no matter how many people try to draw lines around us, this right here feels simple.
He chooses me.
And I choose him.
Even under the watchful eyes of centuries.