Page 23

Her shoulders climbed toward her ears. Her chin tucked lower. The heel of her shoe scraped against the kennel floor as she attempted to create distance where none existed.

The fire crackled behind me, and a log shifted. Orange light danced across the room, catching the black coats of the dogs, and my tears turned them into shifting shadows. I adjusted my footing beside the easel and immediately regretted it.

The air stirred just enough to bring the smell back. My stomach rolled. A sour scent clung stubbornly to the room. I was surprised that Sonny hadn’t insisted on her being bathed and changed before bringing her into his sanctuary. But then again, he was a stickler for things being exact.

The smell was as humiliating as it was strong. My face flushed hot. We hadn’t been here long enough to go through the whole four seasons, so we were all still learning our place. This morning had been the first time they’d served oatmeal.

Winter had tried so hard. I remembered watching her sit at the long dining table, forcing each bite down while tears gathered in her eyes. Every swallow had looked painful. Every spoonful a battle. Oatmeal wasn’t my favorite either, but it was food.

Without warning, she coughed, and the spoon clanged against her bowl. The room fell silent. And sweet, quiet Winter threw up. Violently. I’d never hated my ability to recall minute details more.

The snarl of a dog shook the memory, and I had to look away as it once more snapped at Winter. My eyes drifted, but not before I saw a fresh stain spread down her legs. A terrified sob reached my ears.

“Should have asked father for the puppy pads,” Sonny sneered. “Can’t even control her bladder.”

A knot lodged in my throat as I witnessed her humiliation. He seemed to revel in it as he watched her. My gaze drifted toward the workbench.

Porcelain limbs were pushed aside. Tiny paintbrushes and jars of glaze sat among the half-finished dolls. Some stared blankly from their stands, some were waiting for clothing, and others needed repainting. Sketches covered the surface, each one documenting moments Sonny deemed important enough to preserve.

His attention remained fixed on Winter, and my stomach dropped. Sonny lived for these types of moments. He didn’t see her as she was. He didn’t see the frightened little girl trapped inside a kennel with two dogs. He saw a scene. A piece of art waiting to be recreated.

The nearest Cane Corso barked. The sound vibrated through the floorboards. Winter’s breath caught. For one terrible moment, she stopped breathing altogether. Then she let out a strangled sound.

“Perfect,” Sonny breathed.

My grip tightened around the brush. Perfect? He was smiling. Actually smiling. The strangest part was that his attention wasn’t on Winter or even the dogs any more.

It was on the scene spread across his workbench. It was on the tiny figures and the miniature kennel. His fingers moved quickly as he adjusted the placement of one piece before stepping back to admire it.

“No, no this won’t do. You need to be positioned like you were this morning.”

The words hit me like a slap. Winter’s eyes widened. He couldn’t be serious. The dog growled again, this time deeper in its chest.

“Winter.”

His voice sharpened. The warning in it was unmistakable. Obey. Or else. My heart hammered. The brush shook in my hand.

“Paint, Autumn.”

I froze. The command came so suddenly that it took me a second to understand he was speaking to me. His eyes never left his project.

“You’re behind.”

My grip tightened around the brush. Slowly, I lowered my gaze to the canvas resting on the easel beside me. The preliminary sketch was already there. Sonny had shared with me what he wanted it to look like.

Thin charcoal lines mapped out the composition with disturbing precision. The kennel occupied the center. Winter had fallen on her backside when one of the dogs lunged at her earlier. She’d backed herself into the farthest corner after being thrown in after breakfast.

One of the dogs was sniffing the front of her blouse at the mess. Drool and saliva dripped down onto her face as he got nearer to inspect. That was when she peed herself the first time. The second dog nipped at the first as if it was saying it wanted a turn.

My stomach churned. Even rough as it was and unfinished, the drawing captured everything. The fear and helplessness. I’d already drawn a few loose strokes showing where the water and food bowls had been. I had even sketched the angle of Winter’s head, carefully noting the direction of her gaze.

It wasn’t like I could forget it. I stared at the page. At the empty outlines waiting to be filled. Waiting for me to give them life. The realization physically hurt to the point where I clutched my chest.

When this was finished, it wouldn’t just be a memory of a terrible morning. It would become permanently imbedded in my head. It would live on in oil and canvas, in color and brushstrokes. A record of Winter’s fear existing for years to come.

The room blurred. I blinked rapidly and lowered my head, pretending to study the paints arranged beside me. Anything to keep from looking at the sketch. Anything to avoid seeing what Sonny saw when he looked at her.

“Such a stunning composition. A beautiful moment worthy of capturing. Don’t you agree, Autumn?”