Chapter 7: The Portrait of a Goddess
It's been a week since Dominick first summoned me to his study for these sessions, and I'm still not sure what to make of him—or the way I feel when I'm around him. Every day, for about an hour, he calls me in. No matter what I'm doing, I have to drop everything and go, slipping off my dress and shoes the moment I step inside his studio. I stretch out on the chaise, the cool silk brushing against my skin like a whisper, while he studies me through that intense, calculating gaze of his.
He never touches me, not with his hands, at least. But there's something in the way his eyes roam over me, as if he's stripping me bare, layer by layer, in a way no one ever has. Each glance feels like fingers trailing down my spine, sending shivers over my skin. I can tell he notices every small shift I make, every flutter of my eyelids or flick of a finger. He never misses anything.
At first, I hated these sessions—lying there, still and exposed under his scrutiny. But something shifted in me over the past few days. Maybe it's the quiet tension between us, the way the air seems to hum whenever we're alone together, thick with the kind of attraction neither of us is willing to admit out loud. Or maybe it's the man himself. Dominick is… impossible to ignore.
He's striking in that untouchable way some men are, as if the world bends itself around him just to keep up. His dark hair falls in careless waves that skim the tops of his ears, like he hasn't bothered to brush it, but somehow, it works. His jaw is sharp and dusted with stubble that makes him look like he's always on the edge of exhaustion—or something much more dangerous. But it's his eyes that get me every time. A sharp, clear blue, like the sea just before a storm. They're relentless, unflinching. When he looks at me, it's as if nothing else exists in the world, as if I'm the only thing worth seeing. It makes me feel trapped, breathless, like I'm balancing on a knife's edge.
Right now, though, he isn't calm and collected like usual. Today, something's off. He's pacing in front of his easel, running his hand through his hair in frustration. His white shirt clings to the broad lines of his back, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off the powerful muscles in his forearms. There's paint on his fingers, streaks of black and umber staining his skin. Normally, there's a precision to him, but now he's restless, like a caged animal. It's distracting.
"You're not taking this seriously," he mutters, voice rough with irritation.
I blink, taken off guard. "I'm laying here, Dominick. What more do you want?"
He whirls on me, and his emerald eyes flash with something sharp, more than just frustration. "You think this is a joke? This isn't about lying down and looking pretty. This is art, Liv. It requires… presence. You should embody the damn thing."
I sit up halfway, propping myself on one elbow, feeling my temper rise. "My job is to lie still while you paint, remember? If you can't focus, that sounds like a you problem."
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. His whole body tenses, and in two strides, he's standing right in front of me. Before I can react, his hand is on my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. His grip is firm—not painful, but just enough to make me aware of how easily he could hold me in place if he wanted to. His eyes burn with something I can't quite name, something wild and dangerous.
"Pose like you're a goddess," he growls, his voice low and rough. "Not some lowly maid, cowering under the weight of what you've lost."
My breath catches in my throat, and my heart pounds against my ribs. His hand on my chin keeps me locked in place, his thumb brushing just beneath my lip. His shaggy black hair tickles against my neck. The contact is electric, sending a shiver straight through me. He leans closer, so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, the faint scent of paint and cedar clinging to him.
"I hate weakness," he says, his voice soft but dangerous. "I hate submission. I need you to be proud. I need you to be the woman you were before you lost everything." His words cut through me like a knife, sharper because they're true.
I want to say something—anything—but the intensity in his gaze holds me still, rendering me mute. My lips part slightly, and I can feel the brush of his breath against them, warm and tempting. For one heart-stopping moment, it feels like he's going to kiss me. My pulse races, pounding in my ears, and I'm not sure if I want him to close the gap—or if I'm terrified that he will.
But just when I think he's going to cross that invisible line between us, he pulls back with a low, frustrated growl. The absence of his touch leaves my skin cold and aching. He stalks away from me, returning to his easel as if the moment between us never happened.
I sit there, frozen, trying to catch my breath. My heart is still racing, and I can feel the heat lingering on my cheeks. Damn him. Damn him for making me feel this way—like I'm balanced on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling, something I can't control.
I don't know what's worse: the fact that I want to please him, or the fact that I hate how badly I want it.
But if he wants me to be proud—if he wants me to be more than what I've been forced to become—then fine. I can do that. I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and sit up straighter on the chaise. I let the weight of everything I've been through—every insult, every humiliation, every loss—settle into my bones. I let it shape me, harden me.
I lift my chin and fix my gaze on Dominick, channeling every ounce of defiance and rage I've ever felt. I won't let him see weakness in me. Not now. If he wants a goddess, then I'll be one.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pause, his brush hovering over the canvas. He tilts his head, studying me with a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like approval.
"Better," he murmurs, his voice low and satisfied.
A strange sense of pride blossoms in my chest, unexpected and unwelcome. But it's there all the same. I hold the pose, my expression sharp and unforgiving, and feel the shift between us—something unspoken but undeniable, simmering just beneath the surface.
For the briefest moment, I swear his dirty jeans look…tighter than usual. Despite trying not to stare, I can't help but watch something throb against the fabric. Wait…is he…? Is that why he pulled away?
"Focus," he chastised again, and I quickly snap back to my distant, fierce gaze into the "the void" as he liked to call it.
We're both playing with fire, and we know it.
But for now, we'll keep pretending this is only about the art.