Page 175 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

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I’m so exhausted. Mentally and physically. Is it possible to take a year off of work due to mental health?

Fucking Philip Greene. Senator Philip Greene.

Why the fuck does he have to be behind everything? I guess this is a good thing, though. Is that right? Now I have more reasons to kill the motherfucker.

Fuck, this is going to destroy Rurik and his mom. Rurik may not be close with his stepdad, but I can tell he means something to him to some degree.

I groan, lifting my hand to rub my face, but grimace at the sight of grime underneath my fingernails and my palms caked with dried blood.

I should shower.

Shower, scrub this shit off my body, and pass the fuck out.

Oh, and text Rurik. He’s been spam-texting me throughout the night, and I couldn’t reply because I kept my phone on Do Not Disturb.

Whoops.

I jab the keys in the lock and shove my shoulder against the door, groaning when it roughly swings open, the doorknob slamming against the wall.

“Fuck,” I mutter, stepping in and dropping my stuff on the floor to inspect the wall.

“I’ll patch the hole for you. Leave it. Where the fuck were you?”

I whirl around and gasp. “Fuck, Rurik! You have to stop scaring me like that.”

Rurik opens his mouth to speak but then freezes. His eyes widen as he looks at me up and down, his eyes lingering on the blood splattered all over my front and on my hands.

“Fuck,” He says before immediately rushing over to me. “What the fuck happened, Briar?” He grabs my wrist, cursing under his breath as he inspects the blood. He pales, his eyes darting all over me, wild and scared. “Briar! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I sigh, trying to pull away from him. He just tightens his hold, his gaze darkening when I roll my eyes. “Rurik, I am fine. Seriously.”

“I'm always insisting I'm fine, even though I'm well aware I'm not,” Rurik snaps. "So excuse me if my relationship with that word is somewhat complicated."

I frown, lifting my hands to touch his face, but remember it’s disgusting. I drop my hand and sigh. “You’re not fine? What’s wrong?”

He releases a strangle noise and shakes his head, cupping my face with his hands and tilting them side to side as if he’s looking for any sign of hurt. “What happened? Tell me.”

“The blood isn’t mine,” I assure him, gently pulling myself away.

He lets me but keeps himself so close to me as if he’s afraid I might collapse. He’s not wrong. I am drained. I might just fall asleep standing.

He follows me into the bathroom and watches when I silently strip, throwing my blood-stained clothes on the floor and turning the shower on. I throw him a reassuring smile; hopefully, it’ll make him think I’m fine.

Because I am. Fine. Sort of.

Fuck, I’m tired.

I hear him moving around and turn to see him gathering my clothes off the floor and tossing them in the laundry hamper. He turns to me and starts to strip, too.

I frown, staring at his hardening dick. “Rurik, angel. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m not in the mood for sex right now.”

Rurik scowls, “Just because my dick is hard doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck you. I’m not a fucking caveman.”

I grin, opening the shower curtains and allowing him to join me. I step under the showerhead and groan when the hot water hits my sore muscles. I lift my hands and wince as the water washes the open cuts.

I feel large hands on my hips, and the smell of my body wash filters my nose. I look down, watching as the blood swirls down the drain along with the soap.

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