Page 36 of The Painter and His Poet

“The song choice wasperfect,” he adds, knowing full well what he’s doing.

It’s as though he wants me to fucking punch him. God, if my mum finds out that they chose her favourite song to usher in his new bride it will break her heart.

Gritting my jaw even tighter, my gaze drops to his hand still lingering on Harlow’s arm, and a sudden rash of possessiveness rushes through my body. I’m going to give him five seconds to remove his fucking hand before I remove it for him.

One, I count inside my head, my body trembling from the effort not to deck him right this second.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Luckily for him, his hand falls away.

“Harlow, meet Sterling. Sterling, meet Harlow,” Melody says, oblivious to the close call, and the rage gaining traction inside of me.

“Nice to meet you, Sterling,” Harlow says evenly, turning her body towards me as she holds out her hand.

My eyes flit from the pleading look in her gaze, to her hand stretched out towards me, the remnants of lilac and gold, peach and crimson, still floating around her body.

Take her hand, Sterling. Just take her fucking hand, I yell at myself.

I know it’s the right thing to do, the expected thing, but if I touch her…

Fuck, if I touch her all bets are off.

Agonising seconds tick by, my breath leaving my body in harsh pants as my fingers curl tighter around the champagne flute. I feel as though I’m underwater, the muffled sound of the wedding guests’ conversations drowned out by the rush of blood pounding in my ears.

I’m vaguely aware of my father’s gaze drilling into the side of my face. He thinks I’m behaving this way because of my synesthesia, and he’d be right to an extent, but I’m trying my best not to do what my body, my fuckingsoulis yelling at me to do despitestillfeeling the sting of her rejection, and that is take Harlow in my arms and claim her as mine.

Right here, right now.

“Greet your step-sister, Sterling,” my father demands.

Step-sister.

I snap, my fingers crushing the glass in my hand, shattering it.

“Oh my God, you’re bleeding,” Harlow cries, reaching for me.

I snatch my hand away, unfurling my fingers as blood trickles from my palm. A shard of glass is embedded in the surface, the rest scattering to the floor at my feet.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” my dad hisses as Melody gasps in shock.

Gritting my jaw, I turn on my heel and stride away, the pain in my hand nothing to the agony I feel inside.

TEN

HARLOW

“Do you think I should check on him?” I ask, my heart thundering in my chest as I watch Sterling stride across the room, a trail of blood dripping from his hand onto the pristine marble floor.

Drix, the man who I was introduced to a few minutes ago, follows him, a worried expression on his face. Apparently they’re friends, and have known each other for years, so I’m glad he has someone looking out for him. Even still,Icaused this.Ishould be the one checking on him, to make things better.

Better?

How on earth can I make this situation better? Our parents have just got married for crying out loud, and despite the way my pulse spiked the second I laid eyes on him, how my skin heated with the intensity of his stare, despite the way I was thrown back to that wonderful night we spent together,nothingcan happen between us again. It justcan’t.

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