Lifting her hand, Belinda pressed her fingers to the rough colors strewn about the canvas, staring up at a face so eerily similar to her own, that she saw herself in it. But it couldn't be her. The lips of the woman in the painting were curved upwards, but it was nothing like the cold smile that never reached the eyes, which seemed to be all Belinda could manage. The painter had captured the twinkle in the silver eyes, and joy in her facial features. This woman appeared genuinely happy; unlike Belinda, she truly smiled. The Lycan stood beside the mysterious woman, his dark eyes and smile just as bright as her own. The way his hand was protectively wrapped around her waist, the way his body unconsciously leaned towards her, Belinda could tell she was someone important to him. But who was she? They were both dressed fashionably, or at least they would have been considered so in the late American 1800s. Belinda ran her fingers around the woman's jaw, down her slender neck, an
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