Page 22 of King of Pain

“The feeling of solitude is striking,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Marco steps closer, his tone turning softer. “That’s the beauty of painting. It’s about finding your voice, your connection to the world around you. It’s not just about what you see—it’s about what you can make people feel.”

I nod, my fingers brushing against the edge of the canvas.

“You’ve got the right energy for it,” Marco says, his voice dropping slightly. He leans closer, his arm brushing against mine. “Have you thought about what kind of art speaks to you most? Portraits? Landscapes? Abstracts?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I admit, feeling the weight of his gaze.

“Well, if you ever need guidance, I’m always around,” he says, his eyes lingering a beat too long.

The subtle flirtation is unmistakable. Normally, I’d lean into it, maybe even test the waters. Marco is confident, hot, and clearly interested.

A couple weeks ago, this encounter would have been about two sentences away from me happily ending up on my knees with his cock down my throat.

But now?

I feel nothing. No spark. No pull.

Instead, my mind drifts elsewhere.

To quiet intensity. To dark hair that curls slightly at the ends. To hazel eyes filled with unspoken stories.

I’ve only worked a few shifts with him, but that’s all it took. Fuck, it only took laying eyes on him, if I’m being honest.

Yes, I’ve developed a slight obsession with my beautiful Italian coworker.

And yes, beautiful is the only word to describe him, because he truly is.

“You okay?” Marco asks, his tone gentle.

“Yeah,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just taking it all in.”

Marco studies me for a moment before stepping back. “I think you’ll enjoy our program. Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you need help with anything.”

“Thanks,” I say, grateful for the space he gives me.

“Oh, and you’ll want to go to the art supply store down the street we partner with. You’ll get a voucher when you register,” he adds as we head back to the registrar.

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

After finalizing my schedule, I pull out my phone as I walk to the parking lot and send a quick text to Ma.

Chance:Hey, Ma. Guess what? I registered for classes! Semester starts next week. I’ll tell you all about them on our call Sunday.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

Mom:Hi baby! I’m so proud of you! Can’t wait to hear everything. Love you so much.

I smile at the screen, her words bringing a familiar warmth. Even though I hated leaving her back in Boston, this is what she wants for me. I just need to keep telling myself that—and continue to make her proud.

The art supply store is like a treasure chest, each aisle filled with brushes, tubes of paint, and blank canvases waiting to be transformed. I grab a basket and start collecting what I need: sketchbooks, pencils, charcoal, a set of acrylics, and a range of brushes.

As I wander through the aisles, my thoughts drift to what I might paint. Landscapes? Doesn’t feel like me. Abstracts? Maybe later, when I’ve had some practice. Portraits?

Him.

The image comes unbidden but vivid: Ant sitting under soft lighting, his tanned skin glowing. His eyes catching the light, revealing flecks of green and gold. His dark hair slightly mussed, as if he’d just woken up. Naked under sheets that are barely covering him.