Page 263 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

“Calm down, angel.” She giggles, making my heart feel lighter. God, how is that just by the sounds of her laughter giving me that much of a physical reaction? “Nat took me here because I didn’t want to return to my apartment. I was worried you would be there, waiting.”

“You’re not wrong,” I grumble. “As soon as I was well enough to leave the hospital, I immediately drove to your place, only to be severely disappointed that you weren’t there. I waited for you, Briar. I waited the whole time until I had enough and asked Nat where you were.”

“Speaking of what happened this whole time…” She sighs with some hesitancy. “Any idea who this reliable source is the media kept mentioning about? The one who gave them all these videos and allegations?”

I try not to grin. “No idea. But hey, if I find out, I would love to send them a thank you card.”

She smirks, “Hmm. Okay, then.”

She places the side of her head on my chest, closing her eyes with a content sigh. I reach up and lightly pull on some strands of her hair, watching them fall from my fingers repeatedly as I repeat the gesture.

I missed this. I missed her so much, and I need her to know that. These three weeks apart have been fucking agony. I’ve been struggling to get by, surrounded by a haze of emptiness, barely able to breathe, feeling like a zombie—alive and breathing but not truly living.

But the second she was in front of me again, I felt a drop of hope ignite within me. When she touched me again, when she kissed me again, it was as if my mind, body, and soul were resurrected. The surge of life that coursed through me made me feel whole once more.

“Come back home, baby,” I murmur, tracing her fingers with mine. “I promise I kept it clean for you. I promise you can even check the sink. No dishes in sight.” I add with a tease.

She laughs, and fuck, it’s making my dick want to stand again.

I need to chill the fuck out. We went five rounds already, Jesus.

“Okay,” She says, kissing my Adam’s apple. It’s not helping my dick to stay down, though.

I clear my throat, my hand moving from her fingers to her wrist, where my thumb brushes against her pulse. She smiles up at me, and I grin back as my hands move to her arms, elbows, and back up to her shoulders.

She winces.

I freeze.

Her eyes widen in surprise before laughing, “Sorry, my shoulders are still sore.”

I frown, “Your shoulder is sore?”

I don’t recall even holding her down by the shoulders throughout sex. I try to wrack my memories, only remembering us holding hands, my hands gripping her hips and thighs, and kissing her everywhere. I did brush my lips against her shoulders, but I was too preoccupied with the feeling inside her. I thought her wincing was because of me fucking her.

“Can I see?” I ask her, trying to sit up and forcing her with me. “Lay on your stomach. I can massage your shoulders and back.”

But she shakes her head, her face growing paler. “N-no! It’s fine. Can we just stay here for a bit longer?”

My eyes narrow at her sudden change. “Briar,” I warn. “Let me see your shoulder.”

“Rurik,” She breathes as I place my hands around her waist and try to flip her over. “Stop it!”

“Briar, what the fuck?” I let go of her when she starts thrashing. “I barely touched your shoulders. What the hell is wrong with it?”

But she sits up and pulls the blankets up to cover her body. “I told you, it’s nothing! Why are you suddenly so obsessed with — hey!”

I tear the blanket off of her and use my strength to gently push her forward so I can look at her back. Despite the scars on her lower back, I see nothing different. I sigh of relief, ready to offer a massage again, when I notice it.

Now, I’m pretty familiar with Briar’s body.

I know she had 129 lashes the last time I saw her and now 124 today. I know the dimples on her cheeks when she grins so widely. I know she has a unique birthmark that looks like the shape of the UK, and I teased her for it. I know she has 53 freckles all over her body, and my favorite is the little mole between her thighs. I know that she's very sensitive about the scars on her back, and I try my best not to touch them.

So yeah, I know Briar’s body inside and out.

So imagine my fucking surprise when I just noticed these weird cuts on her scars and upper back behind her shoulders.

I lightly trace the cuts with my thumb, feeling the rough lines against my skin. What the fuck? I lean closer, realizing Briar’s frozen as I inspect these weird cuts. Some look old, like weeks old. While others look more recent, they're already scabbing and healing.

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