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“Something’s wrong. This is all wrong.”
Daeva leaned forward. “Bad news, darling?”
Zerin moved to stand beside me. “Love is fickle. Comes and goes. Hard to tell what is real anymore.” He offered a glass of some kind of liquor. “This will help take the sting out.”
I took it and stared into the glass. I could dive in and drown in it. It’s what I’d been doing. What else was going to make this raging agony in my heart go away?
“Everyone get out.”
They stood for a moment, exchanging uncertain glances.
“Get out!”
“Yes, perhaps we should leave Cole alone with his thoughts,” Pico said.
They scurried for the door.
“We’ll be close if you need us,” Daeva added. “Just call and we’ll come running.”
When the suite was quiet, I sucked in a breath. Then another, but the pain in my chest wouldn’t subside. A knife felt lodged there, heavy and stabbing with every movement.
I tossed back the shot of liquor, grabbed the bottle off the coffee table, and went to the makeshift art studio.
Vaughn Ritter once told me—a lifetime ago—to pour my pain into my work. I painted until my hand cramped and my eyes ached. I painted while the bottle grew lighter and lighter. The hours passed and I was no closer to finding the end of the hurt.
I knew I never would.
London
The tour ended a week ago with no sign of Ambri.
Because I’m a fucking idiot,I thought, standing in the mess that was my bedroom/studio in his flat.
I’d chosen to forget that he was a demon. I erased his true nature because it was inconvenient to my grand plan to end my loneliness. Because with him, I had so much more than that. There was love. True love.
I thought I had it.
I thought it was real.
And I was really fucking wrong.
“Fuck everything.”
I tossed down my paint brush and lifted the bottle of whiskey.
Against all odds, the collection was nearly done. I painted and drank, and when I couldn’t go on another minute, Pico was there to fulfil my pharmaceutical needs for a pick-me-up.
I knew I was walking on a razor’s edge, but what did I care?
Not much.
That’s a lie too.
I cared too fucking much. I’d let down the barriers around my heart and now it was a shredded heap. So I flung the torn bits of it against the canvases like blood, letting the monster version that stalked Ambri become more and more monstrous. More dangerous. The dark had swallowed him, and it was swallowing me too.
I studied the current painting. When it was finished, there’d be only one left. The most important one.
You can’t paint Ambri at the windowsill while drunk or high. You know that, right?
