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“Now.”
I wanted to slap him across the face for making the command, but since he would only enjoy it, I walked into the bedroom and picked up the painting. I didn’t unwrap it for him, wanting to make it as difficult as possible for him to see what I’d created.
I set it down next to the couch then turned for the bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
I halted before I reached the hallway, keeping my back to him. “You said you wanted to see the painting. There it is.”
“Get your ass back here.”
I should just keep walking, but I didn’t.
“Don’t make me ask you again.”
“What happened to my free will?”
“Doesn’t apply here. Whatever fear you have about this painting needs to be conquered. You should never feel ashamed of anything you make. Without even looking at it, I know it’ll be stunning.”
I closed my eyes. “You don’t understand…”
“I understand better than you think. Now, get over here.”
I finally turned around and walked back to the couch.
He nodded to the seat beside him.
I obeyed him, and I felt so pathetic doing it. I sat on the couch beside him, feeling the heat emitting from his bare torso. He couldn’t read my mind, but looking at that painting was like glimpsing into my deepest thoughts. I should have just sold it or burned it. Or better yet, I shouldn’t have painted it in the first place.
Bones looked at me for a moment longer before he grabbed the large painting and placed it across his lap. He carefully tore the brown paper away from the frame and stripped away every piece until all the coverings were removed. He hadn’t looked at the painting yet because he was too busy concentrating on preserving the frame.
He tilted it up, held it with both hands, and finally looked at it.
I could have sworn that my heart stopped beating.
He stared at the image in front of him, his eyes wide open and not blinking. The fire crackled in the background, the low-burning flames casting a glow that constantly changed as the fire rose and fell. The TV was off now, so all I could hear was our breathing and the fireplace.
His eyes hadn’t left the painting, taking it in just as he did with my other pieces. He wasn’t an art aficionado, but he appreciated the art in front of him. His eyes naturally followed the lines I created, and he stared at the representation of himself as he stared across the lake.
There was no mistaking it was him.
He didn’t seem surprised to see himself. He didn’t seem surprised by the image I decided to paint. His face was impossible to read, focused like I wasn’t even there at all. His eyes started to shift around, to stare at the details of the trees and the texture of the snow. Then his eyes moved to the water in the distance, the small dock that extended twenty feet into the lake. He’d just dropped a body there, but there wasn’t a hint of that in the painting. The van wasn’t in sight, and I wasn’t there either.
It was just him.
It cast him in a light he didn’t show often, a likeness of himself as a man instead of a killer. He appreciated the view around him like any man would, and his broad shoulders seemed to be weighed down by a pain only he could see.
I saw him in a way no one else did. He picked up women all the time, but they only saw his handsome face, impressive physique, and his sexy ink. They didn’t know about his past, his occupation.
I knew about all those things, but it didn’t stop me from looking at him like that.
Like he was just a man.
I saw all of him, from the boy who lost his mother, to the man who wanted to avenge his legacy. I saw in him all the good and all the bad. I accepted him for who he was, even accepted his flaws.
Accepted his blood war.
Could he see all of that as he looked at the picture? Could he see my affection, my need for him? Could he see everything I’d been trying to hide?
Thirty minutes passed, and he still seemed enamored of the picture, looking at every detail like he might have missed something. He didn’t say a single word to show his opinion, and his expression didn’t give anything away either.
When he finished, he put it on the floor and leaned it against the coffee table.
My heart was beating so fast I could feel the blood pound in my ears. I felt weak and terrified, unsure what Bones would think about my creation. It obviously meant something to him because he wouldn’t have stared at it for so long.
He shifted forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes looking at nothing in particular. His jaw was clenched, not in anger, but with tension. His hands came together, and he rubbed them slightly.
