Page 42 of King of Depravity

“Yeah.”

“I’ve always assumed I couldn’t. That no one would buy them because they weren’t good enough, or that I didn’t have the connections to make it happen.” I shift as I nip at my lip. “But, if we’re talking heart of hearts, I’m not sure I want to sell them. It’s so personal for me. They’re all about what makes me sad or happy, they are my diary.”

Killian gets up then, walking toward me, but I hold out my hand. “Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I lift my shoulders, giving him a side eye, “this painting is a surprise.”

“A surprise for me?” His gaze lights and sparks. It makes my chest tight to see the life in them, the stars that shine in the dark brown depths.

I point my paint brush back toward the couch. “No peaking when I’m not here, either.”

He walks backward, keeping his eyes locked on me. “No one but my mother gives me anything.”

I’ve met his brothers, so of course, he has a mother. But Killian was so emotionally cut off when I met him, I’m having a hard time even picturing him with parents. “Are you close to her?”

“She’s one of my favorite people in the world.”

I cock my head as I consider those words. Maybe that tracks. He has softened to me very quickly, treating me like something precious rather than a thing to be used and thrown away. “Is your father as important?”

“My father is dead, but we were never close.” I hear the hardness that creeps into his voice, watch his muscles tense. Setting the palette and the brush aside, I close the distance between us.

I’ve got a bit of paint on my hands, but he doesn’t hesitate, pulling me into his arms, as he sits on the couch and folds me into his lap. “Was he like a workaholic, being a duke or whatever?” I try to ask a follow-up question that might help me understand without pushing too much. I can feel Killian’s resistance.

“He wasn’t a duke, and he barely worked. He mostly lived a lavish life as a spare to the dukedom, running up amazing debts.”

Ouch. I wrap my arms around him. “What happened?”

He shakes his head looking at the far wall, but his eyes have taken on that same dead look they had when I first met him. His touch, however, is still gentle. “He died of a heart attack, but it was obvious that it was at least partially drug-induced. The debts were a problem, but we’ve tackled that as a family. Tris and Gris both have an excellent business sense, so they were able to correct his mistakes and then some.”

“I can hear that he’s hurt you, Killian.” I slide my fingers into his hair. “What happened?”

But, instead of answering, he stands as he sets me back on my feet. “Nothing. Work on your painting while there is still light.”

I start to ask him again. I shared my worst memory with him. But before I can get the words out, he’s shrugging past me, heading to the kitchen. “I’m getting some water. Want a glass?”

“No thank you,” I whisper, still watching him. His shoulders are stiff, his posture defensive.

With a sigh, I head back to my easel, giving Killian several long glances as he leans against the counter, his back to me. He sips his water, the muscles in his back flexing with his movements.

“Killian,” I call.

“Yeah,” he answers, half looking over his shoulder but not making eye contact.

“I…thanks for having me here.”

He turns then, his body relaxing. “You’re welcome, baby girl.”

“Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll maybe get some more stuff, if you’re all right with me staying for a bit?”

He starts toward me again, all the darkness gone. “Of course I am, and I’ll come with you to help.”

I nod and then pick up my brush. Whatever Killian’s father did, the wound is deep. Deep enough that it’s what makes him dark.

He’s not ready for me to pry into it, but we’ve got a tit-for-tat thing going, and if I can tell him, then he can share with me too.

I paint for another hour before I lose the light. I could turn on all the overhead lighting, Killian’s place is amazing like that. But I’m tired and I’ve been hearing about this bed for a few days now. So instead, I go to the sink and wash out my brushes.

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