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I created art in many mediums, had worked in studios around the world, picking up techniques and teaching them, my mind was a hive of creativity... but no matter what I did, I couldn’t replicate that sensation.
It was like a lightning bolt between the eyes. It was so strong, it should have killed me, but it didn’t. It almost zapped my heart, but hearts were a little supernatural in their ability to regenerate themselves—over time.
Or so I’d thought.
Watching over the man I’d grown to hate, a hate that would always be founded with a seed of love, was proof of that.
I’d thought that was it for me. I was one and done. Guys were a pain in the ass that I had no time for. The only dude I wanted around was my kid. He took up every second of my non-working time, every ounce of my energy. But it took one look at Declan for me to know it was all bullshit. Lies I told myself to make it easier to live without the love of my life.
That was why it was a punch in the gut for him to have almost died.
My hands itched with the need to draw him, to take in the majesty of his face. A hard jaw, a stubborn firm slash for a mouth, eyes that were usually narrowed with distrust. He had a dark face, one built with features that were perfect for his choice of career. Somehow, though it was hardened, it was utterly perfect to me.
So wonderfully complex to draw.
There was a play of light and shadow on his brow, furrowed lines between them too. Either side of his eyes, there were squint lines, making him so much more interesting than he’d been as a boy.
Pitch black stubble made him look even tougher, and while his hair was a tousled mess and should have made him look less hardcore, it didn’t. So much so, I wanted him to open his eyes because that would reveal the only softness to his nature. A softness I’d lost any and all rights to access a long time ago—his soul.
Mournfully, I blew out a breath, then jerked when the door opened and my gaze clashed with Brennan’s.
I liked Brennan, but unfortunately when I looked at him, we didn’t have the same sparks.
I wished we did.
I wished I could be with him.
He was insane, like all the O’Donnelly sons—you couldn’t not be when spawned from Aidan Sr.’s seed—but he was the most grounded, I thought.
When I looked at him, I felt calm, felt like my brain wasn’t whirring with a mixture of panic.
But I didn’t want to paint him, and that was indicative of my feelings for him. Or the lack of them, I guessed.
So I smiled at him weakly as he rasped, “What are you doing here?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
His brow furrowed. “Hmm.” That was all he said, almost making me snort.
Brennan was a man of few words, that was for damn sure.
I pressed my head to the side of the armchair, just resting it for a second.
I wanted, badly, to walk away. I knew when he woke up again, he’d discover the truth and call me chickenshit, but I didn’t want to be there when he learned he was a father.
Maybe I should be the one to tell him, but I didn’t think I could.
I’d spent so long running, so many years hiding, that I just couldn’t do it.
Brennan shook his head at me like he knew what I was thinking. “You need to get out of here, Aela.”
I gulped. “I know I do.”
“The doctors say they’re drawing him out of the coma. When he wakes up, we’ll be telling him the truth. You need to bring the kid down here.”
“You mean your nephew?” I snapped, irritated by his dismissal of my pride and joy as just a ‘kid.’
Brennan wafted a hand. “You know what I mean.”
