Page 20 of You're Mine Now

When dawn crept in, I woke before him, catching his sharp, striking features softened by the early light. His expression, so often intense—angry, even—was peaceful now, almost vulnerable. For a fleeting moment, I let myself study him, this man who could command and consume me so completely.

Quietly, I slipped from his bed, careful not to wake him. I felt the ache he’d left in me, a raw reminder of everything that had unfolded between us.

I needed space—space to think, to decide. Could I come back to him? If I did, I’d have to surrender fully—let him claim me until nothing was left that wasn’t his.

* * *

I stormed into the house, my mind a chaotic swirl of emotions. I wanted to scream, to rage… and, to my shame, to feel the ecstasy all over again. My steps were purposeful as I went to the sunroom, my art studio. The massive canvas lay there—a blank slate, untouched, waiting for me.

For weeks, inspiration had eluded me. But now, the need to create burned through me, scorching away the fog of doubt and hesitation.

Grabbing a brush, I plunged it into the bright red paint and slashed it across the canvas. The color bled violently, a desperate outpouring of everything tangled inside me. My brush moved faster, dragging textures, mixing hues. The chaos took form, layer by layer—a raw, unfiltered reflection of the emotions within.

Tears spilled down my cheeks as the memories of him overwhelmed me. His touch, his voice, the way he made me feel back then… and now. The intensity, the hunger, the moments I both loathed and craved.

How could I be drawn to him? How could I have enjoyed it? What kind of person did that make me?

My chest heaved as I stepped back, staring at the canvas.

It was… incredible.

Chapter Seven

Adrian

Iwas in a dream within a dream—Inception style.

Back in my cell, Malik loomed over me as I stirred awake. His expression was the same as always—a mix of twisted camaraderie and mockery.

“Get up, you piece of shit,” he scoffed, his voice grating like nails on metal. “You were moaning her name again—‘Ugh, Scarlett…’”

“Fuck off, Malik,” I muttered, but the smirk on my lips told him I didn’t care. There was no way I could keep that kind of obsession a secret for long.

But then the bars dissolved, fading into nothing, the hard cot beneath me softening into the familiar plushness of my king-sized bed. A sliver of sunlight slipped through the curtains, grounding me in reality.

I wasn’t back there.

Thank God.

Reaching over, I searched for her warmth.

She was gone.

My chest tightened. No note. No sign she’d ever been there. My jaw tightened, anger rising in me like a storm.

Then, the buzz of my phone cut through the tension. Victor’s name glowed on the screen, and I forced myself to breathe as I answered.

“Victor,” I said, forcing composure into my voice.

“Adrian,” came his smooth, velvet Italian accent. “I’m very pleased with your latest delivery. You’re handling the clients well.”

I sat up, rubbing the back of my neck.

“Thanks. I told you I could handle it.”

“You’ve proven yourself,” Victor continued, his tone sincere before sharpening. “I’m putting you on the Rothko job.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. My breath hitched. This was it. The job I’d been working toward.

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