Page 24 of Blood and Thorns
Reaching for Arabella’s bag, I emptied the contents onto the table beside Caden, immediately reaching for her phone. Only for it to be pin locked.
“She’s twenty-five, by the way,” he commented, putting Raven in her box before grabbing the only other thing in the bag, her driver’s licence. “Moved seven times in the past tenyears, all across the country. Morris has kept them under the radar, and her mum died when she was just a kid.”
He held the license out, and I ignored the text to concentrate on the picture. It was generic, her expression soft, unsmiling.
“Morris was supposed to be used to make a statement. Are you going to do the same with her?” Caden asked quietly, his eyes boring into me.
The question created a weight on my chest, my glare sharp when I looked towards my cousin. He didn’t react to my frosty response. Maybe I should try and convince Raven to bite him too.
“She fascinates me,” I settled on, and Caden raised a judgmental brow. I didn’t elaborate that this fascination had dug its claws into me and was bordering on obsession. “Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of her once I’m bored.”
Until then, I’d just play with her a little.
That thought was still prominent an hour later once I’d kicked them out, much to Langdon’s disappointment. My muscles were tight, my demons howling at me as I walked down the west wing.
My studio was my personal space, and no one was allowed past the threshold unless exclusively invited by me. Which was usually zero, because my art wasn’t meant for anyone else.
Needing to get rid of some of the excess energy before I did something else impulsive, I picked up a clean canvas and moved it to an easel. If I couldn’t fight, or fuck, that left me with only one option.
Rolling up my sleeves, I grabbed the closest paint and got to work. The strokes were rough, aggressive as I pushed all my frustration and anger onto the canvas. The colours I’d chosen were dark, blending together like a bottomless nightthat held no hope. Twisted lines and grotesque bodies. Warped trees and broken horizons.
I painted until my hand ached, and I’d gone through eight different images. The violent pictures in my head were nothing compared to the colours I pushed on the canvas, the expression wrong. The scene was wrong. Everything waswrong.
The demons in my head howled for me to destroy it.
With the paint still wet, I rubbed my fingers across the canvas, hoping that I’d be able to feel something other than rage. But of course I didn’t, not even when I grabbed my knife and started slicing, cutting the painting into ribbons. Not even when I started to break the frame, ignoring how splinters dug into my knuckles, or how my blood added to the already fierce imagery.
Memories threatened to consume me, my breath coming in pants, and only when my entire studio was shattered, broken, did I finally feel that sense of calm I craved so much, pulling me back from the edge.
Cracking my knuckles, I brushed my bloody and painted fingers against the punching bag I hung to the side. It was already ruined, repaired so many times it had a distinctive crisscross pattern from when I’d lost my temper and stabbed the thing. Unlike the one in my gym, this one was full of rags rather than sand.
Then what do you want from me?
Her words echoed around my mind.
My own thoughts answered,I don’t know.
Chapter 13
Sebastian
My bike rolled to a stop, the night air brisk as I stared up at the flat above the garage. The surrounding street lamps were off, which wasn’t unexpected considering the time. It was late, the heaviness of the night shrouding me in shadows.
The local council tried to save money by turning the lights off after midnight, and then they wondered why the crime rate had skyrocketed. Debauchery and terror thrived beneath the veil that was darkness, but who gave a shit if the government saved a few pennies?
Tugging off my helmet, I placed it on the seat, and despite the area not being the best, I dared anyone to take it. Not only was the Harley a luxurious matte black, but it also had my emblem engraved on the side. A rose strangled by thorns. My face may not be recognisable, and not even my mask unless you were in certain circles. But the rose was usually enough to deter a thief. And if it didn’t, then I’d just have to introduce myself.
Not bothering with the garage, I headed straight to the side to find the door that must lead to the flat above. The stairs creaked beneath my weight, even as my heavy bootswere silent. The front door opened with one quick swift kick to the lock, and as soon as I stepped inside a gun was pressed to my side.
Without hesitation I disarmed the assailant, turning the gun back on him.
Morris spluttered, face red and sweaty. “What are you doing here?” he gasped, winded from where I’d hit him. “I thought… I thought my debt was paid.”
Without turning away, I released the cartridge and then removed the bullet from the chamber before tossing it all to the floor. “Your debt’s not paid,” I said, amused with how he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Just transferred.”
“So, she’s still alive?” he asked, finally looking at me.
His attention roamed over my face, hesitating on the scars. I didn’t bother with my mask, because I didn’t expect Morris to still be here. A mistake on my part.
