The Artist

Devlin Drake leant against the brick wall just off Upper Street, collar turned up against the chill that still clung to the April evening. The light was fading fast, painting the pavement in long shadows, but that didn’t stop the little artist from working. She’d set up her easel right there on the corner again, no pitch, no permission, no bloody protection paid. Bold as brass.

He’d clocked her a week back. First it was the money – or the lack of it. Then it was her. Five foot nothing, all wild brown hair and paint-splattered shirt tied at the waist like she’d wandered out of some posh studio and straight into his territory. She moved the brush with this quiet focus, head tilted, amber eyes narrowed against the last of the daylight. Proper beautiful, she was. Dangerous sort of beautiful.

Devlin took a slow drag on his cigarette, watching her pack up. She wiped her hands on a rag, rolled the canvas carefully, and slipped it into a big leather portfolio. No one bothered her. Not yet. But that was about to change.

He pushed off the wall and crossed the road, shoes silent on the damp tarmac. Up close she smelled of turps and something floral, expensive. She glanced up as he approached, those amber eyes widening for just a second before she schooled her face into polite caution.

“Evening,” he said, voice low, north London thick as the fog that used to roll off the canal. “Nice piece you done there. Shame you ain’t got a licence for trading on my streets.”

She straightened up, all five foot one of her, and looked him dead in the eye. Posh voice, clear as cut glass. “I’m terribly sorry, but I wasn’t aware I needed one. I’m simply trying to sell a few originals to cover materials. I don’t take up much space.”

Devlin almost laughed. She had no idea who he was. Most people round here clocked the Drake name and crossed the road. Not her. She stood there in her paint-stained blouse like she was at a garden party.

“Name’s Devlin,” he told her, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Devlin Drake. And round here, love, you pay to play. Or you don’t play at all.”

“Wren,” she replied, chin lifting. “Wren Diamond. And I’m afraid I don’t have anything to pay with at the moment. Business has been rather slow.”

He studied her. The way the dying light caught in her hair, the stubborn set of her mouth. Muse, he thought. She looked like one. Carter would’ve already had her hauled in for what she owed, but something about this one made him pause. He wanted to see what she could do with that brush when she wasn’t half-starved for supplies.

“Tell you what, Muse,” he said, the nickname sliding out before he could stop it. “You come with me, show me what else you’ve got in that portfolio, and maybe we can work something out. I know people who pay proper money for talent.”

She hesitated, fingers tightening on the strap of her bag. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mr Drake.”

“Devlin,” he corrected, stepping closer. Close enough to see the faint smudge of charcoal on her cheek. “And it’s the best idea you’ve had all week, trust me. You keep painting here without sorting the protection and someone less understanding than me is gonna notice. I’d rather it was me who noticed first.”

Wren searched his face, those amber eyes wary but curious. For a moment the street noise faded – the buses on Upper Street, the lads shouting further down, the distant wail of a siren. Just her and him under the orange glow of the streetlamp.

“Alright,” she said at last, voice soft but steady. “But only to show you the work. I’m not agreeing to anything else.”

Devlin’s mouth curved into a slow smile. “Course not, Muse. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He took the portfolio from her gently, surprised at how light it felt in his hand, and nodded down the road towards the black Range Rover waiting at the kerb. As she fell into step beside him, small and fierce and far too posh for this part of north London, Devlin already knew one thing for certain.

This one was gonna cost him. And he was gonna enjoy every penny.

Devlin held the car door open for her, one brow raised in quiet challenge. Wren hesitated only a second before sliding into the back seat, clutching her small shoulder bag like it was armour. He climbed in after her, the leather creaking under his weight, and gave the driver a single nod. The Range Rover pulled away smooth as silk into the Islington traffic.

Inside the car it was warm, the air thick with the scent of his cologne and the faint trace of turps still clinging to her clothes. She sat ramrod straight, knees together, eyes fixed on the portfolio now resting across both their laps. Devlin flipped it open without asking, sliding out the first canvas.

