Page 111 of Ashes of Saints

Six days ago, after telling her I loved her, I refused to leave. I texted Chloe to say Aurora was with me, in shock, then packed up a bag and brought her to my place.

She’s been here ever since.

We haven’t had sex, but she curls up into my arms every night. I’ve not left the house, working from home. Who cares? I have billions of dollars, but I’m not losing this woman.

Aurora either stays in bed or sits on the sofa, her eyes following me whenever I walk through. Then at night, I make her eat as much as I can, then curl her into my arms with the TV on low or while I read.

My own healing and processing are happening as I’m nurturing her, in a weird fucking way. I’m a selfish asshole, I know that, but for once in my life, someone else means more to me than myself.

In some ways, I feel like we’re destined to be together, which is a bold thing to say for someone who doesn’t believe in fate and all that shit.

Yesterday, I had some boxes delivered and taken down to one of the empty rooms. The team that I hired finished three hours later. Aurora never asked what was happening. She simply sat on the sofa, hugging a cushion.

When they left, I took her hand and tugged her to her feet.

“Where are we going?”

“You should shower.” I smirked, kissing her lips because she allows that. “But first, I have something to show you.”

Hand in hand, we walked down the hall to the spare room. Then I pushed open the door.

I didn’t say anything, just waited.

Aurora let out a little gasp, dropped my hand, and stepped inside. Then walked up to the easels and paints, touching them, until she finally glanced back at me.

“You did this for me?”

I lifted my shoulder. “Maybe one is for me.”

The hint of a smile touched the corner of her lips and hope shot through me. “Do you paint?”

“Yes.”

No.

“No, you don’t.” She shook her head.

“Fine. Do you want to have a paint off?” I spread my arms out. “Two hours. Let’s see whose masterpiece is better.”

“Not yet.” Her eyes faded.

“Then by default I win.” I shrugged.

Aurora didn’t like that. She picked up the paintbrush, then glanced up at me, muttering fine.

Grinning, I sat before the second easel, wondering how long I could sit here drawing a stick man—the extent of my artistic abilities—then thanked god I had my smartphone in my pocket.

Three hours later, I heard her chair slide across the wooden floors.

“I’m done. Mostly. Oh, maybe—”

“Let me see.” I stood and crossed the room.

Jesus.

I took in the abstract painting with shades of cream, black, and gold. It was stunning. Perhaps I was biased, but I’d hang it in my living room. Hell, I was pretty sure rich fuckers like me would do the same, paying a huge amount for the honor.

“It’s bad. I knew it was bad.” Aurora began to lift it off, and I stopped her.

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