Page 56 of Deadly Obsession

You’ve seen the paintings?

“How could I miss them?” she says. “They’re beautiful, but something was haunting about them too. Freddie told me you knew the artist.”

My chest constricts. Do I take my secret to the grave?

I gulp and reply.

They’re my paintings.

I’m Raptor.

“And you didn’t tell the Dukes?”

I shake my head.

“Well, I guess I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets from them.” She smiles wistfully as I fold our drawing and tuck it into my pocket. If we do get out here, the dick portrait can go right above our mantlepiece. “They miss you.”

Her smile dulls. I act without thinking and put my arm around her shoulder. She inhales sharply, readying to punch me. I worry I’ve gone too far, but she changes her mind and leans into my chest, nuzzling my muscles like a kitten.

I hold her, feeling her beating heart through my clothes. With my spare hand, I write a note.

We’re in this together.

She takes a deep breath and holds out her pinkie finger.

Pinkie promise?

I latch my finger around hers and squeeze.

Pinkie promise.

Ivy doesn’t know it, but she’s given me a reason to live.

CHAPTER37

CALLEN

Holy steaming shit with a cherry on top…

I wake in unfamiliar surroundings. My head hasn’t felt like this since Burns Night in Edinburgh at the turning of the millennium.

A familiar voice chirps, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

I roll over and groan at Seb’s smug grin. The bastard’s enjoying this too much.

“I always knew you were obsessed with me,” I mutter. My mouth is drier than a bagpiper’s. “If I’m not dead, kill me now.”

“I brought you a cup of tea,” he says, then yells loudly with the enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever puppy, “He’s awake!”

“Keep it down,” I growl, pulling myself up into a seated position in the bed. I’m tempted to throw the tea over Seb to wipe away his smirk, but I need my hit.

“Looks like there’s no permanent damage,” Seb comments.

The last thing I remember is stalking through an abandoned office like Bruce Willis in Die Hard, then… a fluttering lotus flower.

“Where am I?” I ask, looking around. They’ve put me on a sofa I’m too tall for, and my legs hang over the edge. Seb reaches out for my tea, but I snap, “I can get it myself.”

The sugary liquid is lukewarm and under-brewed, but it’ll have to do. How a lad with royal blood can make such a shite cuppa is beyond me. The only decent thing the English have ever done, beyond fish and chips, is brew tea.

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