Page 53 of The Loathing

“Thank you,” I sob, clinging onto his tee as my head drops, my forehead pressing against his chest as the tears begin to fall again and Titus holds me until I am ready to move.

It’s just me and him.

I needed him more than I knew, and I hope he is true to his word, I hope I can trust him with everything I have and most importantly, I hope he keeps his promise. Because I am clinging onto that promise more than anything else he has said.

We have become closer; I mean, sure we have. He is the only person I am allowed to see outside of my family and there is something about Titus that draws me in like a moth to a flame, but what worries me is that the flame always fades by the time I get there. I tell him things I would never speak with anyone else, but I trust him.

I don’t know why.

But I do.

Wholeheartedly.

* * *

After a hot shower and a set of fresh clothes, I am sitting quietly in my painting room, the heavy rain beating down on the glass roof and I find comfort in the sound. No other sound surrounds me apart from that. Candles are glowing on the low windowsills giving the room a calming ambience. I thought it may have helped but it hasn’t. I am still upset, frustrated and angry. I exhale heavily as I look at my easel and what I have created. It’s crap. I know it is. But it’s annoying me at just how bad it is.

Dipping my paintbrush in the black paint, I swipe a large black line through it.

“Now it’s ruined,” I hear his voice and I try and twist my smile into a pout.

“It was already ruined,” my tone is flat and I sigh heavily.

“I don’t believe that all the paintings I have been privileged to see and not one of them have been bad.”

I spin round quickly and startle myself at how delicious he looks. This is wrong. I should not be looking at my bodyguard this way.

“I never said they were bad…” my brow cocks high in my forehead and I see his eyes widening, the panic setting in and I roll my lips. “Do you think my paintings are bad?” and I know it’s cruel teasing him but it’s too easy.

“No!” he rushes out the word as if it’s burnt his tongue. “Amora,” he breathes out, his light crystal blue eyes captivating me and pulling me in, “your paintings are far from bad, I’m in awe at how amazing they are,” he steps a little closer and I let my eyes rake up and down his body, slowly as I take in this godly sight that is bestowed in front of me.

He was wearing cargo trousers, slate grey and a tight white t-shirt which clung to his broad shoulders and hugged his muscly biceps. He looked delicious and smelt heavenly, vanilla and woodsmoke.

“So you don’t think my paintings are bad,” I manage as he stops in front of me, his hand fisting into his pocket and he shakes his head.

“Not even this one behind me?”

“Not even that one behind you; to be honest, I think it might be my favourite of them all,” his voice is low and barely audible, a hush of a whisper floating through me and making my heart pounce in my chest.

My cheeks pinch a crimson and I am grateful for the low light.

“Well, this one is yours if you want it,” I shrug my shoulders up, spinning round on my stool as I look back at my canvas.

Greys, blues and a subtle hint of pastel pink and purple streaked through the colours like a horizon about to kiss the sunset.

“Reminds me of twilight,” Titus’ voice rasps and my skin prickles.

Silence crackles in the air, the room being filled with the sound of the rain once more.

Moments pass and my eyes are still fixated on my canvas when Titus finally sits down next to me, grabbing the stool from the other side of the room and perching next to me.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” he asks and I ignore the urge to look at him and keep my eyes pinned to where they are.

“Just my father unfortunately.”

I hear Titus inhale, a slight whistle passing his lips.

“It’s bad.”

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