Arranged To The Beast Alpha

Tranquility

LEAH

“Come with me; I want to show you something,” Damian said as he got up from his chair.

I also stood, ever so slowly, scared that I angered him, did he see through my lies? I did try to sound convincing.

“I don't plan to kill you,” he said cautiously and added. “Let's go.”

I stepped into the artistry room with Damien, and my breath caught in my throat.

It was a treasure trove of creativity—a kaleidoscope of colors splashed across canvases, each piece more breathtaking than the last. I was instantly mesmerized; I had never seen anything quite like it. Each brushstroke seemed to tell a story, to breathe life into the canvases, and I felt like I was walking through a dream.

“What is this place?” The question flew out of my mouth before I could think twice about it.

“My Gallery.” He replied, his expression neutral, with no sign of pride, happiness, or even sadness.

I tore my gaze from his face and focused on the masterpieces standing before me.

“Wow,” I gasped, unable to help myself. I hurried over to the painting that drew me in like a moth to a flame. It was a depiction of a lady, lounging serenely in a blue-painted river, her hair fanned out like a silky cloud across the water. The light reflected off the surface in such a way that it almost felt real as if I could dip my fingers into the cool, tranquil depths.

Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. This painting was my mother's favorite. She had tried so hard to recreate it when I was a child, always frustrated yet determined to capture the peace that radiated from it. I could almost hear her voice whispering, “It’s all about the feeling, Leah.”

“Tranquillity,” I murmured, the word spilling from my lips as I traced the lines of the painting with my eyes.

“What?” Damien asked, pulling me from my reverie. He stood nearby, watching me curiously, probably trying to get into my head, or something.

“The name of the painting,” I explained, glancing up at him. “It’s Tranquillity. It symbolizes the essence of peace the lady gets from the river. No matter what she’s going through, this river gives her peace.”

“That's interesting,” he replied, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. I smiled, losing myself in the artwork once more, my mind racing with memories of my mother standing at her ease,paint-splattered and focused, trying to capture this exact moment.

“Did she paint?” Damien asked, his gaze fixed on the painting.

“No. I mean I never saw her paint.

She was always busy with pack duties, always by my father's side; she made time for us too; we did a lot of things, even graced small Arts shows at school and charity functions.”

She never spoke of painting, not once. Through her captivation, her deep thoughts, her quiet glance, and careful observations. I saw those; I noticed each and every detail of the action she portrayed. Every single time.

I took to painting not just because I loved it, but because I wanted to see her perform those magical actions; growing up, I found them mesmerizing. I wanted to see her commend my painting, but she never did. Not once, most times she was too busy to admire them, and other times she would simply say. *Good.*

So I tried to make her favorite painting. However, I never started, and neither did she remain alive to watch me do it.

“I’ve always wanted to recreate it,” I said, a hint of longing in my voice. The idea had flickered in my mind so many times, but I had never dared to do it.

“Then do so,” Damien said simply, and I felt my heart plummet. My hands trembled at the thought. “Oh no, I can’t…” I stammered, the words tumbling out before I could catch myself. The weight of his gaze felt like a challenge, and I instinctively took a step back.

Damien didn’t respond; instead, he walked away, and I felt a pang of regret. I hadn’t meant to dismiss his encouragement. I was just scared—scared of failing, of not being good enough, scared of everything.

But then he returned, a large bag in hand. He placed it on a nearby table and unzipped it, revealing a collection of paints, brushes, and a blank canvas—everything I would need. “There, that’s everything you need. Go ahead,” he said, his tone light but firm.

I froze, staring at the supplies like they were foreign objects. My heart raced. How could I recreate my mother’s painting next to Damien? I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush, nor made a painting in over three years.

“I can’t,” I whispered, stepping back. Panic surged through me, and as I did, my back collided with something solid. A moment later, I heard a horrible shattering sound. I gasped and turned to see one of the expensive vases shattered into a million pieces, glittering shards scattered across the floor like a confetti of regret.

My heart sank like a stone. I dropped to my knees without thinking, desperately trying to piece the fragments back together, knowing it was pointless.

“I’ll let it slide if you recreate your mother’s painting,” Damien’s voice sliced through the air, and I froze, my fingers still hovering over the broken pieces.

I scrambled to my feet, tears welling up in my eyes. “I’m sorry! I’ll ask my father to pay you back…”

He raised his hand to stop me, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll take that recreation as the only payment.”

“What?” My mind raced, caught between disbelief and anger.

“You have a week,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away, leaving me in a whirlpool of emotions.

I stood there, the broken vase forgotten, my thoughts tangled like the hair in the wind. Did he expect me to recreate that painting? To face the memories and the pressure?

But as I looked back at the painting of the lady in the river, I felt something shift inside me. Maybe this was the push I needed. Maybe—just maybe—I could capture a piece of my mother’s spirit again.

After all, what did I have to lose?