Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(50)
Jeb doesn’t even flinch. “Guess you’ll never know.” He studies Morpheus’s unchanging expression and his muscles start to relax. “And nice try. But no dice. You’re both staying behind.”
He releases Morpheus, who casts me a rueful glance. “Sorry, luv. Now that he has netherling acumen, he’s not so easily manipulated. I’ve decided to find it charming. No worries, though. You and I, we’ll think of some way to occupy ourselves.” He sweeps his wings high and the moths flutter around him in tiny tornadoes.
With a flick of his hand, Jeb beckons the insects over. They hover in front of him, forming a human shape as if mirroring his image.
“Escort Mothra back to his room,” Jeb charges them. “And keep him busy while I’m gone.”
Morpheus smirks and steps across the threshold as the faceless moth-guard shoves him on his way.
The door closes by itself.
I step from behind the screen and frown at Jeb. “Why did you do that?”
“Because we should get started, and if I leave it open we’ll just have more distractions.” Tucking his thumb inside the hole on the palette, he points me to the place where Dad stood for his fitting.
I don’t budge. “You know I’m not talking about the door. I can’t stand the way you’re treating him. Flaunting the fact that he’s powerless . . . that you hold all the magic.”
“Oh, right. Because he’s never done that to me.”
I look down at my bare feet. Clenching the paintbrush’s handle between his teeth, Jeb cups my elbow and positions me atop a drop cloth.
He lifts my chin with a fingertip, then takes the brush from his mouth. “Look straight ahead.”
My body remains stationary, but my opinion leaps for a chance to be heard. “You know, I expect that kind of cruelty from Morpheus. His sense of right and wrong is skewed.” I study Jeb’s face. “But yours isn’t. Bullying? I thought those days ended with Boy Scouts in seventh grade. You’re a man now. And you’re not that kind of man. Not like your—” I stop short and bite my tongue, hard enough to draw blood.
Jeb’s expression hardens. “My father? Damn right I’m not like him. I’m stronger than he ever was.” His voice is low and controlled. “I’m beyond what he thought I could be. Beyond what he said I was capable of. You know how he felt about my art. Wonder what he’d say if he could see me now.”
He holds my gaze long enough to register my unspoken acknowledgement. Then, without touching me, he parts my shirt’s plackets. My skin reacts to his hands’ proximity—remembering what it’s like to be stroked by them. The shirt slides off my shoulders, free of my wrists, and puddles on the floor behind me, baring my bandaged breasts, waist, and naked stomach to the light. I’m exposed, on every level.
Jeb inhales a sharp breath. We stand there, blinking at each other in the brightness. The scent of paint and citrus soap lingers on his skin. Wet smudges glisten in patches on his arms and neck, spotlighting taut muscles.
On impulse, I trail my forefinger through a blue streak next to his collarbone.
He grimaces and jerks away. I drop my hand, defeated.
Intent on his palette, Jeb swishes the paintbrush through a black tincture. He smooths it across my left arm, from the shoulder to the top of my bicep. Defined lines form a cap sleeve. The bristles tickle and the paint is cold, but it’s Jeb’s ability to disconnect his emotions that gives me goose bumps. I don’t even know him anymore.
He steps back and reloads the brush, then moves to the right arm. Absently, he runs his tongue across the inside of his lower lip, nudging his labret. “Do you remember when I got this?”
The unexpected question unbalances me. I hold still in spite of the blossoming heat beneath my skin. “Two hours after your dad’s funeral,” I answer hoarsely.
“And you know how long I’d wanted to do it before that, but every time I’d bring it up . . .” He flips over his forearm.
The tattoo glows, yet it’s the cigarette burns that hold my attention. “Yeah.”
“Well, it was about more than proving his reign of terror was over.” Jeb’s voice is aloof, as if he’s reading from someone else’s life pages. “It was a reminder. That I was in control of my choices, of my body and my life. That I had a say in what happened to my sister and mom.” He circles around to my back, leaving my chest and stomach unpainted. After he finishes the backs of my sleeves, the bristles trail a line down my spine and stop a few inches above my waist, making a stripe from one side of my ribs to the other.
I suppress any reaction to the tickling sensations.
“Funny,” Jeb continues, “how I thought something so insignificant could put a dent in what that drunk bastard did.” He laughs. Not the heartwarming laugh he used to have. It’s deep, brittle, and mirthless. “Now . . . now I can paint a piercing anywhere on my body, or a tattoo, and they become real. Alive. Powerful.” He sweeps the cool, creamy liquid across my back, creating a cropped T-shirt. “Anything I make will fight for me. My labret could be as deadly as a samurai sword. All I have to do is paint it and command it. If I’d had that in our world, I could’ve stopped him from hurting Mom and Jen. I could’ve made their lives better. I can do that here.” He pauses. “I have, you know. Those scenes play out as they should’ve. Every time, my old man is the one beaten to a pulp. And Jen and Mom are untouched and happy.”