Page 98 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He huffs, but there’s a small smile on his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

I take his hand and start skating with him, slow and easy. “You’re smiling, though.”

He rolls his eyes, but I see the way his lips twitch. Then, out of nowhere, I pull him close and dip him low right there on the ice. He lets out a startled laugh, gripping my shoulders. “You asshole—”

I shut him up with a kiss, soft and deep, my hands holding him steady, my body pressed against his. When I pull back and straighten us, he’s breathless. “You really planned all this for me?”

I shrug. “Wanted to give you a night without all the bullshit.”

He bites his bottom lip and looks down at our hands, then, quietly, he says, “No one’s ever done something like this for me before. Thank you.” He gives me a shy smile, but I don’t say anything. I just pull him closer, pressing my lips to his temple.

Then… he laughs. Not a smirk, not a scoff—a real fucking laugh. Wide and free, his green eyes bright, his whole face alive in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen.

Something warm settles in my chest, something that makes my ribs feel too tight, and my breath hitches just a little.

I love this man.

Damon catches my expression and tilts his head. “What?”

I shake my head, smirking. “Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re fucking staring.”

“Yeah,” I admit, not bothering to deny it. “You’re hot when you’re happy.”

Damon blinks, his cheeks turning faintly pink before he scoffs. “You’re so damn annoying.”

I grin. “Yeah, but you like it.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a softness in them now, something I know he doesn’t show to just anyone.

And fuck, I’ll make sure I see it again.

Damon

Idragthebrushacross the canvas in slow, even strokes, the deep crimson blending into the black. There’s no real image yet, just layers of color and texture, something forming in the chaos, but I don’t think about it too much. I never do when I paint. I just let it happen.

The apartment is quiet except for the sound of Roman shit-talking some poor bastard over his headset. He’s sprawled out on my couch in nothing but his boxers, and one leg bent over the armrest. He looks ridiculous, but I’m not complaining.

His tongue pokes out slightly, biting his venom piercings as he focuses on the game, and every now and then, he stretches, making his abs flex in a way that’s fucking distracting.

I shake my head and focus back on the canvas in front of me. I’m in my usual painting clothes—black sweats, a white T-shirt that’s already got a few paint streaks on it, and my glasses, which Roman has dubbed my ‘fuck me’ glasses because, apparently, they make me look hotter.

I don’t argue with him.

“Come the fuck on, you little camping piece of shit—peek me again, I dare you,” he growls, fingers moving rapidly over the buttons. A second later, he lets out a triumphant laugh. “That’s what I thought, pussy.”

I smirk, shaking my head as I dip my brush into the paint.

It’s a Saturday, and we’ve done fuck all today besides lazing around in my apartment. Roman has been switching between gaming and eating every snack in my kitchen, and I’ve been working on this piece while listening to him talk shit to strangers online.

He looks good like this. Comfortable. Happy. His hair is a mess, and even from across the room, I can see the faint bruises I left on his hips.

My cock twitches.

Fucking focus, Ward.

I turn back to my painting, exhaling slowly, but before I can make another stroke, my phone vibrates against the table. I frown, setting my brush down and wiping my hands on a rag before grabbing it. My stomach tightens when I see the caller ID.

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