Page 98 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

“Jealous?” Briar chirps like a brat.

“No,” I snap. “I just would rather not get STDs.”

She glares at me for a second before grinning the next second. How the hell can she switch like that?

“I always play using protection. I’m clean.” She says, reaching forward and poking the back of my hand. She winks, “Does that mean you expect us to play soon, finally?”

I lightly slap her hand away. “Fuck off, Briar.”

“Ugh, I love the way you flirt.” She groans dramatically.

She leans back, stretches her arms, and moans when something cracks. I can't help but give her a once-over, just realizing what she's wearing.

She starts saying something, but I can't hear it.

My eyes start trailing from her lips to that black choker around her neck, pausing at the cleavage peeking from her dark red lace top.

My dick, the traitor, jumps.

“Hello?” Her voice echoes through my head as my gaze continues to explore more lower to the bare skin of her belly and her black skirt with a slit.

And fuck, her legs are bare. If I touch her legs with my fingers, will they feel as smooth and soft as they look?

Her left shin has a purplish bruise, and I immediately want to know what happened. I frown, my attention now zeroing in on the other bruises on her arms and… Is that a fucking bruise in the corner of her right eye?

Who fucking did that to her, and how do I pay them a visit?

I growl out loud, and Briar looks alarmed.

“What the fuck, Rurik?” Briar asks, staring at me with wide, concerned eyes.

Shit. What did I just do?

Okay. I need to leave.

Like yesterday.

I get up abruptly and throw some change on the table. “I’m leaving. Goodnight.”

I don’t listen to her as she calls after me, probably trying to stop me from leaving. But I have to go—literally for my health and because I fear I won’t be able to control myself if I stay longer near her.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

What is happening to me?

I’m never violent. I never wish harm on someone I don’t know. I never feel this much anger before. Is it because of my bad heart? Is it making me more moody? Or is it that walking, breathing, beautiful migraine that won’t leave me alone?

I find the men’s bathroom and go inside, rushing to the sink to splash water on my face. I stare at myself in the mirror, slapping my cheeks to wake myself up as I mutter, “Get yourself together, asshole.”

I’m spiraling out of control.

My vision starts turning black and hazy, and I feel myself nearly slipping. I place my hands on my head to steady myself. But all I can feel are my muscles clenching and my heart beating so fast that I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Calm down, asshole.” I grit, “Now’s not the time for a panic attack.”

“We need to stop meeting like this, angel.”

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