Page 118 of Mistaken Prejudice

“Of course I’m ready,” I blurted out. I couldn’t wait to see him. To hold him, smell him. I’d been dreaming of just being next to him for the past three weeks.

“But are you? I mean, are you okay?” Elliot asked, his blue eyes scanning me.

I took a moment to think about his question before answering.

“No.” I didn’t want to lie. “But I will be. What happened scared me, and I still feel guilty no matter what you’ll say, but I also know that once I see him, I’ll start feeling better.”

The two of them looked at me for a moment before Elliot smiled.

“Okay, he’s awake, so you can go to his room.”

Chapter 37

Andrei

The door to his room was open, and Miles’s back came into view as I stopped in the doorway. He was sitting on a chair, holding a brush in one hand and a palette in the other. In front of him was a large canvas painted with greens and blues. I memorized the beautiful scene. The way his muscles moved with each brush stroke, the gentle way his long fingers held the brush, his wavy hair that was longer than the last time we’d seen each other.

Clearly not noticing he had a guest, I knocked on the doorframe. Miles’s body turned at the sound, and our eyes met.

I knew he was alive. I knew he was okay, but seeing him in the flesh finally made me believe it. Relief washed over me, and I wanted to walk in there and take him into my arms and not let go, but instead, I stayed where I was.

“I didn’t know you could paint,” I said, moving my eyes from Miles to the canvas behind him and back.

A slight smile appeared on Miles’s face, and fuck, was he beautiful.

“More like trying to.” He put the brush and palette on a stand beside him and got up. Standing with his back to me and facing the canvas, I took the unspoken invitation and came to stand beside him.

“As you can see, I’m not particularly talented.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Can you spot the horse in the painting?” he asked, and I tilted my head in an attempt to find the missing animal.

A picture of Blanc was pinned on the canvas as a reference, but any similarities between it and the art were coincidental at best.

“Yeah, I do. That’s his head, right?” I moved my hand over a big black spot in the foreground.

“That’s a tree,” Miles said in a stoic tone.

“Okay. So perhaps you’re not the next Caravaggio,” I joked and turned to look at him the same time he did.

“I know.” He laughed. “But Papa suggested I should draw to pass the time.”

“Oh, good.” I sighed in relief, just to tease, “’Cause Blanc’s head looks like a rock.”

“Jerk.” He nudged my shoulder.

“Stop hitting me all the time,” I whined over our laughter until it slowly died out, and we stood in silence.

We didn’t speak, only looked at each other.

“Hey,” he said and broke the silence, an awkward smile on his lips.

“Hey.”

I took a step forward and closed the distance between us. Despite my left arm still being broken, I wrapped myself around him and pulled him into the tightest embrace I had ever given to anyone. I almost forgot that he was a bit taller than me, and I pressed my face to his neck and squeezed my eyes shut as I took him in. His scent, his warmness, his touch. His beating heart.

There was still so much we needed to talk about, but that could wait because, at the moment, I wasn’t ready to let go.