Page 53 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Pictures of You

Anthony

Chance disappears into his bedroom to rinse off, and I’m left standing in the middle of his luxurious condo with Little G at my side. I let out a slow whistle, glancing around, taking in the high ceilings, the sleek, modern finishes, the sheer elegance of it all.

It’s impressive. Expensive. A far cry from the place we used to share.

I run a hand over the cool marble countertop that separates the kitchen from the living area, trailing my fingers across the smooth surface.

The kitchen itself is pristine—state-of-the-art appliances, dark wood cabinetry, bar stools neatly lined up along the island.

It’s the kind of place that screams success, and not for the first time, I think about upgrading when my lease is up.

I can afford something like this now. Maybe not quite this level of luxury, but something better. Something nice for me and Little G—who’s currently sniffing around curiously but behaving himself.

With a final brush of my fingers against the countertop, I wander into the living room, admiring the rich leather furniture and the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The sun reflects off the glass buildings, bathing everything in warm golden light.

As I take it all in, a door to my right catches my attention. It’s cracked open just enough to see inside, and curiosity gets the better of me. I check on Little G one more time before stepping toward it, pushing it open a little more.

The first thing I notice is a stack of canvases leaning against the far wall.

Chance’s art.

I hesitate. This feels a little intrusive. But the pull is too strong. I step further inside and stand in front of the stack of art, my fingers grazing the edge of the first canvas. It’s facing inward, hiding its contents, but something in me—something deep and desperate—needs to see.

With a slow inhale, I pull it forward.

The wind is knocked out of me like I got punched in the gut.

I stare, my pulse thundering in my ears. My own face stares back at me from the second canvas, rendered in soft strokes of color and shadow. The emotion in my painted eyes is so raw, so intense, I feel stripped bare just looking at it.

Shaking, I flip to the next canvas.

It’s me again.

The next one. Me.

Canvas after canvas. Painting after painting.

All me.

My knees buckle.

I reach for the wall to steady myself, my breath shallow, hands trembling as I flip through them, each one more stunning, more devastating than the last. They capture me in ways I didn’t even know I existed—in laughter, in contemplation, in moments of quiet vulnerability.

There’s love in every brushstroke, devotion in every line.

He painted me. Over and over and over.

For three years, I thought he forgot me. Thought I was just a part of his past, something he left behind without a second glance. But this?

This tells a different story. A story I’m not prepared to hear.

Then, a knowing shiver runs down my spine, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.

“Ant, I—”

His voice is soft, hesitant.

I spin around, and the moment our eyes meet, Chance’s breath catches. His gaze flickers to the tears streaming down my face, his expression shifting to something raw and unguarded.

“Oh, Beautiful—”

“I’m not ready for this,” I choke out, shaking my head. “I need to go.”

“Ant, please don’t leave.” His voice cracks, his hands clench like he’s fighting every instinct to reach for me.

But I can’t.

I brush past him, my skin ignites from the brief contact, my emotions a tangled mess. I clip Guinness’ leash onto his collar and head toward the front door.

Just as my hand reaches for the doorknob, Chance’s voice cuts through the air like a fucking bullet.

“I killed my father.”

I freeze.

My breath comes in short, sharp bursts, my hand hovering over the doorknob, my entire body locked in place.

The silence that follows is deafening.

His words settle like lead in my stomach.

I killed my father.

My head lifts slightly, but my gaze remains fixed on the door in front of me.

“What did you just say?”

“He murdered Ma, Ant.” Chance says on a ragged breath. “I ended him.”

The floor drops out from under me. My knees buckle, and I crumple before I can even think to stop it. The weight of everything—the last three years of not knowing what happened to Ma, not knowing where Chance was, not knowing anything —comes crashing down all at once.

A broken, guttural sob tears from my throat. My vision blurs as hot, violent tears spill down my face.

I don’t even hear Chance move, but suddenly, he’s there, kneeling beside me, arms reaching for me.

“No—” I shove at him, flailing, fighting against his grip. “No! No! No! Why, Chance, why?” My voice cracks on every syllable, raw and desperate. My fists pound against his chest, against his arms—anywhere I can reach. My body is working through sheer, agonized instinct, trying to push him away.

But he doesn’t let go.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice steady, but rough with emotion. His arms are like steel bands wrapped around me. “Breathe, baby.”

I shake my head frantically, choking on my own sobs, but my body betrays me. My strength drains and I collapse against him, gripping at his shirt like a lifeline.

Chance just holds me.

I sob into his chest. Uncontrollable, raw and shaking so hard I think I might break apart. But he doesn’t let me. His arms tighten, grounding me. His breath is deep, steady, strong—something for me to cling to in the middle of the storm raging inside me.

He rocks us slowly, murmuring words I can’t even process.

All I can do is cry.

Cry for Ma.

Cry for him.

Cry for the three years that shattered us both.

Chance holds me, his breath steadying against my hair as I cling to his shirt. My body still shakes with the aftermath of my breakdown, but the sobs have dulled into silent tears trailing down my cheeks.

