I knew him only as Van Gogh.
A tortured artist who owned the night as he moved through the shadows, cloaked in hate and madness.
He was a vicious vigilante—a serial arsonist who thrived on the fear he triggered with a single match between his tattooed knuckles.
We were told to lock our doors and stay inside.
I wanted to. I really did.
But then I saw his eyes, burning like embers as he watched me through the smoke.
And like the flames at his feet, I delighted in his attention.
I became his muse.
His passion.
His obsession.
His perfectly flawed flower.
But that was years ago.
Before my seaside town became his canvas…
Before the ashes of my enemies became his paint…
Before he hated me… and made me his wife.