Page 60 of Hunt You Down

“It is perfect. I’ve never seen anything so flawless. Aside from you, that is.”

“Oh, shut up,” I admonished, catching myself before I smacked him with my paint-covered hand.

Suddenly, my days were spent rushing through chores so I’d have more time in the studio. If I could lose myself in the painting, I didn’t have the space to think about anything else. I found inspiration in the smallest things: dogs walking by, or trinkets that André had collected during his travels.

It didn’t matter what the painting was, or how much I hated it once it was finished. André would only smile and say, “It’s perfect,” before hanging it the moment it was dry. Piece by piece, I filled the apartment walls.

Though I spent days working on a true masterpiece. I’d selected the finest oil paints André had bought, along with the biggest canvas, and I did my best to recapture the night I spent with André during Mardi Gras. I’d never struggled so hard on a piece, pouring over it for the better part of a week.

Every night, André would fill me in on work over dinner. Typically, he talked my ear off about whatever client he’d been arguing with. Though when it came to this big sale he’d been chasing, he was oddly tight-lipped. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have been suspicious.

He’d also discovered my old clothes and immediately threw them away, replacing them with a brand new painting smock.

I was fishing it out of the dryer on a Tuesday morning, when he emerged from the bedroom in the nicest suit I’d seen yet. It was navy blue, with a matching silk tie that he tied effortlessly.

“You must have a big meeting today,” I commented, scared to even touch him for fear of ruining it. André didn’t care, scooping me up in his arms for a toe-curling kiss.

“I’d say so. I think I’m finally closing that big sale. Are you finally going to finish that painting you won’t let me see?”

“I think so—I want it to be just perfect.”

“It will be.” I stretched onto my toes, letting the tip of my tongue tease André’s before he grabbed his bag and left.

As I walked to the studio—my studio—I tried to find the opening to the smock. I just about had it when I heard a knock at the door. Smiling, I turned back without a second thought.

“Did you forget your keys again⁠—”

My words hitched. Something closed around my throat, and everything went black.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Didn’t I say you were getting too comfortable?”

Regan swore me to silence with a tight grip on my throat. With my windpipe crushed under his palm, I had no choice but to agree.

“The police are still looking for you,” I said, trying my best not to look at him. He was watching me—hard. Dark eyes seemed to bore a hole through me.

He scoffed, the sound churning my stomach. “Obviously not in the right place. I warned you about what would happen if you told anyone.” I gasped for air. Wheezing, I tried to take in a breath, only for fire to spread through my lungs. “But I guess you just couldn’t keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, could you?”

Regan’s fingers crushed my throat, attempting to force my gaze in his direction. By some miracle, I fought it. Digging deep down, I found the strength to keep my gaze over his shoulder. Though I could feel his fingertips bruising my skin, my head didn’t turn. He finally gave up and shoved me backward against the couch. I coughed, lungs desperate for oxygen.

“If you’re going to do something to me, you can’t do it here. People are going to come looking for me.”

Regan tilted his head. “You’re going to make this real easy for me, aren’t you?”

I yelped, fingers digging into my bicep. Regan yanked me off the couch and threw me into step ahead of him.

“Walk,” he ordered.

I did as he said, leading him to the front door and down the hallway. My phone weighed heavy in my pocket, but I didn’t dare reach for it. If my hands so much as twitched, he would beat me senseless.

In the elevator and through the lobby, I didn’t dare look at anyone. I didn’t scream; I didn’t make a single sound. I knew better.

A quick glance at the front door told me that Regan had carefully timed his attack—Charles wasn’t there. I don’t know why I expected anything less.

Regan kept a hand on the small of my back as we walked, almost as if it was meant to be endearing. It was anything but. Fire burned through his fingertips and singed my skin. After turning the corner, I started not to recognize where I was. We walked until my legs ached.

The longer we walked, the farther the pain spread. It started in my feet, then to my knees, my hips, and traveled up my back. My kidneys throbbed, which made every step excruciating.