Page 97 of Dark Ink

There was only silence. That stretched. And stretched.

“I don’t know why I didn’t want to tell you earlier…” I said, letting the words again fade into this agonising nothingness.

Rian’s voice was ragged, pained, when he said, “We need to get out of here.”

I barely had time to process what he’d said before he turned on his heel. I wasn’t even sure what was going on, but every echo of his retreating footsteps sounded like a gunshot, straight to the heart. I glanced between him and the painting, me at my most vulnerable, me at my most powerful, me. All me. I…of all the things he could have said or not said…this?

“Rian?” I called as I ran after him.

I’d just locked up the art gallery before Rian pulled up in his car along the sidewalk. I’d barely managed to shut the door before he floored it. I placed a hand on Rian’s bouncing knee.

“Rian,” I said, shaking my head as the city whipped by. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to upset you. If that was too fast, I—”

“Please,” Rian said, voice even more strained. “Just—don’t. I—just…”

It wasn’t till Rian pulled to a stop and dragged me out of the car that I realised this wasn’t my place. The front door of Rian’s apartment rattled on its hinges as he shoved it open and pulled me inside. He slammed the door shut behind us and pushed me up against the door.

He kissed me, his hands encompassed my face, palms hot against my cheeks. His hard body crushing me against the door. His lips seared mine, marked me as his as I gasped for air. When Rian pulled away there was an intensity in his gaze that I’d almost forgotten, that I’d missed.

“I’ve been treating you like glass, haven’t I?” Rian asked, holding my face up toward his.

I nodded, chest heaving, breaths coming in little stutters.

“But you’re not glass are you, Ms Brady?” he said in a low, dangerous whisper.

I shook my head.

“You’re strong.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“You won’t break.”

“No.”

“Even if things get a little…rough,” he said, searching my eyes. His burning, mine burning right back.

I gulped. “No.”

His lips crashed into mine, his hips rolled against mine. My arms slipped around his neck, my fingers carded through his hair, squeezed, tore. Rian nipped at my throat and ran his hands along my hips. I whined a pitiful sound when his touch left mine. He fumbled with something at the small of my back and a second later the door swung open. We stumbled together into the darkened room; Rian’s arms around me were the only thing that kept me from falling.

I tore at my jacket as I moved toward the bed. I kicked off my shoes and had my blouse halfway unbuttoned when I realised that Rian hadn’t followed. I glanced over my shoulder to find him back by the door, a mirror to how I’d been at the art gallery. I felt his gaze on me, steady, searching. In the faint light from the streetlamps through the blinds, I could just make out the shape of him.

“I’m not glass,” I said in a low, soft voice. When Rian did not respond, I turned around and walked back toward him, saying, “I’m strong.”

I felt his eyes on me more than saw them.

“I won’t break,” I said, trying to keep my breathing even.

I slipped my fingers in between his.

“I know you, Rian Merrick,” I said and then repeated almost breathlessly, “I know you.”

Rian switch on the lamp. Soft golden light filled his bedroom. I turned toward the bed, but it wasn’t the bed that I saw. Covering the walls were paintings. Lined across the floorboards were paintings. Drying on his small work desk were paintings. I was in all of them. I was in all of them, but I was not alone.

Standing with Rian, there at the open door, fingers intertwined, I let my eye travel from one to the next. They showed a future, a future together. There was one of Rian proposing, down on one knee in a whirlwind of leaves the colour of jewels. I saw in such vivid detail that I thought I could hear the lace rustling at our wedding. In Florence, Italy, at a tiny little cafe overlooking a quaint town square, our hands were locked together much like they were now. The colours were so rich I could feel the heat of the sun on my skin even as the bitter Dublin winter wind rattled the windows. I swore Mason and Conor, Aurnia and Rachel were there with us in the room as I gazed at a painting of a big family dinner at Dublin Ink. I couldn’t help but tear up when I saw paintings of the two of us smiling over a small stick in a cramped bathroom, the two of us painting a room pink, the two of us holding our child for the first time. There were paintings of more children, more love, more life. As my eyes travelled round the room, Rian and I grew old together, fell more madly in love together, made a life together. There was happiness. There was joy. There was healing.

“I, um, I painted them in rehab,” Rian said, sounding as hesitant and nervous as I had at the art gallery when I’d shown him my work. “Well, most of them. I continued after I left. It’s…well, I’m still working on getting better, you know.”

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