Page 157 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

“Love it when you beg for me,” I say, messing with him.

“Briar,” he says in that warning tone that makes my insides clench with anticipation.

I drop my hand and mock his tone. “Rurik.”

Before he can say anything, Oscar calls for him. Rurik nods at him before glancing at me with a wretched expression.

“Just…” He sighs, his shoulders slumping, looking torn. “See you later.”

I roll my eyes.

Good to know he’s still an asshole, I guess.

Whatever, I’m here now. Later, he can throw a fit in the form of spanking and fucking, if he wants.

I look back at him and find him engrossed in conversation with a couple, their fingers pointing at one of his artworks. Rurik's grin is infectious as he nods to whatever the man is saying, his hands moving animatedly across the canvas as if he’s revealing the secrets behind his creation.

He looks so carefree at this moment.

Why can’t he be this open with me? It's rare to witness him letting down his guard, except for those intimate moments when we're making out or having sex.

I look away, allowing my legs to carry me away from him. At the bar, I grab a drink and take a sip, hoping to quell my rising annoyance and anger. Moving on, I stroll over to inspect the rest of his work, pausing at a canvas that has escaped everyone's notice.

I tilt my head to the side, staring at it.

Oh.

Wow.

It’s an abstract painting, a riot of colors splashed across the canvas. To others, it might appear as something that symbolizes chaos. I can see that. But to me, it's a window into someone's inner turmoil—a mind overwhelmed, struggling to sift through the chaotic shit happening in their head or their life. Amidst the bursts of yellow, red, and green, the ominous presence of black captivates me the most, as if it's quietly engulfing the other colors, symbolizing a slow consumption of brightness by darkness.

Jesus.

Is this the type of shit that’s swirling inside Rurik's mind? Is that why he alternates between warmth and frostiness? How could he be so sweet and loving one moment, then distant and cold the next?

If so, I get it.

Then again, I could be so far off. Rurik might have just felt chaotically random when he painted this and just threw a bunch of random colors for the fuck of it.

Art is subjective.

Maybe that’s why this painting resonates with me more than any other I've seen tonight. I see it as a reflection of my chaotic existence. The bursts of vibrant colors represent the goodness in my life—Nat, Oscar, Rurik, Mr. Rogers.

But the black paint? The same darkness creeps in almost every night whenever Rurik leaves after I beg him to stay—the loneliness, the demon voices in my mind that wouldn’t shut up.

I stare at the painting some more. The longer I gaze at it, the more I feel like it’s sucking my soul out of my body, pulling me headfirst into its colors.

Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? I clear my throat, straighten my shoulders, and lift my chin.

I have been through hell growing up, and look at me now? I’m a badass bitch. I am the Charons’s secret weapon. I can kill multiple men in a matter of seconds. I’m tough. I’m rich. I’m beautiful. I’m fucking awesome. What right do I have to be wallowing in self-pity when my life is fine?

I am fine.

Okay, yeah. Rurik is still treating me like his dirty little secret… But, whatever, it’s fine.

I am fine.

I can be patient. I can wait for him. Someday, Rurik will want everyone to know about us. One day, Rurik will take pride in having me by his side. But for now? If being with him secretly is the only way I can have my angel, then fine.

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