CHAPTER 222: JUST KIDDING

Chapter 222

Nima

"Oh, you’re here?"

Her voice hits me like a shot of adrenaline. I nearly drop my bag.

Daphne strolls in like she owns the room—well, she does—and the scent of paint and something her, fills the space at once. She closes the door with a lazy flick of her wrist, and I swear the sound is louder than thunder.

"Yeah," I manage, my voice cracking like an untrained flute. Smooth, Nima. Very normal. Totally not panicking because you just discovered she somehow painted the inside of your dreams.

Normal, my ass.

She quirks an eyebrow. "Croaky today," she observes.

"I—uh—thirsty," I stammer. My palms are sweaty. My heart is doing some kind of chaotic drum solo.

Daphne’s golden eyes sweep over me with that same unreadable sharpness, like she’s peeling back layers I didn’t know I had. For one terrifying second, I think she’s going to ask what I was doing when she walked in. Ask why I’m standing stiffly in the middle of the room like a thief caught red-handed.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she sets her bag down, shrugging off her jacket, and moves toward an easel. "Good," she says simply.

"I was starting to think you’d skip. Sit."

It’s not a request.

My knees obey before my brain does. I sink onto the little couch in the corner, still trying to breathe like a normal person while she mixes paints at the table, as if there isn’t a literal mystery hanging on her walls that could upend everything I thought I knew about reality.

She doesn’t push, but her tail flicks once, slow and deliberate, as her eyes meet mine again.

And I can’t tell if she knows what I saw—

or if she’s daring me to ask.

I sit there dumbly as she paints, trying not to fidget.

She does this sometimes—just requests my presence. Doesn’t matter if she’s napping, or staring at the ceiling; as long as I’m in the same room, she seems satisfied.

Her world swallows her whole. The golden light catches on her dark hair, her brush moves with lazy precision, and my racing heart begins to slow. The panic, the impossible discovery—it all dulls a little under the steady rhythm of her brush against canvas.

The room is quiet except for the faint chirp of birds outside and the swish of her tail dragging across the floor. Dip, brush, swish. Repeat.

When I’m sure she’s not watching me, I quietly slip my notebook from my bag. My fingers tremble as I flip it open. Surely I was mistaken earlier. Surely I imagined it.

But no.

From where I sit, I can see more of her paintings now. Even the "abstract" ones, the ones that look like half-dried blobs of color—I know them.

There’s one with a vague figure standing over a thousand tiny lights, a single beam of white breaking across their face. Another of someone’s back as they stare out a high castle window, hair blowing in a wind I can almost feel. And that one—my stomach twists—a kneeling figure in prayer. Except the red paint pooled at her feet isn’t an accident; I know, somehow, it’s blood.

They look unfinished to anyone else. Random. But I know

what they are. I don’t know how, and that terrifies me more than the fact that I recognize them at all.

My ears flatten as I clutch my notebook tight, heart thudding. I never have the courage to ask her much. Our "conversations" are usually yes, no, or short sentences. Probably because she scared the life out of me in the beginning and if I’m honest, she’s still scary. Just... in a different way now.

But the question gnaws at me.

"I have a question," I murmur. So softly I think she won’t hear.

Her panther ears twitch. Her tail pauses mid-swing. "Of course, my little bunny," she says without looking up.

Courage, Nima. Courage.

"I’ve always wondered... why me?"

Daphne hums, slow and thoughtful. "What do you mean?" Her tail resumes its lazy rhythm.

"I mean... out of all the students you could’ve picked; better, prettier...why me?" The words tumble out, shaky.

A purr rumbles across the room, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "It was always going to be you, my sweet little bunny."

"But... why?"

"Why not?" she counters easily.

"It doesn’t make any sense," I insist. It really doesn’t. Not to me. Not to literally anyone else but her.

"Why wouldn’t it? You’re the cutest. Your reactions are delicious. And most importantly—" she dips her brush, golden eyes flicking to me briefly, "—you’re you

."

That’s all? My mouth opens, then shuts. Frustration bubbles, but words don’t come.

She chuckles, low and warm. "Are you that mad?"

"I’m not," I mumble.

"Then why is your little tail twitching like that?"

"What—? It’s not!" My hand flies behind me. Betrayal. My tail is swishing anxiously. How does she even know that with her eyes on the canvas?

"No, I don’t have eyes on the back of my head," she answers with a soft laugh.

Argh.

She snickers again, clearly entertained,before the room settles into a companionable silence.

For a few minutes, I almost think she won’t say anything more.

Then her voice breaks the quiet, softer and more deliberate.

"Well? Why?" She doesn’t glance back, but I can hear the seriousness under her casual tone.

"Sometimes it just is. Why do people have favorite foods? Places? Activities? Sometimes there’s a grand reason. Like..." She pauses, dipping her brush.

"I paint because I’m terrified that one day I’ll forget... somethings..this way I can keep the memories some way."

Her tail flicks once, slow. "And sometimes, there’s no reason at all. I like roasted sweet potatoes simply because they’re nice."

Yes. Her obsession with roasted sweet potatoes is legendary. An odd quirk for a duchess panther, but it somehow makes her less of this legendary figure and more of a person.

"So what about me?" I ask before I can stop myself, heart pounding.

That’s when she turns slightly, golden eyes glinting. "Do you believe in past lives?"

My breath catches, heart racing. The question lands heavier than it should, like a stone in water. I open my mouth, unsure what to say.

She smirks, that playful curve returning to her lips. "Just kidding. You’re my sweet potato, my sweet little bunny."

And just like that, I’m left sitting there—ears burning, heart betraying me all over again.