Page 23 of Pack Obsession

"No?" He leans back against the wooden window frame. "What do you want to talk about?"

Heat crawls up my neck. I can’t remember if I’ve ever felt this bizarre mix of wariness and comfort.

"Tell me about your paintings," I say finally. "The one in the hall with the cliffs and crashed ship. It feels angry."

"It was." His voice roughens. "Painted it after a bad night. The kind where the walls close in, and you need to either create something or destroy something."

"Which did you choose?"

"Both." He rolls his shoulder, and moonlight brightens a scar I hadn’t noticed before, disappearing under his sleeve. "Canvas didn’t survive the first attempt."

I think about the painting—those savage strokes of black and midnight blue, the jagged cliffs rising like teeth against a storm-dark sky. The shipwreck below half-swallowed by violent waves, its broken masts reaching up like desperate fingers. There’s something beautiful about it, but it’s a brutal kind of beauty.

"Poor canvas."

"Poor me. That shit’s expensive."

I burst out laughing, and he joins me.

"Your turn again," he insists.

"For what?"

"Secrets in the dark." His arm stretches up as he runs a hand through his hair, and my gaze locks in on the flexing of his huge bicep. "Fair exchange."

"I have nothing interesting." The truth is that mine are painted in blood and heartache, and I freeze up just thinking about mentioning my loss.

"Liar." But his tone holds something soft, and I can tell he’s a man who gets his way. "Anyway, you know what’s funny?" He says, breaking the comfortable silence that’s fallen between us. "For someone who paints oceans, I’ve never actually been on a boat."

I turn to look at him, surprised. "Never?"

"I don’t trust anything I can’t control."

"Silence is what I hate," I admit. "Real silence. The kind that fills empty rooms at three a.m. So, I always sleep with the radio on or one of my playlists. Anything but complete silence."

I stop as his fingers find a loose thread on my sleeve, toying with it. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my heart stutter.

"Sometimes I talk to myself just to fill the space."

"And what do you say?"

When I look up, I find him watching my lips.

"Mostly curse words in different languages that I learned online." That pulls a genuine laugh from him. I forget how to speak, falling prey to the deep sound. The air between us feels electric.

"You’re shivering," he murmurs.

"It’s cold by the window," I lie. It’s being this close to him, enjoying his company, that has me trembling with a strange excitement.

His mouth curves into something that’s almost a smile, but there’s a predatory edge to it. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

I should pull away. Should remember who he is, what he’s done. Instead, I sway slightly closer, drawn into his gravity.

"Tell me something true," he whispers, his breath ghosting across my cheek.

The words slip out before I can stop them. "You terrify me."

"Good." His hand slides into my hair, gentle despite the heaviness in his stare. "You should be terrified. I’m not a good man."

---