Stefan toyed with his fork, sorry he’d eaten so much because dinner sat heavily in his stomach. If it weren’t for him, Luke would be a painter now, with a perfectly respectable, possibly even stellar career. I drove him away. I killed his dream. Christ, as if he didn’t slog through a deep enough swamp of regret and guilt every day already.

The scrape of Luke’s chair was the only warning he had before Luke’s Scotch-infused breath ghosted over his cheek.

“Uh. Luke? What are you doing?”

“Thinking.” Luke’s voice had dropped to that damn lower register, and Stefan shivered, his cock tenting the napkin in his lap.

“Thinking doesn’t require your nose in my ear.”

“This kind does. I’m thinking how goddamn sexy you are,” Luke rumbled.

“What?” Danger. Danger. Stefan edged away until his butt was halfway off his chair. Remember me? Suspected forger? Dream-killer? The guy you walked out on? Stefan hadn’t missed the purposeful past-tense of love, either, and his anger flared again. “You can’t think any such thing. You said I look like a skeleton.”

“Maybe I think skeletons are sexy.” Luke leaned toward him until they were practically horizontal.

“That’s revolting.” Stefan shoved Luke’s shoulder until he was back in his own personal space.

“Maybe it’s Freudian. Maybe I want to jump your bones.” Luke leered over the top of his empty highball glass. “Or maybe I want you to bone me.”

“You’re drunk.”

Luke chuckled, a low burr that stroked Stefan’s spine like a teasing finger. Damn it. “On a couple of shots of Scotch? No way.”

Stefan sighed. “Way. Give me your keys. You’re not driving in this state.”

Luke leaned his chin on his cupped palm, but his elbow slipped off the table. “Gonna let me sleep here? With you?”

Christ, talk about a disaster. To wake up and see disgust—or worse, indifference—in Luke’s face once he’d sobered up? Stefan needed to be business-like. Detached. Steel himself so he could get through the night and survive Luke’s inevitable departure. Because regardless of the reason—whether Stefan grew something resembling a spine and tossed him out, or because Luke pulled another unexplained runner—it was inevitable. “Dream on, pal. Let’s go. You’re done for the night.”

He hauled Luke out of his chair and frog-marched him into the bedroom, which would have been impossible if Luke wasn’t plastered. Stefan might be taller, but Luke was broader—and had eaten regularly for the last couple of years. “Sit.”

“Excellent plan.” Luke dropped on the bed, bouncing on the mattress in a squeak of protesting springs. “Join me?”

“No.”

Luke’s shoulders slumped. “’S no fun,” he muttered.

“Can you take off your shirt and pants, or do you need help?”

Luke didn’t answer, but he held out his arms and let his head loll back. Stefan huffed out an exasperated breath and unbuttoned Luke’s shirt, revealing a tight white T-shirt underneath. Thank God. He wasn’t prepared for the sight of Luke’s naked chest. Not in a million years.

“Drop your arms, Morganstern.”

Luke’s arms flopped to his sides. Stefan peeled the Oxford off, gritting his teeth when Luke laid his head on Stefan’s shoulder. He stood up so fast that Luke toppled forward. Stefan steadied him with one hand. “Lay back.”

Luke blinked up at Stefan. “I ever tell you your eyes are like the Gulf on a perfect day?”

“What Gulf? We lived in the middle of Connecticut.”

Luke pointed an unsteady finger at Stefan. “Right. Hadn’t seen the Gulf yet. But I see it now. Every morning. Like you’re looking back at me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“’S true.”

“If you say so.” When Stefan nudged his shoulder, Luke fell backward onto the mattress. He unbuckled Luke’s belt and unzipped his chinos. Unbelievable. Even after seven years, the guy still dressed like a complete prep. When he raised Luke’s feet to grab the hem of the pants, Luke chuckled.

“Whoa, Stef. You a top now? That’s a new wrinkle.”

“Shut up.” Stefan shucked the pants off. “Keep your socks on. It gets cold overnight if the fire in the woodstove dies.”

Luke wiggled his hips. “Boxers next.”

Stefan clenched his jaw, grinding his molars together. He’d thought the dinner had been torture, but this set a new standard. “I don’t think so.” He pulled Luke to his feet and turned down the covers. “Get in.”

“You’re interested. I can see.” Luke reached for Stefan’s burgeoning crotch, but Stefan caught the wandering hand before it landed, placing it firmly on Luke’s belly.

“Yeah, and you’re wasted.” When you’re sober, you can’t stand to touch me. When you’re sober, you’ll run away again.

God, the smell of him. Even overlaid with Scotch and wood smoke, it was still Luke. Stefan could get drunk himself on the scent, but one hangover a day was his limit. Besides, he knew from experience that a Luke hangover lasted for years. The withdrawal from his last overdose had nearly killed him. The coal of anger in his middle flared at the memory, and Stefan welcomed it. Hell, he fanned the freaking flames.