His hand smooths over my back, slow and grounding. “Let’s get you over to the couch, okay?”

I nod weakly against his chest, unable to form words yet. My limbs feel useless, but Chance shifts, maneuvering me like I weigh nothing, helping me to my feet. He keeps his hands on me, steadying me as he guides me to the couch. When I sink into the cushions, my body is heavy, drained.

“I’m gonna get you some water,” Chance says softly. “Stay right there.”

“No.” My voice is hoarse, barely audible.

Chance stops mid-step and turns back, his expression cautious.

“Not water,” I clarify, clearing my throat. “I need something stronger.”

A small, breathy laugh escapes him. “Tequila it is. Seems to be a theme on my apology tour.”

He heads into the kitchen, his movements smooth and deliberate.

I track every motion—how he pulls out two glasses, drops a few ice cubes into each, then grabs a bottle from a lower cabinet.

He uncaps it, pours a generous amount into both glasses, then opens the fridge and adds a splash of orange juice.

Chance returns, handing me a glass before sinking into the couch beside me. He takes a slow sip from his own before setting it down on the coffee table.

I’m in no mood for slow sips. I take two big swigs, letting the warmth burn down my throat, spreading through my chest. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my breath.

When I open them, Chance is watching me carefully, those electric blue eyes filled with apologies, regret, and something else.

Something I won’t allow myself to latch onto.

I rub my thumb absently along the side of my glass, then look up at him.

“Okay,” I say, voice steadier now. “Tell me.”

Chance’s shoulders tense slightly, his hands resting on his thighs.

I exhale, gripping my glass tighter. “Tell me everything, Chance.” I shake my head, jaw clenched. “Don’t leave anything out.”

Little G is curled up between us on the floor, his quiet breathing the only sound in the room as Chance finally starts talking. His voice is low, measured, like he’s trying to keep himself together, but I can hear the cracks forming underneath.

“I laid in your arms that night,” he begins, staring into his glass like it holds the memories he’s pulling from.

“When I got the call about Ma, I couldn’t do anything but stare at the wall while you held me.

I was in too much shock. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

Just... nothing.” He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Finally, around three in the morning, I slipped out of your arms while you were sleeping. Then I took Little G outside and called Murph.”

I grip my glass, heart hammering. “And?”

Chance lifts his eyes to mine, and what I see there makes my stomach drop.

“Murph found her at the bottom of the basement stairs, Ant.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I shake my head, hands trembling around my glass. “No.”

Chance swallows nervously but keeps going. “The guys we had watching the house heard a commotion, but they had strict instructions to only surveil. If they went in, it would have triggered a full-out war with the Black Crows.”

I cover my mouth with my hand, dread coiling tight in my stomach.

Chance pauses for a moment before continuing, his voice raw. “A couple minutes after the commotion, they saw my father bolt out of the house, get in his car, and tear down the street. That’s when they called Murph.”

His voice wavers, and I instinctively reach out, placing my hand on his knee, rubbing gently in a silent offering of comfort. His muscles are tense beneath my palm, a barely contained storm of emotion threatening to break loose.

Chance lets out a slow, shaky breath before continuing. “Murph got there and used the key I gave him when I left Boston. He searched the entire house before opening the basement door and…” He pauses, pressing his lips together tightly. “And seeing her twisted body at the bottom of the stairs.”

His voice cracks on the last few words, and that’s it for me. Tears spill freely down my face, my chest heaving with silent sobs.

Chance’s eyes soften, and he reaches up, rubbing a thumb gently over my cheek. “Hey, Beautiful, we don’t have to—”

“No.” I cut him off, gripping his knee tighter. “Keep going. I need to hear it all.”

He studies me for a second, then nods, picking up his drink and taking a long sip before pressing forward. “Murph ran to the bottom of the stairs and was careful only to touch the pulse point on her neck.” Chance’s jaw clenches, his throat working as he swallows. “But he already knew she was gone.”

I shake my head. “Oh God. Poor Murph. I can’t imagine.”

Chance nods, staring down at his glass again. “Yeah. He’s still a little messed up about it.”

I nod in acknowledgment. “I bet he is. What happened next?”

Chance scoffs, his face twisting into something bitter. “Well, he didn’t have much choice but to call the cops and he knew exactly how that was going to go.”

I nod in grim understanding. “Because your dad was the captain.”

“Yep,” Chance says, shaking his head. “It took no time at all for them to rule it a tragic accident.”

I squeeze his knee harder, my heart breaking all over again. “Fuck, Chance. I’m so sorry.”

He meets my eyes, and for a moment, I think he might break.

Instead, he takes another long drink and presses forward.

“After talking to Murph, I knew in my gut what really happened, and I knew he was going to cover it up. So, I got on my bike with nothing but my phone, my wallet, and the clothes on my back.”

I blink at him, stunned. “You drove all the way across the country on your motorcycle?”

He nods, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. I needed the time to formulate a plan and consider every little detail. I knew what I was going to do. I just needed to assess the repercussions that would come from my actions.”

My heart is pounding. “Chance,” I whisper, afraid of what comes next.

But I already know.

And I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.