Page 62 of Love Me

I wait for her response.

And wait.

“Monique.”

“I know,” she says after a long pause. “I just should’ve known better. My parents would be so disappointed if they knew about—”

“They would never be disappointed in you,” I insist. I know it for a fact.

“They raised me better than to date losers. My dad taught me how to defend myself.” She turns over onto her back to look up at me.

Tears stream down the sides of her face.

I want to beg her to stop crying. Every tear reminds me that I wasn’t there to protect her.

“I’m sorry.” She curls into my chest. “I’m so sorry for not listening to you.”

No words I say will ease the hurt in her voice. Instead of talking, I hold onto her and let her cry.

We must lay there for a long time, maybe an hour or more, before I realize she cried herself to sleep.

Her even breathing is confirmation that she’s fallen asleep. The light from the lamp on my desk allows me to examine her. My eyes fall to the red marks on her neck. They’ve started to turn purple. I again examine over her fingers.

The chipped polish is probably from having to fend that sick fucker off. The more I think about it, the more I know I’ll have to break her heart tonight.

There’s no way in hell I can remain in this room while he’s out there. Not while the bruises around her neck darken and the tears on her cheeks dry but don’t fade away.

That son of a bitch has to die tonight.

With my decision made, I softly move her arm from around my waist. She stirs but doesn’t awaken. Even as I rise from the bed.

I check and recheck to make sure she’s still sleeping. I glance at the bed one last time to verify that her eyes are closed. I exit my dorm room with nothing but my keys and the intention to destroy Slater Cullen before this night is over.

CHAPTER14

Monique

“These are gorgeous,” I tell Joseline as we sit in her office, looking over some more of the paintings made by her grandmother.

“I thought so, too. They’re stunning, but I didn’t know if I found them beautiful because mi abuela painted them.”

I shake my head adamantly. “These are even more eye catching than the ones you showed me last week.” The two paintings on Joseline’s table are the second set of paintings she’s showed me by her grandmother. After our first meeting, I asked her to show me the rest.

Her grandmother has a natural talent.

“The brushwork on these is almost invisible. And the imagery jumps off of the canvas.” The paintings are contemporary style, of famous landscapes in her grandmother’s native Puerto Rico.

Yet the way she’s painted the people in the scenes draw the eye to them. Looking at the painting brings you into it, almost like you were in the middle of this beach scene. Or inside one of the fiestas her grandmother brought to life through her artistry.

“You said she never had any formal training?” I ask.

“No,” Joseline admits. “Not that I know of. I asked my father, and he never knew anything about the paintings in the attic or ever saw her with so much as a paintbrush.”

“The preservation of the work is amazing, considering these have been left in an attic for over thirty years. It speaks to the quality of the materials used,” I gush.

The materials—everything from the types of brushes to paint and canvas—are all important when it comes to the quality of a piece. It also tells a lot about the level of seriousness a person takes in their work.

“She never featured her work anywhere?” I look up at Joseline.