Page 147 of King of Pain

As if the universe is trying to tell my psycho ass to turn around and go home, the sky cracks open and starts pouring rain.

But I don’t listen to the stupid fucking universe.

I don’t move.

I don’t blink.

I just stand there in the rain, watching them through the window.

Minutes pass and I’m soaked.

As the rain comes down harder, my heart breaks. Every drop burns like acid.

I’m paralyzed.

Like a car crash in slow motion, I watch Jason reach across the table and place his hand over Ant’s.

And just like that—

I see red.

TRACK FIFTY•TWO

Here Comes the Rain Again

Anthony

Chance has been on my mind all this week.

I can’t stop thinking about everything he told me Saturday, drinking tequila on the couch and crying over the past. Every word, every raw detail, every quiet confession replays in my head like a movie I can’t shut off.

I didn’t even get to go to her funeral, Ant, he’d said, his voice broken.

That one sentence alone gutted me.

Now all the years I spent being angry—resentful—feel like daggers to my own chest. He was trapped in a cabin, completely alone, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much.

Because he was protecting me.

I wonder if being protective has physical perks, because fuck, he looks good.

Older, sure, but in the best way. Not that twenty-five is old. His jaw is more defined, his body more developed, like the weight of everything he carried turned into solid muscle. That longer, wild hair suits him. It’s free and unruly, just like him. The sleeves of tattoos on both his arms now bulge under bigger muscles. And his lower body? Don’t even get me started. I thought I remembered what it felt like to be wrapped up in those thick thighs when I woke up next to him those last couple weeks. My memory didn’t do them justice. They’re even bigger now, sculpted like a god. And that ass robs me of every functioningbrain cell. If I ever see that thing bare, there’s a real chance I’ll lose consciousness.

But there’s something else now too—a darkness around his edges, outlined in pain. It’s in his eyes. I see it every time he looks at me.

And the paintings.

God, those paintings.

It seems egotistical to even think it, but they’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. The way he captured me—the emotion, the movement, the soul of it—it’s staggering.

That’s how he sees me?

It wrenches my heart and launches a thousand butterflies in my stomach.

When he walked back into my life, I wasn’t sure I’d even give him the time of day. Now? I’m not sure I can resist the pull. I’m not sure I want to.

Maybe my heart has always known.