Anger made it easier to resist.

He set his jaw, wrestling Luke between the flannel sheets, and pulled the heavy quilts up to his chin.

Eyes at half-mast, Luke peered up at him. “Why aren’t you in the bed? You should be in the bed.”

“I’ll sleep on the sofa or in the studio.” No. Not in the studio. What if it held another painting? His fist tightened on the quilts. What if it doesn’t?

“You should be with me,” Luke mumbled.

Stefan collected Luke’s clothes and folded them, setting them on the cane-bottomed chair next to the window. He was tempted—God, so tempted—to take this one last chance to slide his hands over Luke’s flesh, feel the stroke of his tongue, the thrust of his cock. He swallowed against a mouth gone suddenly dry. Where was that anger when he needed it? “Not anymore. You think I’m a criminal, remember, not to mention a dream-assassin.” He flipped on the solar lamp on the bedside table. “Good ni—”

Luke’s hand clamped down on Stefan’s wrist, pressing tendon to bone. “You. Should. Be. With. Me.”

Stefan’s head snapped around. Luke’s voice, no longer Scotch-fuddled, held a menacing note Stefan had never heard before. His teeth were bared in a grimace, eyebrows bunched together, and pupils blown wide.

“Luke. Let go.”

“I won’t share. I told you.”

“Yeah, you did. But that was a long time ago.”

“Won’t.”

“No sharing. Got it.” Stefan pried Luke’s fingers off his wrist and stepped back. “Sleep it off now, okay?”

Luke’s head dropped back on the pillow and his face relaxed, eyes drifting shut. “Won’t.”

“Whatever. Try to make it to the bathroom if you need to vomit.”

Stefan fled before desire overcame his sense of self-preservation.

Luke squinted at Stefan’s retreating back. He’s so beautiful. I’d paint him every day if I could. If he’d let me.

He nestled into the pillows, but when he turned his head, the room spun. He closed his eyes, but the sensation of movement didn’t stop. It intensified. Changed. He sank into it, because what was the point of fighting?

Dark. Darker. Darkest.

The road is rough leading to the house. I slow down. Won’t do to damage the paintings in the back of the car. They’re my future. Our future.

I chuckle. The joke will be on him, because I finally painted his face, despite all his protestations. Not shining and open and proud as it should be, but when they see, when he stands next to me at the exhibition, everyone will know that it’s him. That he belongs to me.

After tonight, there’ll be no going back.

Because tonight is the last night we’ll meet at his family’s house. He told me so. He promised.

I slow further as I round the bend leading to his house. Something’s wrong. Why are cars lined up two deep in the carriageway? Why are all the windows lit? Who are all these people in evening dress?

I grip the wheel as the familiar black-and-red rage erupts, consuming me, strengthening me. Is this what he meant by the last time? Because he’s chosen this stultifying ordinary life over me?

I gun the motor, past the gaping servants on the steps, turned out in their livery, and stop in my usual place in the back. I get out, not bothering to shut the door, and storm inside.

He’s there, by the staircase, where we’ve stolen so many precious moments. I question. I demand. I accuse. But at a sound from the nearby kitchen, he shushes me, urges me to leave, to meet him under the tree.

I go. But as I’m leaving, I see the knife on the table and take it. Because I won’t stand for this. I’ll make him understand that he can’t do this. Not to me. Not to us.

I wait, fuming, staring at the windows, at the glittering crowd moving through the rooms. Even when I’m among them, they’re far from me, but never more so than now. Now, when I know he’s chosen them over me.

Finally, he comes, hurrying across the wide lawn in his tuxedo, the uniform of the life he was born to and I was not. I thought it didn’t matter. He said it didn’t matter.

He lied. And I believed him.

Never again.

He reaches me. Says, “I don’t have much time.”

“No,” I say. “You don’t.”

The knife comes up, almost of its own mind, the way my brushes do. A stroke, a slash, and I paint the canvas of him with red.

His eyes behind his spectacles grow wide and he stumbles, sinking down against the tree.

“Why did you make me do this?” I cry. “I warned you. Me or no one, I said, and you agreed.”

His lips move, but I can’t hear. I should resist. What could he possibly say to justify his betrayal? But . . . but . . . this is the end. The last time I’ll hear his voice. I drop to one knee and lean closer, not touching.

“I chose y—”

My chest seizes as the light dies in his beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry. But I told you. I warned you.”

Then I see it. Beyond his outflung hand, as if he’s pointing it out to me.

His overcoat. His valise.

I chose you.

Oh-god-what-have-I-done?

Edward!