Page 41 of Sinful Lord

Paint stains my skin, but underneath, I can see a rosy glow. The sight makes me smile. I’m not dead yet. There’s still so much more to do. I just have to hold on. I just have to keep pushing.

I look back over my shoulder, toward the glow of the open laptop.

If I hit send on that email, I’ll hardly be able to take another breath before my brother will come rushing to my rescue. But his version of a rescue will be dragging me back into the gilded cage I was so desperate to escape from.

Deep down, I’m still desperate to stay on the other side of those gold bars. But is the loneliness and the constant threat of danger worth it?

When I make my way back to the living room, my gaze once again falls on the first painting I’ve made in months.

That’s where I find my answer.

Yes. This is worth it. Artists suffer for their art. They stare danger in the face for their art. They risk it all for their art.

I’ve risked so much, and it’s finally paying off.

“I painted that…” I whisper to myself, getting a fresh look at the dotted canvas.

The piece probably isn’t even halfway done, but I can already see how much better it is than anything I’ve ever created before.

I can’t help but wonder if part of that is because of the subject I chose to paint. The complexity of my muse is impossible to ignore. Perhaps that’s why, when I finally set up my easel and my little station at the edge of the bed, I didn’t choose to paint one of the landscapes my mysterious benefactor keeps emailing me. Hell, I didn’t choose to paint anything at all.

I just started. And this is what came out.

But no matter how cuttingly abstract the painting is, there’s no doubt in my mind as to what I’ve just painted—or, rather, who.

Tytus.

… Well, some of him. Bits and pieces. I’ve only ever met him once, after all. There’s no way that’s enough to get the full picture of a man as complicated as him.

Still, I somehow feel as if I’ve managed to capture some of his essence.

The danger, in sharp red brushstrokes that cut through the white canvas like thrashing knives. The power, in towering black lines that reach almost past the edge of the frame. The fierce intelligence and cunning that sparkles in the silver dots at the center of it all.

But most of all, I feel connected to the warm orange flecks that hide beneath it all. They remind me of the warmth of his breath, of his body, of his heart.

There’s more to this monster than meets the eye. I believe I’ve felt the surface of it. Can I survive being thrown into the deep end?

A gulp slips down my throat as I remember the last gift I received at my door… and the note that came with it.

Start slow, princess. Because I won’t.

A warm shudder passes over my skin as I look over my shoulder. That note and accompanying gift are stashed beneath my bed. I haven’t looked at them again, but the jolt they provided was part of what got me painting again. I needed to make use of that nervous energy. I needed something to distract me from the implication.

The terrifying, delicious, exhilarating implication.

Without permission, my tongue lashes across my lips. The nagging pressure in my core takes the opportunity to return, in full force.

My hand wants to dip back between my legs, or at the very least reach for what’s inside the box beneath my bed.

I just don’t know if I’m ready for it.

You’d better be.

Even though the words come from inside my own head, I swear they take on Tytus’ deep, primal tone.

I can’t help but jump.

“… What the hell is going on?” I whisper to myself.