Page 54 of Tethered Fates

I nod, knowing he’s right even if a small voice tells me I’m the one who should hate myself.

“And all the disgusting things he said to you are really shit he’s saying to himself.”

I drop my head onto Kai’s shoulder and soak in the warmth of his hug. Even if it’s colder than it used to be. I don’t cry anymore. I think I’ve reached my quota for today. I just let myself be held up by my big brother.

Chapter Nineteen - Sen

Ican’t get my mind off Teagan painting as I stand on the balcony of my hotel room, my shirt cast aside, a crystal tumbler of smoky whiskey in hand, and the glittering city below.

The cool wind bristles through my hair like fingers, and I sip the whiskey as I imagine Teagan would—exploring the burn with his whole body. He might’ve created something magnificent with some paint and brushes, but he was the art.

I’ve seen great works before, yet my only interest was how much each piece could get. Not so much for the money but for the power of what that money stood for, and taking that power from someone else. Deserving or not. What could be more fun?

Teagan is different. With him, I never want to take—I want to lavish. I want to spoil and indulge his every little desire until he wants for nothing, then I want to kiss his neck and give him more.

Staring out at the city, taking another sip of whiskey, I wonder what Teagan would think of the view. What he’d create.

I’m not some decrepit immortal who bemoans life being boring when there’s still so much to experience. But Teagan gave my world a fresh coat of paint, and how very alluring that colour has become.

I throw back the last of my drink, then stroll into my penthouse suite, discarding my glass on a side table. Impatience crawls over my skin to find Summer and Emma, kill them both, then claim Teagan and explore this immortal world together.

I find myself pacing the length of my rooms, bored out of my mind and inspecting every nook and cranny like Teagan did when he was in my car. I have no idea what I’m searching for, but Teagan didn’t either. His curiosity is infectious.

Normally, I’d put on music, flip through the laminated folders keeping my stamps in pristine condition, or check my emails for new jobs if I wasn’t already searching for information on a current one. But without Teagan to bob his head, or make fun of me, or ask questions, or simply fill my heart with his quiet presence, it all feels pointless.

I don’t know why it’s there when I find it, or what it was used for—but under the sink, at the very back, wedged between pipes, is a can of navy paint.

I yank it free.

There was an untamed beauty to Teagan when he painted, a quality I doubt anyone could match. I’ve seen a few of Kai’s sketches, and they’re nothing like his brother’s. Kai’s art is a raw talent he’s mastered over the years. Something I can appreciate, but it lacks the freedom I craved but was denied from a young age.

Teagan…his art is an ocean storm.

Uncaring if anyone wants it or not, it simply is. Vast and unpredictable, calling to those who witness it to hunker down, because there’s about to be a fucking show.

I go into my bedroom, to the long cream wall and imagine Teagan here. Imagine him finding a canvas to play with, his eyes glinting with mischief and curiosity. The can lid pops when I pry it open, the chemical smell thick, and when I splash navy across the wall, I hope through our shared connection that Teagan feels me.

Tossing the can aside, I press my open palms into the paint dripping down the wall, creating puddles for my toes to dip into. Navy coats my long fingers, the wide expanse of my hands as I spread the paint in long, loving strokes.

I want Teagan to feel all my pent-up desire to have him close, and my immortal rage that, due to the fucking gall of those beneath him, he’s been hurt, and any courtship we would’ve had has been stolen.

I move faster, covering more of my wall as my chest heaves.

Fuck Summer. Fuck Emma. Fuck Vidar and Kai for keeping him away. Teagan is mine, mine, mine, and fuck politely waiting.

I’m breathing hard and sweating when I step back, covered in paint up to my elbows, my bare chest speckled with navy. The thing I created is nothing like Teagan’s. But neither of us would want that.

My palm slaps against my chest where my heart beats, painting myself.

I free the air stuck between my ribs, roll my shoulders and hope that Teagan feels this too—release.

Relief.

Yet still wanting.

So much fucking wanting.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and without blinking or looking away, I pull it out and bring it to my ear.