Page 42 of Beautiful Exile

I stalked toward Trace and Linc but kept right on walking, assuming Trace would follow. Stepping outside, I breathed deeply, letting the fresh pine scent in the air slide through me. It was different than the evergreens back in Boston.

Even now, I could still grab hold of those hints of memory. Playing in my backyard surrounded by tall trees. The crisp air as the leaves began to fall. The air there had been sharper somehow. But maybe that was my imagination simply becauselifehad been sharper. Harsher.

“Arden?” Trace’s hand gently landed on my shoulder, and I fought the urge to move away.

The impulse had tears burning the backs of my eyes. Why was it always my instinct to retreat from those who cared about me when I was hurting? As if I needed to crawl back into my shell to protect myself from the possible pain.

Trace’s hand dropped away as if he could read those thoughts as clear as day. But he was the sibling best at that: reading below whatever surface we painted with any sort of lie. “We’re going to figure this out.”

My hand dropped to my side, fingers twisting around a loose thread on my jean shorts. “I know.”

“I’m here if you need to talk. Always.”

Pain burrowed deep in my chest. Trace was too good. Every single member of the Colson crew was. And I couldn’t help feeling that I didn’t deserve any of them. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He pulled me into a quick hug and dropped a kiss to the top ofmy head. “Do me a favor and don’t kick Linc to the curb. You do, and I’ll be sleeping outside your house in my truck.”

I sighed, knowing Trace wasn’t kidding. “You know I can handle myself. You’ve seen it.”

“I know you can. But I also like knowing someone has your back, and Kye said the guy can handle himself.”

An image of Linc in the ring filled my mind: the way he moved with a brutal grace, how every move was both strategic and wild, tightly corded muscle bunching and flexing, revealing just how much power lay beneath the surface. And then there was that surprising ink. The kind that told me he was anything but what I’d expected.

“Is that silence agreement?” Trace pushed.

I blinked a few times, trying to clear the images from my mind, but I knew it would do me no good. Those memories were burned into me. “I’ll let him stay.”

Tension seeped from Trace’s shoulders, which only sent more guilt sliding through me. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

“Okay.” I watched as Trace climbed into his SUV and drove away. I stayed there for one moment, then two, the pressure in my chest intensifying. It was as if I were being crushed under an endless mountain of bricks, making it hard to breathe.

I was so lost in the sensation and trying to work through it that I didn’t hear Linc until he was right at my back.

“Tell me what you need.” His voice was low—not gentle, but not forceful either. And it bled kindness, understanding.

That simple act had the burn behind my eyes returning. “I need to paint.”

“Then paint. I’ll walk you.”

My gaze flicked up to him. “I don’t need?—”

“Just because you don’tneedit, doesn’t mean I won’t give it to you anyway. Not taking any chances. Not with you.”

I swallowed, trying to clear the emotion clogging my throat. I reached for something, anything to lighten the mood and stop theforeign feeling from trying to invade. “Don’t think you’re getting food or sex just because you’re staying with me.”

Linc’s lips twitched, and those green-gold eyes danced with amusement. “I’ll keep that in mind, Vicious.”

Then he walked me to my studio and checked every nook and cranny before allowing me inside. And I let him.

The music blaredfrom the speakers, wrapping around me, pulsing through me. It was hard, screaming metal tonight. A sad, raw rage coursing through my stereo system. And it fit my mood.

I took a step back from the painting.Almost done.But it needed something else. One last piece of the puzzle.

That happened sometimes. I could think a creation was finished, but then I would realize something wasn’t quite right. That it needed one last element to bring everything into focus.

I studied the canvas and the way the thorny brambles clawed at the fabric, looking like they could reach out and ensnare you. But those deep red blooms gave it something else. Hope. The realization that a flower could bloom despite its circumstances.

It was the message I needed to tell myself. The thing I needed so desperately to believe. So, I’d put it down on canvas.

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