Page 96 of Watching Her

The security system alerted me long before intruders made their way down the driveway. And God forbid they dared scale the fence as I didn’t take kindly to interruptions or any intention of invading my privacy.

Tonight I felt alive, almost wishing some asshole would land on my radar. What did it say about me that I’d enjoyed a night spent doing several things I’d never known I was missing and yet I still hungered to create bloodshed?

That I was my father’s son, a man incapable of living as everyone else.

At least with painting, I felt both a sense of satisfaction and even a hint of calm.

Even if there was rage ebbing and flowing just below the surface.

All because the man she called the troll had gone on a tirade, demanding she answer him.

I found some sense of restraint, and I owed it all to Penelope.

Which was why the painting was dedicated to her.

Bold colors infused with an intimately violent design.

I grabbed another brush, running it through black and outlining the woman’s figure. All my strokes were subtle, providing merely an overview of the passion she felt.

As I was placing the finishing touches, a rumble of thunder vibrated under my feet.

The storm was getting closer.

Seconds later, I felt her presence. Maybe I’d purposely left the door open, the music loud enough it had been possible for her to hear and certainly easy enough to follow once awake. A part of me had wanted to keep it a secret until I was completely finished, the bold strokes too raw or perhaps too telling about my personality. Although she’d already determined I was someone to study as I’d done with her.

What I found fascinating was that she wasn’t looking at the brushwork or the composition. She was looking at the subject’s exhilarated, half-hidden expression exactly the way I had envisioned. For a terrifying second, it felt like she was revolted, discovering the ugliness furrowing inside for the first time. Then, as her lips softened and her eyes tracked the chaotic background, the knot in my stomach loosened. She didn’t just see the paint. She saw me.

The angry, unsettled, even monstrous man who’d never known anything different.

Until her.

Until the woman who’d peeled away enough layers I no longer recognized myself.

In the time I’d been with her, she’d appeared witty if not sarcastic, intelligent and observant, an excellent listener and highly creative. She was also passionate, even though she was still holding herself back as if uncertain or embarrassed.

As if some asshole had done a number on her self-esteem regarding intimacy.

My nostrils flared, the scent of our desire surfacing between us. It was almost as if when we were together, the spark of desire created a continuing tether.

Her expression was almost sheepish as she walked into the room, noticing I’d slowly dropped my gaze to her bare feet and back to the shirt she’d chosen to wear.

My shirt.

Another wave of possessive energy rushed through me.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

She could read my mind. “You look incredible.”

Her shy reaction was unusual, or perhaps a sensual ploy. It worked. My cock was already throbbing. As she walked closer, a slight smile faded as soon as the painting drew her attention.

For seconds, there was no sound, other than the rapid beating of my heart. How strange that it was as if I craved her approval. Maybe it was completely appropriate given the subject matter.

“Violence is often essential in aspects of beauty.”

Her statement stilled me. “An interesting reaction.”

“A truthful reality. The painting is… breathtaking.” As she walked further into the room, she alternated her heated gaze from the large canvas to me, yet wincing every time there was a flash of lightning.