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“Why are you up?” Royce asked.
Marc chanced a glance over his shoulder to find that Royce had moved deeper into the room. He was flipping slowly through the stacks of canvases, looking over each painting with a critical eye.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Painting helps?”
“Sometimes.”
“You’re tenser now than when you went to bed.”
“Look, you can go back to sleep. I’m safe in my own house. You don’t need to keep an eye on me every second of the day.”
“There were two attempts on your life in your own house.”
Royce’s reminder had Marc clenching his brush and taking a step back from the wall. “I’m fine.”
“There are no cameras in this room.”
Marc turned back toward Royce to argue when he noticed that he’d moved to a new stack of paintings on the far wall. “Don’t look at those! They’re not done.”
“Why haven’t you finished them?”
Marc growled, his temper rising. He couldn’t think with Royce touching his paintings, judging his work, seeing the evidence of his mediocre talent. His failures. “Because I haven’t. Why are you in here?”
“I want to know what’s going on with you.” His voice was so steady and even, he could have been asking if Marc wanted a drink or if the cold air in the room was bothering him.
“I’m trying to come up with a solution to your problem, but I need to paint to think. It clears my head. But I can’t paint with you looking at my work. Just go. Please. I need another hour. Maybe two. Then we can talk. I’ll have it all worked out.”
Royce shifted to face Marc, but he made no move to leave the room. “Why do you hide your work? It’s beautiful.”
Marc threw his paintbrush and palette aside, not caring how the paint splattered across the hardwood floor and surrounding boxes. “Stop saying that. They’re not beautiful. My work is mediocre. It’s a joke. I’m faced with truly beautiful work every day, but this…this…it’s embarrassing. I should stop. I should never paint again, but I can’t. It’s the only way to clear my head. To be able to think.”
“Marc.” Royce’s voice had hardened, and he took a step closer to Marc, but it was too late. It was all unraveling around him. The answer he’d grasped was slipping away.
“I need to concentrate. I was close to the answer. I can fix this.”
“You don’t have to fix anything. This isn’t your problem.”
“It is! Your uncle would never have focused on art if it hadn’t been for me. He might not have even thought about contacting you if it hadn’t been for those articles related to my case. If I’d just kept my mouth shut and dealt with my problem alone, you would not be in this mess.”
“Marc—”
“But I think I’ve got an idea. You’re going to hate it, but I can do it. I can fix this. I just need to leave the country for a couple of days to get this painting.” He started to turn to where he’d been painting Royce’s tattoos along the wall.
Strong fingers threaded through the back of his hair and clamped down, trapping Marc before he could even take a step. Little slivers of pain tugged at his scalp, but it was the sheer strength and force in Royce’s hold that brought the little whimper of need up his throat. Everything within him cried out to submit to this man, to just place his mind, body, and soul into Royce’s powerful hands. To let Royce take control…but Marc couldn’t. He needed to stay in control. To handle it.
It was weak of him to ask for Ward’s help in the first place. That weakness led to putting Royce and his mom in danger. He couldn’t…
“This isn’t on you to fix.”
“It is—”
“And this painting thing isn’t helping you tonight. That’s not what you need.” As he spoke, Royce loosened his hold on Marc’s hair and slid his hand down to knead the tense muscle in the back of Marc’s neck. There was no stopping the loud moan that tumbled from his lips. His knees nearly gave out under the delicious pressure that was massaging angry muscles.
His brain was still fighting the temptation, whispering ugly words. Royce shouldn’t be comforting him, offering to help him. This was his mess. “I should be the one…” He tried to talk, but the words drifted off as Royce moved down his back. He swore his eyes rolled up into his head.
And then Royce’s lips, with the wonderful scrape of whiskers, brushed against the underside of his jaw. Kissing, nibbling once, twice, down toward his chin. “This is about both of us getting something we need. I think I know what you need.”
“Yes…”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Marc, look at me.”
Marc’s eyes immediately flicked open and landed on Royce’s hard face and narrowed hazel eyes. The green seemed more vibrant with deeper tones of golden brown around the rim. He loved the intensity of Royce’s gaze. It was as if the man had the power to see through all the bullshit with those wonderful eyes.
