Page 116 of Ruthless Enforcer

I crook my finger. "Come in."

He steps inside the room, his eyes going immediately to the canvas by the dresser. "What is this?"

"A gift," I say, oddly nervous. "For you. For this room."

He looks at me, then back at the painting. "Clara⁠—"

"Just look at it first," I interrupt. "Then you can tell me if you want it."

It's abstract—swirls of deep blue and charcoal gray, threaded through with gold and pale skin tones. The composition is intimate, almost dreamlike: two figures tangled together in a bed, their bodies barely distinguishable from the sheets and shadows around them. It's not explicit, but it's unmistakably sensual. Unmistakably us.

Gabriel goes very still.

He stares at the painting for a long moment, his jaw tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"When did you make this?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Over the last two weeks." I shrug. "I wanted to give you something for this room. Something that was just ours."

He reaches out and touches the edge of the canvas.

“Careful,” I caution. “It’s not completely dry yet.”

"You painted us," he says, his gaze still on the painting.

"Yes."

"Why?"

I take a breath, trying to find the right words. "Because I wanted you to have something that wasn't temporary. Something that wasn't about survival or alliances or keeping me safe. I wanted you to have something that was just us. The way we are when no one else is watching."

His throat works as he swallows. He doesn't look at me. He just keeps staring at the painting, his expression unreadable. "You were going to leave this for me," he says finally. "Weren't you? When this was over. When you left."

My chest tightens. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't think you'd let me stay."

He turns to look at me then, and the raw emotion in his blue eyes nearly undoes me. "Clara⁠—"

“I wanted you to have something that showed you what this meant to me. What you mean to me."

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly, like he's trying to get himself under control.

Then he opens them again and looks at me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

"Help me hang it," he says.

I blink. "What?"

"Help me hang it," he repeats. "I want it on that wall. Above the bed."

My heart stutters. "Gabriel⁠—"

"Now, Clara."

I don't argue. I just help him lift the painting and carry it to the wall above the headboard. He's meticulous about the placement, adjusting it twice before he's satisfied, making sure it's perfectly centered and level.