Page 65 of Redemption

I stare at the paintings, and something tugs at the center of my chest.

The one against the wall to the left of the easel is the view through our conservatory—probably her first glimpse at the Yorkshire Dales from the kitchen.

The painting to the right is a close-up of a grey stone wall. She’s captured the dull sheen from the rain, and a broad, masculine hand is splayed against the wall. Thick veins stand out on the back of the hand, and the fingertips curve as though clawing at the stone for purchase.

It’s my hand. When I braced myself after fucking her against the wall in the ruined barn.

The third painting holds my attention the longest. It’s the scene from the barn, the one she so eloquently described with her artist’s eye. But the perspective is slightly different. The rolling, sun-dappled hills are the same, as is the blue river and the glittering lake.

It’s the two figures in the foreground that fascinate me. Their backs are to the viewer, but a tall man with dark hair is embracing a smaller woman. She’s barely visible—the only hint that she’s there is the perfect purple curl that’s twined around his finger.

They look like they belong there.

Like it’s home.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Did I not get it right?”

I shake my head, struggling for words.

“That’s not me,” I finally manage, pointing at the man in the central painting.

“What?” She peers at her work with a critical eye. “There’s something off about your hand. I know. I worked at it for days, but it’s just not?—”

“Your art is perfect,” I assure her. “But I’m not… This isn’t my home. I don’t want it to be.”

Her lips part, and her eyes shine for a moment before she blinks quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll put these away.”

Fuck.I’m saying all the wrong things when she was making herself vulnerable by sharing her work with me.

“Your paintings are masterpieces, and I intend to frame each of them,” I say sternly.

If I have my way, she’ll be featured in a gallery soon. But she’s not ready to accept that yet.

“This place is messing with my head,” I admit. “I chose to walk away from my title and everything that comes with it, including the estate. I hated this place when I was growing up.But you see it so differently than I do.” I gesture at the painting again. “I don’t belong here.”

Her features are pinched with concern. “It doesn’t have to be your home if you don’t want it to be. You can choose your home. I chose mine. Back in Charleston.”

She cuts her gaze away, and for a moment, I think we’re going to return to the thorny issue of her leaving Yorkshire. Without me.

“This place holds nothing for me but memories of cruelty and blood,” I say before she can go down that road.

Her eyes snap back to mine, bright and incisive. “You’re talking about your sister’s death? The car crash?”

I run a hand through my hair, and now I’m the one to look away. “Yes.”

“But it’s more than that.” She sees right through me. “You can talk to me, Dane.”

I don’t want to tell her some of my darkest truths, but I have to prevent her from thinking about Charleston.

“I was a violent child,” I admit. “I was the cruel one. Well, we all were, I suppose. Except maybe James. He’s just a spoiled little prince.” I force myself to meet her eye. “My parents are cold and narcissistic, but they never beat me. My mother always said she didn’t know where I got it from, and I guess that doesn’t really matter. The fact is that I was dangerous. It wasn’t until I was eleven that I realized I had to hide that part of myself.”

“Dangerous, how?” she asks carefully.

“I lashed out at other children. I hurt them.”

All those times I came back with little spots of their blood dotting my shirts, and my mother would berate me for ruining my pristine clothes. Not because we couldn’t afford more, and not because she cared about the other children. She only cared about what other people would think if they found out.

At least, the people whomatter.

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