His father had broken his leg for it. Literally.
But Russ had held on through sheer stubbornness.
And he'd kept me.
After we got together, I split my time between tracking the common threads linking those socialites' deaths and cramming everything I could about elite society.
All so I could be worthy of him.
But he'd changed.
"Why are you so rude? What's with the painter staring at someone else's boyfriend?"
The girl's voice yanked me from my thoughts. I quickly lowered my gaze.
Russ murmured something soothing to her, then turned to me with ice in his eyes:
"Keep staring, and I'll gouge them out."
Back when I used to sketch for money on the side, my looks attracted trouble. Lowlifes would corner me—inviting me for late-night drinks, or just sitting too close while I worked, eyes crawling over me.
When Russ found out, he'd delivered a single cold warning:
"Look at her again, and I'll gouge out your eyes and feed them to the dogs."
They'd known he wasn't bluffing. They'd scattered like rats.
I let out a bitter laugh.
Funny how the same words had boomeranged back—and now they were aimed at me.
His gaze held that same warning.