The Finished Masterpiece Boxed Set - Pepper Winters Page 0,3

been revoked.” Skirting around me, he stalked toward the exit.

“We were friends once.”

He didn’t look at me. “Don’t fool yourself. We were never friends.”

He was right.

We’d been aware of each other on an instinctual level. We’d been drawn to one another in ways that exceeded our juvenile comprehension. Our bond exceeded petty arguments or stupid misunderstandings.

There was a link.

An awareness.

A pain.

“We weren’t just friends. We were more. So much more.”

“We were nothing.” He let his damaged elbow go, spinning to face me with a hiss. His injuries leeched away his power, leaving him feral with the need to kick me out.

I scowled. “Why can’t you accept my help? You obviously need it.”

His nostrils flared. For a second, utmost yearning flickered. He swayed toward me, victim to the lashing, licking need between us. But then, he shook his head. He pinched his nose as if fighting the simplicity of us.

Us.

There is no more us.

REMEMBER?!

I tiptoed closer, my voice a whisper. “I just...I need to understand, Gil. I get that I no longer have a chance of employment but...” I swallowed, murmuring with strength I didn’t have, “I’m happy for you. Truly. So glad that you get to do what you love for work. I’ve seen your Total Trickery webpage. I’ve watched you online. Those YouTube videos of the hooded man painting naked canvases...I had no idea it was you.” I sighed in awe. “Your talent is incredible.”

He flinched.

He didn’t speak for the longest moment.

I hoped he’d be kind, now he knew I meant no harm. Perhaps too much time had passed for us to go back to what we were, but there might be a chance for a different type of relationship.

Friends.

Co-workers.

Artist and canvas.

I was willing to accept anything if it meant I got to see him again. If I had the slimmest chance to figure out why he’d left me.

But just like before, he chased off the truth and embraced anger instead. His voice thickened with another growl. “Doesn’t matter.” He raised his hand, pointing at the exit. “Leave.” He looked up, trapping me in emerald intensity. “Goddammit, Olin. Please leave.”

My fingers curled into fists.

That wasn’t fair.

I was useless against him when he begged.

I’d let him guide our path when we were younger; happy to let him be in control because I trusted him impeccably. I loved having the honour of being the only one he talked to. The only one permitted to be close to him, to know his secrets, to walk beside him.

Turned out, I was no longer privileged.

Maybe he’d replaced me.

Maybe he truly couldn’t stand me.

But here he was.

Bleeding.

Wounded.

And no sign of a lover to tend to him.

He needed someone to love.

He needed someone who loved him.

I tried one last time. “You shouldn’t be alone, Gil. Please, let me stay.”

He balled his hands, not showing any signs of an emotional war this time. “I’m better off alone, believe me.”

“You need medical attention.”

“So will you if you don’t leave.”

I sighed sadly. “Resorting to threats won’t work. Not this time.”

His eyes flashed with history. Of the time he’d physically hurt me. Of the time his words had the power to stop my heart.

I braced myself for a torrent of anger, but the ghost of regret softened his features. He exhaled heavily, our battle slipping into the depressing aftermath where nobody won. “I don’t want to argue with you. I can tend to my own wounds, and you no longer have an interview. You should never have come here.”

I nodded, accepting the agonising truth. I would never win when it came to Gilbert Clark. I’d lost him long ago. “Okay, Gil.”

His shoulders rolled as if our fight had stripped his final reserves. He didn’t thank me. I didn’t think he had the energy to do anything more than nod listlessly.

My heels clicked loudly as I turned and headed toward the exit.

My back prickled with basic instincts, warning me not to retreat from a hunter. Not to show him vulnerability because that might welcome an attack. But I’d already been down this road. I’d fought for his affection only to receive emotional scars as my reward.

I didn’t want to leave.

It felt like defeat. It left me with a bad taste of giving in far too easily.

Surely, I should try again? I should honour the past and stay until he’d talked to me.

But when I turned by the door and looked back, he had one hand planted over his eyes and the other balled into a fist by his side. For a