Rowan sat down in his chair. In front of him was the half-finished draft for the fourth Ventrescu painting. Then again, the rage and resentment in him were already exhausted. Rowan pulled his knees up on his chair and buried his face.
He whispered, "I hate you, Scott. How could you keep on making me feel awful no matter what? I thought I could grant myself peace if only I could feel your blood in my hands. Still, all the time, it's just like this. My mind is already so tired; I keep on saying I will kill you… but I just want you to leave me alone. When it comes down to things, can I really not find the resolve to kill you?"
Footsteps walked to him, but Rowan didn't bring his legs down. He didn't even lift his head to see who had come. After all, that warm hand on his back was enough for him to figure out who came.
