Page 75 of The Vipers and Their Venom

I’ve hidden the painting in my closet, but I keep opening the door so I can look at it all over again. Seeing it takes me right back to that fucking incredible time with her.

Now I’m lying on my back on my bed, one arm behind my head, and my thoughts full of her. It’s like I’m obsessed, and I can’t think of anything else.

My phone buzzes again, and I ignore it. It’s Lex, and I’m not in the mood for him right now.

Ten minutes later, he bursts in through my door. Now I wish I’d answered his message because here he is, and I don’t want to talk —not to him and not to Zane. I want to hang on to the afterglow of the time with Vani and keep it as my little secret just a bit longer. The minute they find out, she becomes ours again, not mine and mine alone.

“Fucker, I’ve been calling.Merde! You never answer.” Lex huffs out an annoyed breath.

He’s been calling? I got the texts buzzing at me and annoying me like flies on shit, but no calls. Lazily, I reach for my phone and see he has indeed called, and I missed it.

“Bah oui,” I shrug, “I had it on silent and forgot.”

“Why? What have you been doing?”

I smirk at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He narrows his eyes but says nothing. After considering me for a long beat, he shrugs. “Fine.”

His expression is nonchalant, and he’s almost smiling. It’s an expression that is his and his alone, or so far as I’m aware, because I’ve never seen it on me, either in the mirror or in photographs.

“You look ugly when you pull that face,” I say.

He shoots me the finger then stalks over to my closet and flings it open. I’m off the bed in a flash. “What are you doing?”

He shoots me a puzzled glance. “Getting my shirt back. Stop fucking taking my clothes. Have you pulled the trick on Vani again, ’cause I swear if – ”

His words die, and he stills in his movements.

Oh shit. He’s pulled my shirts to one side, and the portrait is staring at him. I wanted to keep that private. It feels too personal.

“What’s this?” Lex pulls it out of the closet and holds it up.

“It’s a painting,” I say stupidly. I’m not sure why he’s asking. He knows I paint.

Lex stares at it, and, in a rare moment for us, I realize I don’t know what he’s thinking. His face darkens as if storm clouds are passing over, then he lifts it high above his head. In a split second, I see the rage, but it’s too late.

With a snarl, he smashes the picture over the back of a nearby chair. I yell and lunge for it, horrified. It was more thanjust a painting; the picture held a part of my soul. It was how I see Vani when you strip away all the crap, all the hate, and anger, and fucked up weirdness I feel around her. And now he’s destroyed it.

“Motherfucker.”

I rush him, my shoulder colliding with his chest. He lets out an ‘ouff’ of shock, and I take him to the ground. We both land hard, my teeth cracking together and my bones jarring, but I don’t care. The rage I’ve been feeling building for weeks, rage that I can’t place and don’t fully understand, explodes.

We fight sometimes, the way most brothers do, but this is different. There’s real hatred in this moment between us. I deliver a swift blow to his jaw, and then get my hands around his throat. Physically, we’re perfectly matched, but right now my fury is greater than his.

“Why did you smash it?” I growl as I hold his head down by the throat.

He’s flailing for me, trying to get a grip in return. “That’s my version of her,” he pants.

I still, the words make no sense. “What?”

“The way you painted her. That’s my version. Yours is slutty and depraved. Mine is innocent. You stole my version of her.”

His words are so unhinged that I can’t reply for the longest time. In the end, lost for words, I reply with my fists and punch him in the ribs. He gives a growl of anger and swings back. His knuckles collide with my cheekbone, and my head rocks back. He seizes his moment and shoves me backward, so now I’m the one on my back. I lift my knee to kick him away, but he’s on top of me before I get the chance.

There’s little finesse in our fighting. Even though we’re both trained, I think deep down we know if we were to use our training, one or the other of us would get seriously hurt. We’re too evenly matched.

Instead, I use my words to hurt him, gasping them out between breaths and punches and kicks. “I fucked her after I painted her. She let me use her like a whore. She even told me she was mine.”

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