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“The fuck?” Garrett asked. “It’s too far to walk to the kitchen?”
“That coffee bar is awesome.” Quinn smirked. “If I ever build a house, I’m doing that.”
“Add a hot plate and a desk, and you’d never leave your room,” Sven said.
Quinn just nodded. “Anyway, if you guys follow my plan, we can get your mom out without them knowing until morning.”
And the discussion was on as they went over the pros and cons of each suggestion. By the time they had a solid plan in place, it was pretty late. He helped pack up Quinn’s tech and carry it out to Sven’s car.
“We’re going to get her out safely,” Sven said as he stood in the open driver’s door. Moonlight spilled over the long, blond hair he’d pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck. “Next time, call us. We have your back, Royce.”
He nodded and clasped Sven on the arm. He watched them drive away and went back into the house to find Marc putting everything away and shutting off the light.
“I’ll drive,” he nearly snapped. “I’m exhausted and want to sleep in my own bed tonight.” He brushed past Royce and got into his car.Royce wasn’t telling him everything. Not only that, but he could sense him pulling away. Over the past twenty-four hours, Royce had closed himself off. He spoke no more than necessary, and most of it was down to just unintelligible grunts. He didn’t reach out to touch Marc. Hell, he spent most of his time trying to keep the length of the room between them. Royce was back to being the stranger he’d met on Geoffrey’s patio more than a month ago. That knowledge dug into Marc with razor-sharp claws.
By the time they reached his house, his emotions had reached volcanic levels. He didn’t wait for Royce as he marched into his house, through his bedroom, and into his closet. He pulled on his oldest, most comfortable paint jeans and a T-shirt, left his clothes in a pile on the floor, and walked past a—surprise, surprise—quiet Royce.
“Painting,” Marc barked out as he walked down the hall. “I’ll be out when I’m out.”
Royce didn’t answer, not that he expected him to. Marc marched up the stairs and this time, he locked himself into his current…art room? He didn’t know what the fuck he called it. He missed the guesthouse. But he had everything he could need in here. Water and snacks in the small refrigerator and a couch he could pass out on once he was done.
It felt good to be locked away. Alone. He didn’t plan on leaving the room all night.
He needed to think before he lost his mind.
His brother had texted earlier to let Marc know he was getting out the next day, and he planned to bring him here. And come clean about who Royce was and get to the bottom of what was going on. The best way to shut this down once and for all would be to confront Lilah and Gabriel. Separately, and with Royce watching his back.
With that plan in place, he felt like he could cross off one issue on his virtual list of problems. Normally, that would give him a little peace, but right then, his emotions were so high and so tangled, he could do nothing but pace as it all felt like they crested in waves in his brain. And in his chest.
He loved Royce Karras.
Fully. Deeply. With every atom in his body. The forever romance stuff he’d always thought bullshit but secretly wanted. That lifetime bond.
He knew, he knew, the man cared about him. It was in his touch, in his kisses, in the way he stared at Marc when he thought nobody was looking. But something was scaring him off. The only thing Marc could come up with was grief over Michael. Maybe he was terrified of losing someone again? Not that Marc planned to go anywhere. Whatever was driving him away was strong, because it felt like Royce was physically slicing through the lines of affection that stretched taut between them.
Without saying a word.
Marc stared at the painting on his wall. That was not what he wanted tonight. He wanted something separate that would last. Pulling out an empty canvas, he set it up, along with his paints. He poked around the room for his Bluetooth headphones and put “The Final Thing on my Mind” by The Pineapple Thief on. Loud. This song was best loud.
Standing in front of the canvas, he closed his eyes and tried to calm enough to narrow his thoughts down to one thing. Creating. As the music rose to a crescendo, chased everything out of his head, then paused, he knew. Green fields and valleys, a wrought iron porch rail, a decanter of olive oil. And Royce’s teeth sinking into the back of his shoulder.
