Page 45 of Control

“Aren’t you scared?” she asks, soft but piercingly. Like the question had been clawing its way out of her.

I pause, keeping my back to her for a moment longer than necessary before slowly turning to meet her eyes.

“Scared of you?” I ask, a humorless laugh escaping me.

She doesn’t flinch. Rather, her eyes lock on mine, searching for something in my response.

“No,” I say simply.

My chest tightens at the sight of her holding the gun, her fingers gripping it as if it burns. I know what she really means. Iknow she’s asking if I trust her not to point it at me, to take her shot if she thinks she can.

My voice is steady when I add, “I’m not afraid of a bullet.”

For a second, the air between us seems to crackle with unspoken tension. Then I turn and leave without another word, the door clicking shut behind me.

Chapter 15

Daniela

The box is wrapped in smooth black paper, the kind that feels like silk against your fingers. A neat bow ties it all together, a sharp crimson ribbon that screams elegance. I stare at it like it might explode.

“You gonna open it, or are we just gonna stand here all day?” Remo’s voice comes from behind me, low and impatient.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. The light catches the edge of his wolf tattoo, where ink curls over muscle.

God, he is so freaking handsome.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I say, even though my fingers itch to tug at the ribbon.

“And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

I roll my eyes and yank the bow free. The paper falls away, revealing a flat, rectangular leather case. It’s not a gun this time, which is both a relief and a curiosity.

I open the case slowly. Inside is a set of brushes—paintbrushes. The handles are sleek and black, with fine gold lettering that spells out a brand name I can’t even pronounce. The bristles are perfect, smooth, and soft, the kind that can glide over a canvas like silk.

Red-colored rose petals are scattered around it.

For a second, I can’t breathe.

“Roses?” I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, no skulls or snakes?”

His lips quirk, but just barely.

“What exactly is this, Remo?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I can’t help it.

Remo doesn’t move from the doorway. “Brushes. Thought you’d know what they were, considering.”

I snap the case shut and clutch it to my chest like a shield. “Why?”

“Why not?” His tone is casual, but his stare is anything but.

“This—” I shake my head, searching for the right words. “This doesn’t make any sense. You don’t even—”

“Care about your art?” He steps closer, his presence like a storm cloud. “Maybe I don’t. But I care about you not giving up on something that keeps you sane. You don’t get to quit.”

I glare at him, my chest tight. “You think this will fix everything? That a few fancy brushes will magically make me start painting again? You’re part of the reason I can’t even look at a canvas anymore.”

His jaw ticks, but his voice stays steady. “I think it’s better than watching you drink yourself into oblivion or sitting in front of a blank canvas like it owes you answers.”

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