Page 168 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

What began as a captivating obsession has evolved into something more profound. I don’t want to imagine life without him. I'm not going to lie —it's kind of freaking me the fuck out.

What’s going to happen when he is finally done with me?

When I want more from him?

When he doesn’t ever plan to tell anyone about us?

When he finds out I’ve been plotting some revenge against his stepdad?

Fear has me in a chokehold, and the pleasure I’m feeling is fighting against it.

“Come with me, baby,” Rurik roughly says, chasing away the dread poisoning my thoughts. He puts his hand between us, his thumb pressing against my clit, rubbing it in circles, and listening to the sounds I make as signals while he continues to fuck me.

With one more thrust, we both groan together. He latches his mouth on mine, gripping my hips so tightly I’m sure it will leave a bruise as he continues to pound inside me as he comes.

“Tell me you’re mine, Briar,” Rurik whispers soon after, with me sitting on his lap.

“I’m yours, Rurik,” I say. He releases a sigh, rubbing his nose against mine. I pull away slightly to ask, “Are you mine?”

He nods, then releases a disbelief chuckle. “I never stood a chance with you, huh?”

“Nope,” I grin, squeezing his cheeks.

He rolls his eyes, grinning back. It’s such a beautiful sight, so I mentally take a picture so I can forever store it in my mind.

After we drained the tub, retook a proper shower, and wiped the water clean off the floor, we found ourselves on the couch, wrapped in my fluffy blanket.

Rurik sprawls on the couch, his feet dangling over the edge due to his height, while I lay atop him, facing him with my chin resting on his chest, using his warm body as a makeshift mattress.

“What’s up?” I ask him, noticing the frown on his face as he looks at me.

He takes my left hand and lifts it between us. “Shouldn’t this have healed by now?”

I glance at what he’s staring at and feel my heart stop cold.

Fuck…

Fuck!

The wrap I used to cover the cuts on my wrist must have fallen during our long bath, and I completely forgot to cover it with a bandage.

I try to tug my hand off his grip, but his fingers tighten.

Rurik’s face darkens. “Briar. What the fuck happened?”

“Nothing,” I quickly say. I force a laugh when his expression doesn’t change. “I cut myself by accident. The knife slipped while I was cutting and prepping veggies and shit.”

“But how?” Rurik pushes. “How did you hold the knife and vegetable for you to jab a knife to your wrist like that? And when did this happen? It looks new.”

It’s because it is.

After Rurik and I fought, the blackness I tried so hard to ignore came back tenfold. I couldn’t breathe or properly see, and even working with Nat and Mr. Rogers did little to quiet the chaos raging through my mind. The blood that poured out of the cuts I made only silenced the chaos momentarily. Those moments gave me only minutes of peace.

It reached a point where my body went on autopilot—I ate, talked, laughed, teased, joked, and worked as expected of me, all the while screaming internally because I couldn't find a single ray of light in the darkness.

Until this morning, when Rurik sent me a text reminding me I’m his. The text notification left a little crack of light filtering through my dark mind, and when Rurik showed up in my apartment, the little crack spread until the brightness nearly blinded me.

His brightness.

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