~Jeremy’s POV~

My painting room was dark, exactly how I loved it, except for the moon light slipping through the blinds and the glow coming from the lamp I set on the table beside the drawing board.

I stared at the plain board, hand itching to make good use of the paint brush in my hand.

I needed to bleed something out of me. My chest had been tight since last night, and paint was the only language I could stomach.

My hand moved before my head did, painting black strokes. A few minutes later, I had painted a gun. It looked sleek, lethal, and satisfying, easing my mood.

When...