Page 196 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two

Now, with time separating me from that horrible night, I can see why Storm took Bakari’s life. He felt he had to. I was under Bakari and Darren’s protection, and yet theybothfailed me terribly. How could Storm trust them with anything? Darren’s betrayal was apparent, but Bakari’s betrayal of his duties through negligence cost me greatly, too.

Storm sees things in black and white, justice and injustice. And sometimes, he’s the judge, jury, and executioner…and sometimes, our world is safer when he spills blood.

Storm Sandoval is a killer—the exact type of man my father would loathe me being with, the type of man who I should run far away from.

So, what does it say about me that I can’t stop loving him, even if I tried?

I turn to face him again, and I accept the answer. I should hate him, but I see his soul.

And he doesn’t hide the fact that his heart beats for me, just like mine beats for him.

Can that be enough to move forward? Should it be enough?

“Storm—”

“Shae,” he says, stopping my words. “Can I show you something?”

I nod, giving him my hand.

He leads me across the studio to a narrow flight of stairs leading to a small loft. When we reach the landing, a half-finished painting sits on an easel. There’s a smock flung over a stool, and dried paint brushes line a small table next to the piece. The floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the glass art below extend to this area, allowing more light to filter in over the tops of the trees outside.

It’s even dustier up here, but brighter. I can see why someone would want to paint in this spot.

“Is this your work, too?” I ask, leaning close to the canvas to take in the intricate details.

“No, I’m not a painter. My mom was,” he says, and I straighten.

“Oh,” I say softly, examining the side of his face as he looks over the painting. There’s a gentle smile on his face, as if he were remembering it being created, maybe during a happier time.

“It’s a stunning piece,” I whisper, something telling me the reverence of the moment calls for it.

He keeps looking at the art, not at me, but I’m okay with that.

“I couldn’t take it down,” he says. “I don’t know what to do with it, I just know I can’t move it from this easel.”

More silence falls between us, but nothing about it feels awkward. Just…heavy.

“I should be further along with this,” he says.

“This?” I ask, my fingers aching to touch him.

“Grieving,” he replies. “I mean, it’s been eight years, but it still feels like yesterday. I can still hear the explosion; I can still smell their?—”

He looks down, finally tearing his eyes away from the art his mother never finished.

“I’m sorry, Storm,” I say after holding the words. “I’m so sorry for all you went through.”

Storm freezes, as if the words are a threat, but then he relaxes, smiling at me as if he weren’t just on an emotional cliff.

“Thanks, Sweetness,” he says. “But I knew that already.”

He grabs my hands, and my heart thuds hard against my breastbone.

“Well, I just wanted you to know. You’ve gone through so much trauma when you lost them, and losing them the way you did was…” I blow out a breath, still shaken by what he describedall those weeks ago. “You’re grieving, and I think it’s okay you’re still grieving. There isn’t a time limit on this sort of thing.”

Storm grins, and I find myself smiling back at him.

This. This is why it’s so hard to deny him—because we’re just standing here, holding hands, smiling at each other, and something in my spirit settles.