His Forbidden Muse
“Tell you what? What are you talking about?”
Judas exhales, dangerously, and then storms toward me. When he stops, he’s only a few feet away, his jaw tight, his eyes glassy with fury and hurt.
“You don’t understand?” he spits. His hand trembles as he pulls something from inside his coat pocket, thin glossy sheets that flash under the light. Photos. He shoves them toward me, and the moment my gaze falls on them and I feel my soul drop into a pit.
They’re of me.