Within These Wicked Walls(64)

I pulled my hands from his so he wouldn’t feel them tremble. He was giving me that look again—desire mixed with adoration mixed with upmost respect and, as always, hope. I pretended to study the dancing flames of the fireplace to distract myself from crying.

“Those eyes in that firelight…” he murmured. I could feel his gaze on me, and I forced my expression neutral as I sat up straight. “They are my mistress.”

All my efforts were crushed, and I let out a short laugh, biting my lip against the urge to cry, my face burning without help from the warmth of the hearth.

“Don’t move,” he said, and I didn’t dare. I sat poised, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Waiting. Would he … touch me?

Instead he retrieved his sketchbook and knelt beside my chair. I broke into a smile. Magnus gave a small sound of chastisement, and I quickly resumed a more serious air. But inside, every part of me was smiling. My heart. My soul. My fingers gripping my knees. Part of me was scared this didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean, but I was too happy to acknowledge it fully.

I was plain. I had no family, no inheritance.

But Magnus was drawing me.

Me.

It was a few minutes of silence, with just the pencil scratches and my own breathing as he worked. From the corners of my eye I saw him look at me and then down at the page again, and each time he did the urge to kiss him became unbearable.

Finally, he signed and dated the drawing before handing the book to me.

I gasped.

It looked like me, but didn’t. Not in the way I thought I looked. I knew Magnus to be a practical artist when it came to detail, drawing only what he knew was true. He hadn’t made me beautiful. It was homely, unextraordinary me, ugly scar and all. And yet … there was beauty in this picture I’d never seen in myself before.

“Am I always so fierce looking?” I asked, not knowing what else to say. I’d felt so happy while he was drawing me. Why didn’t it show up in the picture?

“Always.” He leaned on the chair arm to watch my expression. “I’m glad I managed to capture your soul this time. It’s taken a bit of practice.”

I looked at him, laying the sketchbook flat against my legs. “Practice?”

For a moment he didn’t break my gaze, and then he tilted the sketchbook up and flipped to the previous page. It was me, multiple times. My silhouette. My hands. My profile. Twenty, maybe more, small overlapping sketches.

My breath caught, and maybe Magnus mistranslated it, because he quickly said, “I should’ve asked, I suppose. But then the moments would’ve been lost.”

“Are there more?”

“Yes.”

“In this one?”

He hesitated, gauging my expression. “And others.”

I flipped back to the one he’d just drawn and stared at it. Tears burned the backs of my eyes, blurring my view, and I closed the sketchbook and dropped it on the side table so it wouldn’t get wet if they fell. I blinked a few times, trying to clear my vision and choked out a laugh. It felt like a strange reaction, to cry and laugh at once, but I couldn’t stop either.

“Don’t cry. You know I don’t know what to do about crying…” I felt him leave my side, saw the blur of him kneel in front of me … felt the warmth of his hands on my knees. “Is it okay, Andromeda? That I draw you?”

“Magnus,” I said, swallowing through the knot in my throat, wiping at my tears so I could see him more clearly. “You only draw things you care about.”

He grinned, blushing warm and sweet. “And love, in your case.”

For a long moment, I was unable to speak, my heart like a hummingbird’s in my throat. I escaped from the chair over the armrest, but he came after me and caught my waist, pulling me close.

“The ancient Greeks believed,” he said, “that humans were born with four arms, four legs, and two faces. Then some jealous god tore them apart, leaving them to search the earth for the missing half of their soul.”

“That’s a terrifying image,” I said, trying not to panic. “And a flawed concept. I think, when you’re past a certain age, there isn’t one person on earth you need to survive. I mean, I did it for weeks on my own.”

“It’s not about surviving. It’s about living. I’m not convinced I was truly doing that before you.” He leaned closer, and my heart picked up. “And now I know I won’t last without you. You are my soulmate, my meaning, the entire point to my existence.”

I could barely look at him, so I settled my gaze on his shoulder, hugging myself to stop my trembling. “You’re scaring me, Magnus.”

“I’m scaring you?”

I heard the teasing in his voice, but I couldn’t laugh, not without breaking down into tears. “That you think you can’t live without me. Your heart was beating long before we met.”

“Was it?”

His tone sounded so gentle, so heartfelt, it nearly tore my heart open from feeling too much. And that was it. The tears started to flow without my permission.

“My love may be mad and reckless,” he went on quickly, “but it’s real and honest. Please believe me, this is not a trick—”

“I need a minute,” I gasped. “Please.” And I rushed between two tall bookshelves to collect myself.