Page 55 of His Sold Fated Mate

He started unbuttoning his shirt. “No, you wanted to paint, so we are going to paint.”

I watched him, my eyes staring. “What are you doing?”

“Taking my shirt off.”

“No, just… let me ask them for a tablecloth. I wasn’t joking about tying it around you.”

He snorted. “And have my dignity ruined? I think not.”

He finished and pulled his shirt off. My stomach bottomed out taking in his shirtless frame. I’d had sex with the man, and yet here I stood stunned.

“You’re going to get paint on you.”

He shrugged. “Better than the shirt.”

I tried to stop staring, but it was hard. Klaus was built and moved with grace. It was like he didn’t even know how perfectly put together he was.

“So, do you just splatter paint or do we actually paint?”

I shook my head and turned to the canvas. “It’s up to what you want to do.”

The paint cans were already open, with brushes inside. The room fell silent, except for a fan running.

“I’ve never painted.”

“Really?”

He nodded, reaching for a brush in the red can. “Yeah, we didn’t exactly have fun things to do growing up.”

I grabbed a brush, dripping blue paint onto the ground. I turned and threw my hand in a whipping motion, splattering blue across my canvas. “Because the town was small?”

He shook his head. “No, because my father wasn’t exactly nice.” He made a whipping motion, splattering red on his canvas. “He wanted me to focus on being a man rather than hobbies or making friends. He was a hard ass.”

“Sounds like he was an ass in general. Who doesn’t want their kids to have hobbies?”

He chuckled. “My father. He was very much the guy who had me on a strict schedule. I was up at the crack ass of dawn, worked to the bone, and worked until I had nothing left. I didn’t have days off because rest was for the weak.”

He paused, his eyes staring at his canvas.

I swallowed, seeing something shift in his gaze. I stayed still because this was the first time I was hearing about his life. I didn’t want him to stop.

A wounded child would always offer an ear to another wounded child.

“I actually got hospitalized when I was nine. I was so exhausted, and my mother was so worried.” He offered a small smile. “She taught me cards. It was the first time I’d done anything that wasn’t for my father.”

“Why was he so rough?”

“Generation learning. His father was, and his grandfather was. It’s likely why he died at age fifty.”

“And your mother?”

His lips pulled in, and I could see hurt in his eyes now. “She left. After my hospitalization, they started to fight more. She couldn’t stand watching him break me. So, she left.”

“Why didn’t she take you?”

He whipped his hand again, more red covering his canvas. “She couldn’t. I was next in line to be Alpha, and the council would never let her take me. My father would say she was trying to soften me. He had a way with words.”

“Have you looked for her?”