“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath. It was a street scene – the very corner she’d been painting on – but done in these rich, moody oils that made the ordinary look like something out of a dream. The light caught the wet cobbles just right, and there was a lone figure in the distance that looked suspiciously like one of his own lads keeping watch. Clever girl.

“You did this today?” he asked, voice lower than he meant it to be.

Wren nodded, cheeks colouring just a touch. “Yes. I like working from life. The light changes so quickly round here. It’s rather… alive.”

“Alive,” he repeated, tasting the word. Posh little thing. He turned the page. Another piece – this one a portrait of an old market trader, wrinkles etched deep, eyes full of years. Then a quick charcoal sketch of a kid on a bike, all motion and mischief. Every single one was proper good. Better than good.

He closed the portfolio slowly and leant back, studying her profile in the passing streetlights. “You’re wasting your time on that corner, Muse. You could be in a proper gallery. Why the streets?”

She gave a small, elegant shrug. “Galleries want a name first. Or money. I’ve neither. So I paint where people can actually see the work. And I like the freedom.” Her amber eyes flicked to him. “Until now, apparently.”

Devlin chuckled, the sound rough in his chest. “Freedom costs, darling. Everything does round here.” He let his arm stretch along the back of the seat, not quite touching her but close enough that she’d feel the heat of him. “My brother Carter runs things. I’m his right hand. When I say protection, I mean we keep the wrong sort away. Keep your pretty head safe while you work. But nothing’s free.”

Wren turned to face him properly then, chin lifted in that posh way that made something twist low in his gut. “And what exactly would this protection entail, Mr Drake? Monthly payments I can’t afford? Or something else?”

He liked that she didn’t flinch. Most birds would’ve been proper scared by now, but not her. She watched him like he was another subject to paint – interesting, maybe a bit dangerous, but worth studying.

“Call me Devlin,” he said again. “And we’ll work it out. You keep painting. I make sure no one touches you or your stuff. In return…” He let the silence stretch, watching her throat bob as she swallowed. “You let me look after you. Simple as.”

The car slowed outside a converted warehouse just off the canal – one of the Cartel’s quieter spots. Lights glowed warm in the upper windows. Devlin stepped out first and offered her his hand. After a beat she took it, her small fingers cool against his palm. He didn’t let go straight away.

Inside, the place was all exposed brick and low lighting. A couple of the lads nodded at Devlin but kept their mouths shut when they saw the girl with him. He led her upstairs to a large open room that served as an office and sometimes a private gallery for pieces they moved on the side.

“Show me more,” he said, clearing a low table and laying out her work under the spotlights. “Properly this time.”

Wren moved with quiet confidence once she had her brushes and canvases in front of her. She explained each piece – the colours she’d mixed, why she’d chosen that angle, how the light had shifted halfway through. Her voice was soft but passionate, all cut-glass vowels and careful enunciation. Devlin listened, arms folded, eyes never leaving her face even when she was talking about technique.

At one point she reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and left a faint streak of burnt umber on her cheek. Without thinking he stepped in close and brushed it away with his thumb. She froze.

“You’ve got paint on you,” he murmured, voice gravelly.

“Thank you,” she whispered, but she didn’t step back.

Devlin let his hand linger a second longer than he should’ve, feeling the warmth of her skin. This girl was trouble. Proper trouble. She owed them money she didn’t have, talked like she’d been to finishing school, and painted like the world owed her beauty back. And he already knew he wasn’t letting her go easy.

“Stay and paint here for a bit,” he said finally, pulling his hand away. “Proper studio. Materials on us. We’ll sort the rest later.”

Wren searched his face again, those amber eyes wary but bright with something that looked dangerously like intrigue. “And if I say no?”

Devlin smiled, slow and dark. “Then I’ll just have to keep finding you on that corner until you change your mind, Muse. Either way… you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

He watched the decision play across her face – fear, pride, and that spark of artistic hunger all fighting for top spot. In the end the hunger won, just like he knew it would.

“Very well,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “But only until I can pay what I owe.”

Devlin didn’t answer. He already knew the debt was never going to be just about money. Not anymore.