Page 121 of The Painter and His Poet

At Councillor Hoxton who wants to hurt the woman I love.

At Dalton’s father for thinking only of himself and forcing Dalton and Daisy to make a decision that could break the both of them.

And most of all, at myself for not acting sooner.

I should’ve claimed Harlow the second I saw her at our parents' wedding. I should’ve made it clear that we belonged together and maybe Councillor Hoxton would’ve backed the fuck off.

I’m angry, so fucking angry.

After hearing Harlow sing, I came straight here to unleash the turmoil I felt from every beautiful, poignant note that she sang. Daisy might have asked her to sing, but that performance was for me. I felt every drop of longing, I heard every utteredcadence telling me how trapped she feels by our secret, by the man who’s been terrorising her. Fuck, I’d wanted to go to her. I’d wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her pain and fear away. I wanted to soothe her. But I fucking couldn’t. I could only watch as she poured her heart and soul into her performance, my own desperation making me stiff with tension, with rage. I still feel it now, despite trying to purge myself of it. Every stroke before me is a violent declaration of how much she means to me, how far I’m willing to go to keep her safe.

Dropping the paintbrush that’s dripping with crimson and black paint, I snatch up my phone and open the app, clicking through to the messages. I’m done with this shit. It’s time I draw the bastard out once and for all. Moving towards the far wall where more paintings of Harlow are situated, I take a photo of the very first painting I did of Harlow, and press send. Then I wait. Within minutes I see that he’s typing a response. My anger blazes as I read.

What is this?!

I can feel his shock and confusion through the message. Good. I hope the motherfucker feels a fraction of how I’m feeling now. If he’s as consumed by Harlow as he appears to be, seeing her image that I captured in a state of arousal will incense him. It will force his hand. Blowing out a steadying breath through my lips, I wait a moment before responding, but in the meantime he sends another message.

Who the fuck painted you like this? Have you been disloyal to me, Harlow? Are you trying to make me mad?

“Yes, motherfucker, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” I grind out, my thumb flying over the screen as I type out a message in response.

No. I’m afraid. That’s why I sent you these photos. He’s been acting strange around me, making lewd comments under his breath, pretending to our parents that he hates me when all the while he’s been painting images just like this. There are so many of them. I didn’t know.

He responds instantly.

Who? Tell me who!

Rolling my head on my shoulders to ease the tension, I reply.

My step-brother, Sterling. Tonight I overheard him speaking with his friends. He’s going to sell these paintings at a private viewing. People will assume we’re together. How could he do this to me? It’s sick.

For long moments, I wait. I can see him typing out a response, but nothing comes back straight away. He seems to be typing a message, then thinking better of it. I wonder what thoughts are rolling through his head right now. I hope he’s fucking raging, but more than that, I hope he takes the bait.

When?

His short response has a wicked smile curving up my lip. “Got you,” I mutter.

When? I reply.

When is he having this private viewing?!

Next Saturday in an art gallery in London. What should I do?

He replies within seconds.

I will sort this out. Leave it with me my sweet songbird. I’ll protect you from that deviant bastard and from anyone else who thinks they can own a piece of you. I’ll buy every damn painting if that’s what it takes.

“The fuck you will,” I grind out, slamming my phone onto the table, and cracking the screen in the process.

“Sterling, is everything okay?”

My head snaps up as I watch Harlow step into the studio, gently closing the door behind her. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks tinged pink from the cold as she takes me in. I know what I must look like, standing here covered in paint, trembling still from the aftermath of hearing her sing, from being so fucking angry at everyone and everything, of both wanting to protect her and struggling with my feelings that I’ve had to keep hidden. Hell, from needing to claim her as mine in front of our friends.

“No, Harlow. I’m not,” I admit, resting my arse against the table as I drop my head.

“I shouldn’t have sung. It’s my fault,” she says, her voice laced with concern as she comes to me.

Within moments her arms are wrapped around my back, her hands running up and down my spine. I melt into her embrace, hauling her close.

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