Page 89 of Sinful Lord

Together, we huddle in the lonely alleyway. He doesn’t even try to get me to move. In fact, I’m the one who finally speaks again.

“I forgot my phone,” I foolishly try to explain. As if Tytus needs to here why I got so turned around.

“I’ll get you a new one. Laptop too. We’re leaving that apartment behind, along with everything it in. I’ve found us something better.”

My first reaction to that is pure relief. But then Tytus pulls back and I get a look at those heart-stopping silver-blue eyes. Even in the darkness of the alleyway, they shine. They capture. They inspire.

“What about my art?” I blurt out, before turning coy again. “My painting…”

“The one of me?” Tytus understands.

My cold cheeks flush with a soft heat as Tytus wipes another tear away.

I nod.

“I… I think I might have ripped the canvas,” I remember.

To my surprise, that makes the gorgeous beast smile.

“By accident or on purpose?”

“A bit of both,” I weakly admit.

“That’s alright, angel. We’ll fix it up. Right after I fix you up.”

His words send a strike of fear through me.

“Fix it up?” I repeat. “Does… does that mean we’re going back to get it?”

“We can’t just leave your masterpiece behind, can we?”

“You go. I don’t want to go back there.”

“I’m not leaving you again, angel. But we don’t have to go. Not if you don’t want to.”

After gingerly helping me to my feet, Tytus bends back down and picks up two items from alley floor. My thumping heart hardly pauses when I see what they are.

Guns.

He must have dropped them when we ran into each other.

Oddly enough, the idea of him being strapped to the teeth isn’t even the least bit terrifying. For all he conflict he’s inspired in me, one thing has become crystal clear.

There’s no one else I’d rather have here to protect me.

Shit. The thought itself is nearly enough to knock me back onto my ass.

Out of all the people in my life who would and could defend me to their dying breath, why would I choose Tytus?

My tongue flashes across my lips as I consider that question. But the answer remains hazy as his giant hands softly brush bits of snow from my sore shoulders.

“We can go back,” I swallow, fighting away my fear. “I don’t want to leave my painting behind.”

After all, isn’t that what I came out here to do?

Paint.

Tytus wasn’t being condescending when he called that painting a masterpiece. And while I wouldn’t go that far myself, it is definitely the best thing I’ve ever created. And I want to finish it.