Page 78 of Watched

“Not fast enough.”

“I’m doing what I can.”

“Again,” his dead, icy eyes glow with the moon, “not enough.”

“Get up.”

He stumbles to his feet and follows into the house, muttering something, most likely reciting his plan for my death. Once we’re standing before the painting, short, erratic bursts replace his usually calm breaths.

“I know you said grey, but—”

“It’s what I wanted,” he whispers.

“Tell me,” I chirp.

“No.”

“Say it, or you don’t get your painting.”

“I’ll beat you for it.”

“I’ll swipe my hand over it and ruin it if you try.”

His lips twitch with reluctance, like it’ll kill him if he utters the words. “Thank you. You’re a good artist.”

Well, that lacked any fucking emotion. His eyes are dead as he stares at me, but once they slide back to the painting, a small glint of life emerges.

He’d said grey, but I got a little carried away, using black and white to add dimension, then beige to emphasise the light freckles over her nose. Her expression is neutral, but I added life to her eyes, so he’s not staring into the void he forced upon her.

“I want it above my bed,” he informs, gaze lost in hers.

“It’ll need to stay on my easel for at least a day to dry.” He nods. “I have a plan for Smith.”

“So, tell me.” He takes the chair from the corner and spins it in front of the painting. Dropping himself down, he leans against the back, resting his chin on his arms to stare at her.

I catch his lips twitch. He just fucking smiled; it was small and barely noticeable, but he actually smiled, genuinely.

I cross the room to sit on the window seat and crack the window. Placing a cigarette between my lips, I flick the lighter. “How’s your back?”

“Explain,” he commands.

“Lure him out. He hasn’t passed through the airport or any private airstrips, or the Eurotunnel from France, as far as I know. We hire someone who looks like me to drive a car registered to me and have them go somewhere private.”

“He’ll send people to follow the bait.”

“Then we take them and torture them until they give away their form of communication to him. Then, I offer to meet him.”

There’s a very real strain for him to drag his gaze away from her. “He’ll know that’s a trap.”

I rub my sore eyes and take another drag, forcing myself to stay awake. “I’m not staying hidden anymore. I want this shit dealt with.”

“This is your fault.”

“I know,” I spit. “Hence me offering myself as bait.”

The wide grin doesn’t meet his eyes as he places the bottle on the floor and digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone to call Prison Guard.

I chuckle. “What’s my contact name?”