Dante Blackwood's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

They planted the last lily together at dusk. Dirt marked Scarlet's hands. She wiped them on her ripped jeans and looked at him. "Now show me where you live," she said. Dante froze. No one had ever stepped inside his home. But she had given him back his mother's garden. He owed her the same trust. "Come," he said. He led her up the drive to the tall Victorian house. Ivy climbed the dark walls. A stone fountain ran in the front yard. Scarlet stopped at the flowering gate and stared. "This is yours?" Her voice was small. Dante nodded. The wolf slipped through the bars ahead of them. He pushed open the heavy carved door and let Scarlet walk in first. Inside, the rooms stretched wide and clean. Tall windows. Polished floors. But the walls held nothing. No photos. No paintings. No coats by the door. Scarlet turned in a slow circle. Her boots echoed. "Dante," she said. "There's nothing here." He followed her gaze and saw what she saw. Empty shelves. Bare tables. A house he had kept like a hotel room, in case someone came and found a reason to leave. His chest went tight. He had opened the door and shown her nothing at all. "I keep it plain," he said. The words sounded hollow. Scarlet stepped close. "No. You keep it hidden." She touched his arm. "Where's the real part? The part like the garden." Dante's jaw worked. There was one room. He had never shown it to anyone. He took her hand and led her up the stairs. At the end of the hall he opened a narrow door. The room was small and full. His mother's chair sat by the window. Her books lined the sill. Dried lilies hung from a string. Sketches covered one wall, drawn in his own rough hand. Scarlet went still. She walked to the drawings. Faces. The square. The wolf. Her own face, twice. "You drew me," she whispered. Dante's ears burned. "I couldn't stop," he said. The wolf lay down on the rug like she belonged. Scarlet turned to him. Her teal eyes were wet. "This is who you are." She reached up and cupped his scarred jaw. He bent so she could reach. "Why hide it?" "Because if you saw all of it," he said, "you could break all of it." She held his gaze. "Then I'm in it now," she said. "The whole thing." He let her stay in that room until the sky went dark. He did not clean it or hide it. When she left, she did not take a piece of him with her. She left a mark on it instead. Her name, written small in the corner of one sketch, in her own hand. The house was no longer empty. Now it held her too.