Page 40 of Sinful Lord

So she better be ready.

9

Melina

Each brush stroke is cathartic.

My vision spills onto the empty canvas filling it with bits and pieces of what I feel inside. The process is hard, much harder than I remember, but I can’t stop.

The familiar smell of fresh paint swirls into my nostrils, mixing in with the warm air. My tired mind jumps with electricity. My exhausted body keeps pushing me forward.

I’m painting again. And it feels fucking amazing.

When I run out of silver paint, I let myself pause. Naturally, my eyes drift to the window. My curtains remain closed, but I don’t need to look outside to know how long I’ve been at this.

Just behind the canvas, perched atop one of my kitchen stools, is my open laptop. The clock on the top right corner of the screen tells me that I’ve been painting for almost an entire day and night.

Not straight, obviously. My body can’t handle that. Neither can my mind. But every second that I have been putting brush to canvas has been euphoric—even if my breaks are filled with doubt.

For a moment, I just sit on the edge of my bed, peering past my newest creation to stare at the open laptop.

Beneath the clock is an open email. But it’s not from my mysterious admirer. And it’s not one I’ve written to him.

No. The draft I wrote during one of my doubt-filed breaks from painting is directed toward my brother. Rian Kilpatrick. King of the Irish mafia. The man who would move worlds to come rescue me, if only he knew where I was.

The unsent draft contains my current whereabouts. That’s all.

His email fills the address bar. I haven’t found the guts to hit send yet.

What’s stopping me?

The laptop blurs as my gaze focuses back on the painting. A heavy pride drifts down my chest. This is my most abstract piece ever, and it’s not even done. Not by a long shot.

But that doesn’t matter. Even unfinished, it stands as a symbol of everything I came to Berlin for. Finally, I feel like an artist.

I’m living in a cutting-edge, artistic hub. I’m painting. My apartment is warm and cozy. This is what I dreamed of—even if the circumstances that led me to this moment haven’t exactly been… uh, ideal.

Placing my brush aside, I take a deep breath.

Reality slowly begins to seep back around me.

My current circumstances aren’t exactly ideal either. If it really is Tytus who’s set me up like this, then I could be in more danger than ever. Men like him are always looking for an angle. Chances are, he’s playing me for his own benefit.

But at this point, I’m not sure I even care. He’s hitting all the right buttons. I’m tired yet rejuvenated. I’m satisfied, but still extremely motivated. It feels like I’m slowly recovering from the horrors I’ve faced.

Everyone goes through their tribulations. Maybe I’ve finally been through mine.

Yet as I stand up and turn my back on the painting, I suddenly remember why I drafted the email to my brother in the first place.

No matter how warm the inside of this apartment is; no matter how tightly I’ve shut my curtains and shunned the cold dark world that nearly killed me, I’m not safe, I’m not protected, I’m not loved.

I’m alone.

And I feel every decimal of that deafening loneliness as I shuffle to the bathroom.

But then my phone pings—a scheduled reminder to take my medication—and I remember that I’m not completely alone. In a weird, twisted, mysterious way, I have a guide. A terrifying, monstrous guide, but still, a guide.

I take that pill and another as I close the mirror and give my reflection a good look.