Chapter 58

I keep having the same dream over and over again—Belle running through the gardens, the tall hedges hiding us from the rest of the world. Her eyes are dancing, her laughter a beautiful, tinkling sound I’ll never get sick of hearing. Her hair floats behind her, like she’s a fairy, imbuing my world with magic. The sunlight cascades over her features, bathing her in an otherworldly glow.

She squeals as I chase her and I laugh, my soul feeling light…like I can fly.

“Come and catch me, Maxwell!” She sticks out her tongue as she runs into the rose garden, the flowers in full bloom, the sweet scent toying with my senses. Her white sundress billows behind her.

Butterflies flit around the air and I feel so happy, so exhilarated.

But then the scene shifts.

Dark clouds sweep through the skies, blotting out the sun. The lush red blooms of the roses shrivel and melt, turning inky black as an icy gale hurls through the garden—aggressive and violent.

Belle is still laughing, seemingly oblivious to everything as panic takes root in my chest. Her dress turns dark gray, the hem dragging on the ground, gathering up muck and grime.

“Come catch me, Maxwell!”

But my feet are weighed down by cement blocks, and our distance grows. Desperation tears through me as I watch in horror the thorny bushes scratching her ivory skin, blood seeping out of the cuts, the droplets becoming macabre streams of art slithering down her body .

Then she crumbles in front of me, her body twisted and broken, and by the time I reach her, her beautiful tawny eyes are lifeless.

I’m too late.

My heart wrenches in pain as I collapse next to her when the first raindrops descend, the wind carrying the sound of her voice whispering, “Why didn’t you find me, Silas?”

“My darling, sweet Emma.” The words tumble out of my mouth.

Then the dreams will repeat themselves and each time, I’ll begin my desperate chase again, trying to catch Belle before the weather turns, before disaster strikes.

To save her. To keep her with me. To find her once more.

“Come catch me, Maxwell,” she cries as the skies turn sunny again.

My heart pounds rapidly inside my chest, the pain and heartbreak from moments ago not yet healed as desperation climbs up my spine and lodges itself in my throat.

She’s running again, that same beautiful bright smile on her face.

Come back, Belle. Don’t leave. Stay with me.

My feet give chase, my strides faster, adrenaline pulsing inside my veins.

Don’t leave me.

The words echo in my mind, a desperate plea.

The skies turn black again, and I shake myself. No. No. No. I can’t do this again. I can’t watch her die in front of me again. I can’t—

A sharp pain splinters inside my chest, an incessant beeping ringing in my ears.

Everything hurts. Everything fucking hurts.

A bright white light sears my eyes, adding to the splitting headache.

Pain, so much pain.

I knot my hands into fists.

“Did you see that?” the gale whispers, the hammering in my brain growing in intensity. “He moved!”

“Doctor! ”

The strange voices disappear and I’m thrust into my dream again. The cycle repeats itself.

Again. And again. And again.

Belle is dashing into the rose garden once more. I need to stop her. I need to stop her before she gets hurt. I need to stop her before she leaves me.

Opening my mouth, I scream, expecting no sounds to come out much like all the times before, but this time, I hear it.

“Belle, Belle…”

Hands are on my body, dragging me away from her. No. Stop it. I need to get to her.

“Maxwell! Oh my God. Maxwell! Can you hear me?”

Belle. Her sweet voice pulls me in like the bright beam from the lighthouse.

“Maxwell! I’m here. Open your eyes. I’m here!” A slender hand grips my arm. Her hand. Her warmth. Her sweet scent of lilies.

With a lot of effort, I blink once…then twice…watching the dream flicker on and off like a broken television, until it disappears, and all I can see…is her.

Her beautiful smile, her cheeks wet with tears. Those breathtaking tawny eyes. The eyes of nature in bloom—vibrant and full of life.

“My little muse,” I whisper, my voice raspy, like it hasn’t been used for a while. The rest of the unfamiliar room slowly comes into focus. “W-Why are you crying? Who the fuck do I have to kill?”

Her face crumbles as she throws herself on top of me, her hair tickling my neck as she sobs into my chest.

