I ended up taking entirely too long to get home, so long that I’m worried the blood on the jacket I’m still clutching is frozen against the fabric. I dump it into a pan in my studio and go to the bathroom so I can carefully inspect my body. Other than red marks on my neck that might bruise from where he had his fingers around my throat… I’m fine.
The blood barely got through the two layers I was wearing, and the little bit on my skin wasn’t exposed to any open cuts.
I’m not usually so… sporadic.
The shower I take is so quick I don’t even steam up the mirror, so I catch a glimpse of myself as I walk past.
Pale, hair dripping against my skin, curls clinging to sharp cheekbones.
And I still lookhungry. Even after a kill. Even knowing I have blood and an image in my head waiting for me… I stillwant.
And what I want isn’t art of a dying man whose name I don’t know.
Hours later, when I’ve carefully wrung the blood from the jacket and mixed it with shades of black and red, it isn’t a dead body on the ground I’ve painted.
It’s an angel lying in the snow, cradled in a sea of crimson.
It’s Donovan’s face looking at me from a watercolor ocean of blood that doesn’t belong to him, every bit of him perfect. He’ssurrounded in a wash of red that’s the stain of my sins. The stain on my soul.
It’s gorgeous, and it’s allwrong.
I pull off the gloves I always wear when painting with this particular medium and throw them to the side while I stare at what I’ve done. Every bit of Donovan, from the curve of his lips to his freckles, is just paint… regular paint. But the blood around him, the flowers blossoming, the red wings…
It’s all me.
Blood and death and every reason he should have run from me the first time he saw me.
I let out a low groan and knock the canvas to the ground, stalking back out of my apartment. It’s late—too fucking late to leave, to finally show up at his door. But I can’t help it.
The image of Donovan painted in someone else’s blood is too much.
It’s every bit of proof I’ve ever needed that there was no giving him a chance to run. There was no hoping that I could be the kind of man who might let someone like Donovan escape from whatever darkness I was going to pull him into.
There’s nothing but the memory of his lips pressed against mine, tangling with the lingering sensation of a blade sliding into a man’s chest and the sting of the bruises at my throat.
Donovan has been doomed from the moment he slipped into that alley and I followed him… and I’m too tired to keep pretending that I’m not the monster who's going to drag us both to hell to get what I want.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DONOVAN
Hot water sluicesdown my back, wicking away every trace of sweat and grime from my evening at the gym. My calves and thighs scream in protest, and I’m sure I’m going to be sore tomorrow but that’s nothing new, really. You’d think I’d be used to this by now, but I never fail to feel it in the early morning no matter how many times I lift weights. The heat of the water and the steam of the shower feel fucking amazing, and though I’d only meant for this to be a quick cleanup, I let myself stand there for a few moments, eyes closed to the world as the water cascades down my skin.
It’s quiet tonight but that’s not new. It feels like the only real excitement lately came with Shiloh and has left with him too. I wish I could say I’m surprised he didn’t wait after the last game he came to, but I’m not. He’s disappeared one too many times for me to trust he’d be there with full certainty, but I’d still hoped.
I still hope, really.
I tip my head back, letting the spray hit my forehead and trickle down my cheeks, my only company the sound of the running water and my own steady heartbeat.
And in that silent moment is when I hear it.
A small shuffling sort of noise that catches my attention over the sound of running water. The shower curtain rustles again behind me and my heart hammers in my chest like a drum, eyes flying wide open as I whirl around in time to catch Shiloh climbing into the bathtub.
“Hi,” Shiloh says, offering a small smile.
“What the fuck, Shiloh?” I blurt, staring at his pale, beautiful face.
“You didn’t change your locks.”
