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“I don’t work that way.”
“And I don’t work your way,” he said and rose to his feet. “Do you want to see how demons play, Cole? How we remind one another of our true nature?” He pulled his pant leg up, revealing blistered, angry red skin that was blackened in patches.
“Jesus, Ambri…”
“Both legs, arse to ankle,” he said. “It burns like hellfire and when my flesh starts to rot, I’ll Cross Over to heal but not a moment sooner.” He let his pantleg drop and fixed me with a hard stare. “I wiped our slate clean. You and I are starting anew. Do you understand?”
My heart felt like it was cracking in two. For the pain he’d inflicted on himself and for the hope I’d indulged in like a fool. That what Jane had said was real.
That I could save him.
Ambri read my expression and nodded. “Good.” He eased himself back down with a grimace. “Consider it your little reminder too.”
I nearly gave up, but as I turned to go back to my “new” room, another thought came in that strange feminine voice, like a reassurance I needed that I wasn’t crazy. That he wasn’t lost.
Hope is never foolish, mein Schatz. Don’t give up on him.
eighteen
I expect Cole to retreat, but he stands in my living room, dripping water on my carpet. He’s shivering hard enough to make his teeth clatter, but those dark eyes of his are filled with worry formeand something deeper I don’t care to examine.
“You’re going to catch your death if you don’t get out of those wet clothes.” I smile suggestively. “I’d offer to help but I’m a tad—”
“Charbroiled?” he snaps with sarcasm, but his voice cracks and anguish spills out.
No! It’s just the cold that grips him. He and I, like water and fire. One cannot survive in the presence of the other.
My smile stiffens. “I suggest you take a hot shower and get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll begin my portrait. You can paint for the April show in the afternoons and evenings. Having everything you need here—in one place—will ensure you meet the demands on your artistry.”
Cole glares at me. He knows I’m right, and moreover, he doesn’t want to leave. My jaw clenches, and even as the lower half of my body screams in agony, I know I’ve made a colossal mistake in choosing Cole Matheson as my target.
Get your portrait and worry about the rest later.
“One condition,” he says through trembling lips.
“You have conditions? How cute.”
“I’m not painting a damn thing until you heal yourself.”
“Now, now—”
“I’m fucking serious, Ambri. I’ll walk out the door tonight and you’ll never see me again.”
I scoff. “Until I read about your great success with yourdemonpaintings in the local circulars?”
“I’ll quit. I’ll tell Jane I lost my inspiration.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Cole says, his eyes boring into mine. “Iwill, if you don’t take care of yourself. I can’t make one fucking brushstroke knowing you’re suffering.”
His words are like blunt shots to my chest—bruising and warm at the same time.
“You’re lying,” I say. “Humans don’t walk away from fame and fortune when it’s within their grasp.”
He says nothing, only holds my gaze. I feel his conviction pouring off him as surely as the rainwater.
“Fine,” I say stiffly. “But you must do the same and get out of those sodden clothes.”