Pain stabs through me and I groan. “Everything fucking hurts. What happened?”

Belle gasps, springing back, her teary eyes widening in panic as she moves her hands down my body, like she’s checking for injuries. “Oh my God, did I hurt you? I’m so, so, sorry! How are you feeling? Are you okay? Oh fuck, that’s a stupid question, of course you’re not okay, you got shot and nearly died. What am I talking—”

“Shhhhhh.” I lift my finger to her lips .

Even that motion seems to require a lot of effort. Her words finally sift through the haze, and bits and pieces of the most terrifying night of my life flash through my mind. Cole shot. Belle tied up in the rose garden. The storm. Morris pointing a gun at me then turning his aim toward her.

Me throwing myself in front of her, a bullet piercing my back because I couldn’t let her die again . What? The dreams and visions meld together, blurring reality and imagination, but everything feels achingly real.

I remember my fevered words of love as the rain soaked our bodies, promising her I’ll take her to Venice to paint the canals as if that was a promise I made her before. We talked about Venice before, but she never mentioned anything about painting the canals. But why does this feel so real?

I shake myself. It doesn’t matter if nothing makes sense. I’ve survived, and she’s here, alive and well.

With me.

I get a second chance with her. My love. Crushing relief floods through me, and I let out a shaky exhale.

I cradle her face, my fingers trailing over her silky skin. “I love you so much, Belle. So, so much.” It feels so good to say this without fear now.

Her lips tremble and she shakes her head. “You insane, infuriating man. Mr. Bad Influence. God, I love you so much!”

She presses her lips to mine and I savor the gentleness of her touch, the sweetness of her taste, even as pain threatens to unmoor me.

“I’m here. I’m never leaving,” I whisper against her lips as she pulls away.

The rest of the room slowly comes into focus. I see the teary eyes of Grace and Taylor standing by the corner. Steven is rubbing a hand over his weary face. Ryland is next to the bed, his hands gripping the railing, his nostrils flaring as moisture gathers in his eyes. Millie beams next to him, her cheeks already wet with tears. Rex is clutching a trembling Lana, with Ethan rubbing comforting circles on her back .

Charles mutters “fuck” over and over under his breath. He’s by the window, sitting next to Dad, who looks like he hasn’t slept in ages.

My family. They’re all here. For me.

“How the fuck did you guys get the hospital to let you in here all at once?”

“You fucker,” Ryland chokes out, his lips twisting into a relieved smile. “You fucking shit.”

“You briefly woke up, but then you fell unconscious again.” Lana lifts her head up from Rex’s chest. “I was so worried!”

“Son, how are you feeling?” Dad edges closer, his throat working. He’s clearly emotional and trying to stay calm—the bearing of the eldest Anderson son.

“I’m sorry, Dad, everyone, for scaring you all.”

“This is why I never want to be a hero,” Rex mutters, wiping his hand under his suspiciously red eyes. “Give me booze and pussy, but you won’t find me trying to save the day any fucking time soon.”

Taylor scoffs, her voice thick. “No one would ever mistake you as a hero, Rex.”

Rex throws her a sarcastic glare.

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine, Taylor?” Charles mutters under his breath.

“Why the fuck are you in here, anyway? It’s not like you’re family.” Taylor scowls.

Something niggles my consciousness. “What happened to Morris? Melody, Mora, and Agnes? Cole? Elias?”

My siblings take turns filling me in—Morris died from the two gunshot wounds, but mysteriously, the casings and bullets were never found, so the police had nothing to go on and no one implicated Elias, who, after calling for an ambulance, disappeared with his crew before the authorities arrived. Morris left behind a letter on his bed, detailing how he blamed my entire family for the tragedy that had befallen his and a journal that read like an unhinged manifesto .

It was a detailed confession to the multiple murders in our family, including the various accidents he engineered—the busted pipe incident at the shelter, hiring a driver to scare Belle in SoHo, giving a sedative to the security team the night he took me, among the other seemingly unrelated events in the past.

Melody and Mora are recuperating at home after they were treated for acute cyanide poisoning. Elias has disappeared somewhere, but I’m not worried about him. He’s not the king of the underworld for no reason. Cole is rotting in lock up, awaiting trial. That motherfucker. If he didn’t try saving Belle, I’d find him and gut him myself as soon as I get out of this hospital.

