Emperor of Mayhem

t w e n t y - f i v e

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"And what is this supposed to be?" Mr Varkov's hot breath tickled my skin as he stared over my shoulder at the blotched mess on the canvas.

It was a Saturday. I was bored as usual, needing some sort of entertainment and a distraction from what I thought I heard him say to me yesterday when I was sleeping.

Anyways, it took me a lot but I managed to cajole Mr Varkov into doing a painting competition with me even though I had never held a brush in my hand before. In my head it was that easy, stroke after stroke and a masterpiece would be made.

Little did I know that artists weren't ordinary people. There was a secret they weren't telling us.

"I don't know," I laughed pitifully, glancing at the paintbrush in my hand then whatever it was I just spent two hours painting.

It looked disturbing and I started to worry about the state of my mental health.

The idea was to paint a meadow, and I was so sure I could do it when I analyzed the picture in my head. But what I was looking at right now was nothing close to what a meadow was supposed to look like. I looked toward Mr Varkov's own and it was perfect. I saw myself walking through it in a white sundress and taking aesthetic pictures.

"It kinda looks like something from a horror flick." I murmured after redirecting my gaze to my masterful artwork, and he chuckled, the sound sexy to my ears, making heat crawl up my face at how close he was to me.

"I should stick to learning mathematics," I sighed wistfully, running the paintbrush over the edges for the supposed finishing touches. I definitely made it worse.

"I think it looks like someone's nightmare." He commented and my frown deepened. He could have told me I tried but I should keep it up. Why be so brutally honest?

"You didn't have to be so honest, Mr Varkov." My lips were pursed in ire as I returned the brush to the palette, abruptly rising to my feet. But Mr Varkov seemed to have a different plan as he grabbed me by the shoulder, pushing me down on the seat.

"Okay, what happened to using words?" I whipped my head around, fixing the back of his head with a frown as he had crossed over to where an empty stool was in the room to grab it.

I raised a brow when he placed the stool behind me then plopped down, his body heat and scent suddenly enveloping me when his huge frame hovered over my tiny one, his chest pressed against my back enough for me to feel the vibration of his heartbeat.

Automatically, as if some sort of invitation was sent when I wasn't watching, tingles travelled through every fibre of my being, blood rushing to my face when his face came forward, his two-day old stubble brushing against my soft skin.

"W-h," I found myself unable to speak as my tongue suddenly felt too heavy, my heart racing with an annoying speed, "What are you doing?" Though weakly but at least I could get the words out.

Instead of a reply, he chuckled softly, hot coffee breath hitting my face, another wave of tingles shutting up my arm when he grabbed my free hand, placing the brush between my fingers.

"I'm not gonna let the last canva I have left and my paint go to waste," he placed his hand over mine that held the brush, "So let's fix it."