Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals, #1)(27)

I have one eye of makeup done. One.

He comes in and pushes my hand holding the mascara wand down, then raises his other hand. He blocks first one side of my face from his view, then the other.

I raise my eyebrows.

“You look nice without makeup on,” he says. “You smear black shit all over your eyes. And really, it’s not needed. Is it an insecurity thing?”

I push his hand away. “I like it.”

His gaze roams my face.

I expect him to smirk, but instead he shakes his head.

“Whatever floats your boat, Sheep.”

I grimace, letting him watch from the bathroom door. I lean close to the mirror and apply the mascara to my other eye, then eyeliner. Satisfied, I zip the bag closed and brush past him.

He grabs my wrist. “Slow down.”

“I don’t really like it when you call me a sheep,” I say. “Especially not in my own…”

“Home?” He leans in. “You can call it that, you know.”

I shake my head. Can I? Not yet. It’s a house that I sleep in. Eat in. Have nightmares in.

“Let’s paint, then.”

Robert hovers for about five minutes until I shoot him a death glare. He raises his hands in surrender, chuckling, and mumbles something about being in his office. He lent us small easels that stand on a table. Spread across the kitchen island are Caleb’s and my brushes and paint, laid out in neat rows on newspaper.

I stare at the blank canvas for a few seconds, then set my charcoal pencil down. I lean my elbow on the table and find Caleb watching me. He’s in a similar pose.

“Why are you in an art class?” I ask. “You’re smart. A sport god, apparently. And—”

“And those things don’t correlate with art?” He smirks. “It’s a hobby. Just like lacrosse.”

I suppose he already knows where his future lies: with his father’s company. Even though they apparently sold it, he still has an inheritance. A role he could grow into. It’s okay for him to have hobbies.

“I can’t do this. I can’t paint you.”

“Could you paint yourself?” he asks.

I think about that. Would I be able to show everything that I am? Good and bad?

My silence answers for me, and he frowns. “Why not?”

“You want to know why I wouldn’t be able to paint myself? I wouldn’t do it with any amount of accuracy.”

He shrugs. “I could. I’m going to paint you and show every inch of you.”

His gaze slides up and down my body, and fuck me, I get wet. One orgasm, and he owns my body.

“The good, the bad, and the ugly.”

I shake my head, trying not to make it obvious that I’m pressing my thighs together.

“But you have to go first.”

I twitch. “So I have to show you how I see you before…”

He grins. “I’m not in the mood to paint today.”

My sigh comes out slowly. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Guess you’ll find out once you’ve drawn me.”

I turn back to the canvas, switching my gaze between him and the expanse of white. I just need to make a mark, and then the rest will come easier. That’s what Robert says in class: the first stroke is the worst.

He’s burning me up. Every time I look at him, something in my chest gives out. I stare at his face. The strong brow, his dark hair that flips up on top and is short on the sides. His cool-blue eyes. Full lips—well, I know all about those lips— “You’re staring,” he murmurs.

I shake myself. “You’re psyching me out.”

“What am I supposed to do, close my eyes?”

I brighten. “Yes. That’d make things easier.”

He stands and moves his stool closer, so his knees brush against my thigh. “What would you give me for it?”

How should I know what to give when I don’t know what he wants?

More mind games.

I lift one shoulder, biting my lip. I won’t ask him what he wants—I have a feeling his answer would be worse than anything I could come up with.

“You left your window open,” he says suddenly. “Why?”

Now there’s something I would never admit: that I still hang my hope on him.

“Tell me why, and I’ll shut my eyes,” he says. “I’ll keep them closed and not ask to see your painting.”

“Ever?”

“Ever,” he says. “Three…”

I tilt my head.

“Two…”

Ah, a countdown. I scowl at him.

“O—”

“I wanted you to come in,” I blurt out. “I thought if I left the window open…”

“Why?” Not angry. Not annoyed. Maybe a bit irritated at my clammed-up words, but he’s more curious than anything.

“Because—” A lump forms in my throat.

He edges closer, and I hate that I want him to comfort me. Hell, the fact that I need comforting at all has me on edge. He’s wicked and he’s nice. I can handle one or the other. I seem to crave one over the other.

Dark over light. Bad over good. God, I’m fucked up.

He runs a finger down my cheek, over my jaw, and down the side of my neck. He pulls the scarf away from my throat, eyes going to the dark bruises peppering my skin. They trail from my neck down my shoulder. There are more marks on my breast that I’ve been ignoring.