“What about Agnes? Is she part of this? I heard a strange phone call the other day,” I ask.

Dad answers, “That was her husband. Agnes called me two days ago to tender her resignation. She said she would’ve contacted Belle, but she was too ashamed. Apparently, she stole a few heirlooms from us over the years and her husband was blackmailing her for his gambling habits. Anyway, I told her I’d hold on to her resignation until you woke up. I didn’t even want to think about it then.”

Knock. Knock.

“Okay, I need to check on the patient. May I please ask you to step outside? Even though we appreciate your generous donation for a new research wing,” a slim woman wearing glasses and a doctor’s coat says to Dad. “You’re all drawing attention. Not the good kind.”

Linus chuckles and walks toward the door, motioning for everyone to follow him. “Come on, kids. Let the doctor do her work.”

“I’m staying, is that okay?” Belle asks, her fingers intertwining with mine.

The doctor nods. “That’s fine.”

She introduces herself as Dr. Jones, the primary intensivist in charge of my care, and runs a series of tests to check my pupils, motor function, and breathing. She asks me if I remember my name, age, the year, what happened, and a host of other questions .

“Things look promising, Mr. Anderson. You’re very lucky. We’ll have a team of specialists come in later for a more thorough cardiovascular check and respiratory assessment. Neurology will be here as well to assess your memory and cognitive function.”

Dr. Jones smiles and pats my arm. “We’ll give you some pain medication. Try to get some rest. You’ve been through a lot.” She looks at Belle, who is still gripping me tightly. “Your wife barely left your side this past week. Maybe you can convince her to go home to get some rest.” She nods and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

I turn to Belle, taking her in fully for the first time. Her hair is in a messy bun, her face too frail and pale, dark circles rimming her bloodshot eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

But she’s still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

Slowly, I lift our intertwined hands and press a soft kiss on the back of her hand, relishing the pink flush blooming on her face.

“My little muse. You must’ve been so worried.”

She nods vigorously. “I don’t know how I would’ve gone on if I lost you.”

“You would’ve been fine. You’re strong. Perfect. Just the way you are,” I rasp.

Belle wets her lips and sniffles. “Don’t you ever do that again!”

I want to laugh but the movement causes too much pain. “I don’t plan on getting shot for fun.”

She presses kiss after kiss on my face, careful not to press her weight on my body.

“Does this mean you forgive me, Belle? For being a colossal idiot? For leaving you?”

Her lips curve into a tremulous smile, and she wipes her eyes. “I’m so angry at you, Maxwell. God, I’m so, so, so—”

Her throat works, the words seeming stuck inside her. I cradle her cheek with my hand, the other hand sliding up her nape, fingers tangling in her silky tresses .

I pull her head down and press her forehead to mine, feeling her soft breaths, her tears wetting my cheeks, our noses touching as we wrap ourselves in this intimate silence.

The artist and his muse.

Two halves of a soul torn apart, lost for centuries, roaming the earth, endlessly searching for each other.

Every tragedy in my life. Every heartache. The restlessness I’d felt before.

Everything led me back to her.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, Belle,” I whisper against her lips. “And if one lifetime isn’t enough. I’ll find you again in the next life and continue.”

Her breathing quickens, and she leans into my touch. “Never,” she murmurs. “One lifetime is too short.”

She lifts her head, her brilliant eyes pinning me in place, stealing my breath. Her eyes darken into a smooth amber—a trick of the light, I’m sure—and for a moment it seems like I’ve waited my entire life to stare into these eyes again.

Belle whispers, “I love you most ardently and fervently.”

I shiver. She’s saying the same words I said to her when I thought I was dying, words that sounded foreign and yet ring true to the depths of my core. Tears mist her eyes as she smiles, her breath hitching.

I rasp, my voice joining hers in a vow—one that is far more powerful than any curse or omen—one I have a feeling I’ve been waiting lifetimes to say to her ears.

“I’m yours forever, this lifetime and all the lifetimes thereafter.”