Within These Wicked Walls(34)

I looked at the book that remained on my lap, a sketchbook open to a sheet nearly filled with rows of hands in different grasping positions.

The next page I flipped to was more of the same—rows and rows of hands. The next made me pause. Kelela, from the shoulders up. Five different versions, different hair. All of her profile. All a bit sketchy, without much detail, but all exceptionally good.

And beautiful. Not more or less beautiful than she was in person. A perfect representation of her.

It was irritating, to look at such a beautiful drawing. No. It was irritating to look at such a beautiful drawing of Kelela.

I can’t believe I’m jealous of a silly piece of art.

The next page made me pause longer.

My ears felt hot. A couple, embracing in the shadows of the bookcases. Like the others, it was sketchy and unfinished, but it wasn’t too hard to tell what was happening.

“What are you doing?” Magnus stormed toward me, catching himself on the chair with one hand beside my head as he slapped his sketchbook shut with the other. His fingers were spread, as if barring the surface area from being accessed, his palm pressing the book into my thighs.

“What are you doing?” I warned. I’d drawn my knife on instinct, leveling it with his throat, then thought better of it and put the knife away quickly. I could beat Magnus easily, knife or no. Besides, he was harmless. This confrontation wasn’t deserving of a knife.

His eyes were wide, like he suspected the weapon. “Trying to kill me?”

I lifted my chin defiantly. “Of course not. I don’t get paid if you die.”

“Well then,” he faltered, “do you mind? I don’t go looking through your things.”

I should’ve told him to move. I didn’t. “I didn’t know it was private. I’m sorry.”

Magnus drooped slightly, as if he’d expected a different reaction out of me. “What do you think of my drawings?”

I thought they were excellent. But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “You draw a lot of hands.”

“I draw things I care about.”

All of the drawings of Kelela appeared in my mind to taunt me, and I winced. “Does Kelela know how often you draw her?”

“I only draw her when she asks, so yes.”

“What about that scandalous one of you two kissing? Does she know about that one?”

He smirked. “Is that Kelela? You can’t see her face. It could be anyone, really, if you use your imagination.”

My pulse raced, and for a moment I allowed myself to imagine that maybe he hadn’t drawn Kelela. That maybe he had drawn … me. But reality won out. “I don’t think she’d appreciate you drawing her that way.”

“I think you’re cross,” he said, leaning closer, “because you want to be the one I’m kissing.”

I slapped him across the face, so hard I turned his head. I held my breath for an instant, as if my mind had just rejoined my body. It was as if … he had heard my thoughts.

“Retrospectively…” Magnus shifted his jaw a few times to check its balance, removing his hand from his sketchbook to rub his face. “I deserved that.”

It was all instinct, I should’ve said. I was used to having to protect myself. But he didn’t deserve an explanation, let alone an apology.

I put the sketchbook on the table and tried to rise from the chair, but Magnus didn’t back away to accommodate me. I scowled up at him. “You’re in my space.”

“Your space? That’s my chair you’re sitting in.”

“Let me up, Magnus.”

He smiled, teasing me. “What’s the magic word? You know that one you keep telling me to use…?”

I knew what Jember would do. Knife to Magnus’s throat, his magic word would simply be “Move.” Maybe even with an ornamental swear. And then Magnus would have three seconds to obey before Jember dug out his esophagus.

But all I could manage was to release a heavy breath, like my body was swearing without the aid of words. Because he was right about one thing—I wanted nothing more than to drag his warm body into this chair, to see if his lips tasted like the honey and nutmeg he kept near his coffee.

But I wasn’t allowed to want that, was I? He was my employer.

Besides, he was infuriating.

It was strange to make eye contact with our faces so close, but I forced a firm glare to show him I was serious. “You can’t bully me.”

Magnus’s brows creased. “I’m not trying to bully you.”

“Then move,” I said, scooting forward, despite his effort to barricade me. Usually I could intimidate him, but he stood firm, and my face came that much closer to his. “Or should I hit you harder?”

“I welcome it,” he said, his voice dark. “Your palm was the most human contact I’ve had all year.”

His words made me freeze, tears pricking the backs of my eyes. To want someone to touch you in any way possible … even if it hurt you. It was a twisted, sad way to think.

But then … I hadn’t been raised with touch. I’d been raised to avoid it whenever possible. So I had to empathize; imagine being raised with that luxury and then having it stolen away.

I couldn’t be upset with him. He was tactless and rude, but he was a product of his condition, as well. He was unchecked, but also unnurtured. His poor behavior wasn’t all his fault … and my poor behavior wasn’t helping.