He Buried Me But I Painted My Own Resurrection novel Chapter 297

Sienna didn't answer immediately.

She quietly studied Cillian, who was mere inches away, taking in the raw, undisguised possessiveness in his eyes.

After a long moment, she spoke, her voice unnervingly calm: "Cillian, are you sure you want to do this?"

"I never do anything unless I'm absolutely certain." Cillian released her chin and straightened up, looking down at her.

Sienna stood up to match his gaze.

Even though she looked fragile next to his imposing frame, her presence was unyielding. There wasn't a trace of fear in her eyes.

"Do you really think locking me up here will make me obedient?" she challenged.

Cillian chuckled, a glint of appreciation in his eyes. "I never wanted a docile caged bird."

He reached out, his fingertips grazing her cheek. The gesture was gentle, but his words were merciless: "I want you to stay by my side willingly. Even if it takes a little time."

"Then you're going to be disappointed." Sienna turned her head, dodging his touch. "I despise being forced into anything."

"Is that so?" Cillian withdrew his hand and turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The sprawling, glittering nightscape of the city stretched out before him in all its glory. With his back to her, he said softly, "Then we'll take our time. I have all the time in the world."

Sienna said nothing more.

She turned and headed toward the art studio he had prepared for her. Since she couldn't leave right now, she had to stabilize the situation and wait for an opening.

Cillian didn't stop her.

He simply stood by the window, watching her slender reflection in the glass, his smile deepening.

The harder the prey struggled, the more thrilled the hunter became.

...

Inside the studio, Sienna scanned her surroundings.

It was exactly as Cillian had promised—fully stocked with everything she needed to create.

Tubes of paint were meticulously arranged on custom wooden shelves, featuring every brand she favored, from Winsor & Newton to Old Holland. The selection was terrifyingly precise.

Brushes of all sizes were sorted perfectly into jars, their tips catching the cool overhead light.

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