Page 121 of Pink Ink

She doesn’t need the reminder. I say it anyway because it’s the only form of interaction I can have with her. The only thing she offers me in return is a curt nod. It’s killing me that she refuses to meet my eyes because she’s too busy staring at the band around my finger.

I want to melt the bloody thing into a bullet and put it between Roland’s eyes for ruining my relationship with her.

I’ve been tortured several times in my life. I’ve been waterboarded, electrocuted, beaten, starved, beaten again, whipped, burned, and other rather gruesome acts that I would rather not relive.

Out of everything I’ve endured, this is the worst torture. Watching Reyna live out her life without me. Looking at me with seething hatred. Acting like I don’t exist whenever I’m in her general vicinity. She even changed the premise of her final film project.

It hurt more than I’m willing to admit.

I got reckless, excited about something for once in my life, and became blind to my surroundings. It’s been two weeks since I saw her heart break in front of me, and I see it every time I close my eyes. I wish I could take back what I said.

My office fell victim to my rage. I ripped canvases, shattered sculptures, broke furniture, anything I could get my hands on to release the fury that burned through my veins.

I wanted to run out the door and apologize a hundred times over. Explain that this is for her safety. That I’m giving my happiness up so shecanlive. Hold her and tell her that I meant every word I said before that day; none of it was a lie, because she’s become everything to me.

I follow her out of class without waiting for the rest of the students to leave, turning onto the path that leads to my office. Reyna will be staying at the library late into the night anyway.

Once I’m in the confines of my studio, I slump into my chair, chuck my glasses onto the table and rub my eyes.

What a mess.

I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t think. My art has turned into glorified rubbish.

I feel like I need her more than I need air to breathe. My exhibition is in two and a half weeks, and I haven’t been able to pick up a paintbrush, because I’ve lost my muse. In the few months that I’ve known her, she’s become the sole source of my inspiration.

I need her to come back to me. I need her to look at me. To laugh. To call me out on my shit. Make me feel something other than the cloying air that’s suffocating me.

Threatening every professor in this university to give her good grades doesn’t make up for the things I said. Nor does offering her an “anonymous” scholarship grant.

I slip my hand beneath the collar of my shirt to rub the tension from my shoulders. My fingers skim across the ruined skin, and I grimace, yanking my hand away at the memory of Roland’s heated belt buckle tearing the soft tissue apart.

It doesn’t matter how far I run, the marks the Order left on me will never disappear.

Right on cue, my phone chimes with a text.

SHEPHERD:

Tomorrow night. Clean.

I clench my jaw, grateful the next kill will be made to look like an accident, because I’m not in the frame of mind to be creative.

My irritation spikes when another message comes through.

MOTHER:

I’ve arranged for you and Abi to have dinner at the yacht club tomorrow. She’ll be ready by 6:30 for you to pick her up.

A minute later, another from one of the few people in the Order I like—usually. Right now, he’s getting on my last nerve about the painting I promised to donate for his charity event.

THEO:

ETA on the donation piece.

I shut my phone off. I have neither the patience nor the willpower to deal with any of them tonight. If I get one more text, I might feel so inclined to tell all of them to disrespectfully fuck off.

Sighing, I put my glasses back on. I can’t remember the last time I slept more than a handful of hours, because I’m too busy worrying that something might happen to Reyna. At least she’s safe in the library, so I can grade some papers on my laptop. I pull up the tracker app I had installed into Reyna’s phone to have in the background.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, watching the little dot move through the city, heading in a direction thatisn’ttoward her apartment.