Chapter 12
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was
warmth.
Real warmth, not the cold emptiness of a guest room’s sheets or the hollow feeling of an old
marble house.
I was wrapped in a soft blanket, and the morning sun streamed through lace curtains, like a promise.
Beside me, the air was filled with the scent of pancakes and fresh strawberries, wafting from a silver tray.
I blinked, and there he was-Alpha Tristan, half-reclining on the bed, sleeves rolled up, a lazy smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning, princess,” he drawled. “Don’t be too quick to scold me. I made breakfast. And no, you can’t poison test it. If you die, at least you’ll die with a smile.”
I chuckled softly. “Are you flirting with me or
threatening me?”
“A bit of both,” he teased, leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Eat up. I need you alive. We have plans.”
I squinted at him, warmth spreading through my chest as I pretended to grumble, making him feed me a strawberry. Each time his fingers brushed my lips, I feigned displeasure.
Hours later, he refused to tell me where we were going.
“Is this another one of your power games?” I grumbled as the driver navigated the winding streets lined with ancient trees. “Because if you’re kidnapping me again, I need to pack snacks.”
He glanced at me. “Can you stop? I’m doing something nice for you. Try to act surprised when we get there.”
I rolled my eyes, but my heart fluttered foolishly in my chest.
When the car stopped, Tristan got out first, then
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opened the door for me like an old-fashioned gentleman.
Without a word, he took my hand and led me down a cobblestone path to a glass building hidden behind blooming vines.
Inside, the world opened up-a high ceiling, warm wooden floors, and massive, sunlit windows overlooking a tranquil garden.
But what took my breath away were the easels.
Dozens of easels filled the room, each one waiting for a canvas.
The air was tinged with the scent of oil paint and fresh hope.
I turned to look at him, my heart racing. “Is this… is this for me?”
Tristan shrugged, but his smile gave him away. “Every brush. Every canvas. They’re yours. I
bought the whole place. Consider it… an early mating ceremony gift.”
Something opened up inside me.
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I hadn’t picked up a brush in years.
I had buried myself because Jason had made it clear my dreams were worthless.
I was just his secretary, a convenient mate, nothing more.
But Tristan…
Tears sprang to my eyes before I could control them. “You remembered.”
He stepped closer, cupping my face and brushing away the tears with his thumb.
“Of course I remembered. You used to stay up late drawing on your laptop, remember? Even when you hated me, you told me you would have your own gallery one day.”
He kissed my forehead, his voice a low rumble. “No matter what, Bella, you’ll never be insignificant again. I won’t let anyone make you feel that way. Not even me.”
In that moment, I broke down completely, but it
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was a good kind of breakdown.
Tears soaked his shirt as he held me tightly, my fingers clutching his collar as though I would fall apart if he let go.
In the days that followed, the studio became
my sanctuary.
Every morning, Tristan ensured breakfast was set on the wide oak table by the window.
Every afternoon, he’d stroll in with that infuriating smile, leaning against the doorframe to watch me paint.
“Are you just here to watch me?” I asked him once, paint smudged on my cheek.
He stepped closer, wiping it away with his thumb, his eyes locked onto mine. “I can’t help it. Watching you paint is the only time you’re not planning to stab me.”
“Oh, I’m still planning,” I teased. “I’m just waiting for you to buy me more paint.”
He kissed me then, the scent of linseed oil
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mingling with his cologne, making me wonder how I’d ever thought hate was stronger than
this.
Between the hum of canvas and the serenity. of the manor, I’d often find myself back in my
father’s room.
Now, I spoke to him more than I had in years.
About Alpha Jason’s downfall, about the pup I lost, about how Tristan made me feel like the girl he’d once promised.
Sometimes I’d read him old poems that my mother loved. Sometimes I’d just sit there, holding his hand.
“Wake up, Dad,” I whispered one night, my thumb stroking his knuckles gently. “I need you. We’ve come so far… we’re so close to success. Help me reclaim our pack. Tell me you’re proud
of me.”
The machines kept their steady rhythm, but there was no response.
Pain constricted my throat as I struggled to
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swallow.
I knew hope was foolish.
But hope was all I had left.
The next afternoon, I was painting a gentle sunrise on a canvas facing his bed, my strokes slow and deliberate.
My dad lay behind me, sunlight touching his face.
“Remember when I painted you, Dad?” I said through my tears. “You said I made you look like a king. Maybe that’s why I thought you’d never fall.”
I set down my brush and wiped my hands on my apron.
I walked over to his side, holding his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze,
“I promise I’ll fix everything. You just need to come back.”
I was about to leave when something made me
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5 Points
freeze.
His fingers twitched.
I stood there, my breath caught.
I looked at his face, still unchanging, but his hand… it moved again.
Weak but unmistakable.
“Dad?” My voice cracked.
“Dad, can you hear me? Dad!”
Frantically, I pressed the call button, my fingers shaking as I held it down.
“Doctor! Nurse! Please-quickly!”
