Page 85 of Inked Desires

He just nods and takes a sip of wine. I grab my glass and take a drink too. Something’s off between us. This isn’t normal.

“Did your trip go well?” I ask, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“It was fine.”

The conversation stalls. Usually we talk about everything and nothing. I awkwardly flop onto a stool. Robert looks away, opens a cupboard, pulls out two plates, then some cutlery from a drawer. He sets them on the island.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

My stomach is both drunk on excitement and knotted with guilt. There’s no way I can tell him.

“A little,” I say simply.

He serves me a small portion. If I’m not mistaken, it’s a pasta gratin. One bite confirms it. The dish is lukewarm.

“Have you been back long?” I ask.

Robert doesn’t eat, even though he served himself. He just drinks his wine.

“For a while. You finished work three hours ago, right?”

His scrutinizing gaze lingers on my face.

“Ares and I talked,” I murmur, eyes dropping to my plate.

My cheeks flare again. It’s not a lie. We talked… but we also shared a lot of kisses. I feel like a teenager caught red-handed by their parents. Except it’s not a parent facing me. It’s my best friend. Well… my only friend.

I risk a look at him. His jaw is clenched, a muscle twitches on his cheek.

“Are you angry?” I ask cautiously.

“You didn’t just talk,” he snaps.

I sigh and set down my fork. What’s the point in denying it? He’s trained to read people; it’s his job.

“No. But I’m sparing you the details. I don’t want to hurt you,” I say honestly.

Robert moves around the island and stops beside me. His hand lands on the back of my neck, his gaze burning with relentless determination.

“Robert…” I begin.

“No. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t settle for second choice. Choose me. I love you, Andrew. I have for a long time. That tattoo artist had only a moment with you. I’ve loved you for years. I’d do anything for you!”

Suddenly, he grabs me and kisses me violently. Shocked, my eyes widen and the world tilts around me.

He straightens, holding me firmly. Our eyes lock. Slowly, he slides a hand under his jacket. When he pulls it out, a knife gleams between his fingers.

“What are you doing?” I breathe, breath short.

His lips press tight. He twirls the handle in his palm but doesn’t answer.

“Robert?” I insist cautiously.

He steps forward. His gaze never leaves mine. He says nothing.

Suddenly, his arm shoots out. A blinding pain explodes in my stomach.

I look down, stunned. I see the blade plunged into me, blood soaking my shirt. Blood. Too much blood. Dizziness sweeps over me. I stagger. Shock keeps me from reacting.