Page 51 of Ruthless Enforcer

I shrug. "But I don't."

His jaw tightens. "This marriage is temporary. You know that."

"I know what we agreed to." I hold his gaze. "That doesn't change what I see when I look at you."

He exhales slowly, and I watch the fight drain out of him—not surrender, but acceptance that I'm not going to let him hide behind strategy and rules. "Finish your sketch.”

I do. His hand takes shape on the page—strong and scarred and unmistakably his.

When I'm done, I set the sketchbook aside and stand, moving back to the easel where the blank canvas waits. "Stay there."

"For how long?"

Forever? "As long as it takes."

I pick up my palette and load my brush with raw umber, then make the first mark on the canvas.

It's a single line—thick and decisive and alive. One single line, and I know with absolute certainty that this is the piece I've been chasing. Not because I understand it, or because I know where it’s going, but because it’s true.

42

GABRIEL

I've been shot twice, stabbed once, and beaten unconscious in a Guadalajara warehouse that smelled like diesel and blood.

None of it was as uncomfortable as sitting still while Clara Whitlock paints my hands.

I force myself to look anywhere else. At the ocean. At the ceiling beams. At the scar on my left knuckle from a fight I barely remember. Anywhere but at her face.

Because if I look at her face, I'm going to see the way she's studying me—like I'm something she wants to understand instead of something she should be running from.

"Stop moving," she says without looking up.

"I'm not moving." I can’t sit still. I want to get up and taste the light sweat glistening at the base of her neck. I want to burrow my face there and inhale her, to memorize the smell of her mingled with her art. I want to slip my hand inside my shirt where it’s gaping at her chest and make what’s mine on paper mine everywhere else too.

"Your fingers just twitched," she points out.

How did she see that? She’s not facing me. "Involuntary muscle response."

"Liar." She grins.

I do too, despite myself. "You're very bossy for someone who asked me for a favor."

"I didn't ask,” she throws back. “I told you what I needed, and you gave it to me."

My cock hardens more, and I shift uncomfortably. "Under duress."

"You could leave."

No, I couldn’t. "And miss watching you work? Duchess, I'm not that stupid."

Her mouth curves, just slightly, and she adds a shadow to the canvas with a flick of her wrist that looks effortless and probably isn't. I've killed men who moved with less precision.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—a low, insistent vibration that I ignore for exactly three seconds before Clara glances up.

"You can check it," she says.

Like hell I will. This is my time with her—my wife—and anyone else can fuck off. "I'm sitting for a portrait. It would be rude."