Page 116 of Mark & Don't Tell

“I don’t let just anyone in here,” he says, holding my gaze. “But you’re not just anyone.” Opening the door with a flourish, he tugs me inside his art studio, which smells faintly of paint and chemicals. There are a few special vents on the ceiling to help clean the air, but the scent that lingers is from the colors clinging to canvases.

“Wow,” I whisper as I take it all in.

There are stacks of completed pieces leaning next to a slotted canvas holder, which is also full. A five-foot canvas faces away from me, the massive frame held up by the biggest easel I’ve ever seen.

Lincoln sets the light dimmer in the middle, lighting the room but not exposing my sensitive eyes to the full wattage he needs while painting. The brightness between this room and mine is a stark contrast. He needs the light to work. Even the energy is different. While my nest is comforting, the air in Lincoln’s art studio practically buzzes with excitement, the limitless possibilities of creation.

There are a few pieces hanging on the wall. Lincoln’s art is abstract, but that doesn’t mean it’s a meaningless mess of color. There’s a piece where he’s combined the paint in ways that depict a desert landscape, if you let your imagination put the lines together. Another piece looks like a rainy forest in the middle of the fall. But my favorite of those I can see is what looks like a person—a sensual sweep of colors, creating the seductive curve of hips and breasts I recognize.

“When did you paint that?” I ask, rushing over to it and smoothing my fingers over the paint textures.

“The other night, while you were fast asleep between Kai and Vic.”

“It’s me.” I glance at him for confirmation, and he nods. “You painted me?”

“Do you like it?”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” I turn to him and close the distance between us with three purposeful strides. “Lincoln Abernathy Donahue, I fucking love it. I’m flattered beyond belief, and I just—” I search his face, shaking my head. “Do you realize how amazing you are?”

He smirks. “Actually, yes.”

I roll my eyes and laugh. “You’re a butthead.”

“And you’re a brat.” He grabs me and pulls me flush against his body. “I’m glad you like it.”

“How could I not?”

“Some people don’t understand.” He quickly glances away. “I have some pieces in galleries, and I’ve had a few shows.”

“That’s so cool.”

He frowns, looking anything but happy. “It is, but sending it out into the world means people are comfortable criticizing it, even to my face.”

I nod in understanding, touching his arm. “Do you want me to kick their ass?”

“Think you could take them?” he asks with a grin.

“Definitely not, but I’ll try to defend your honor.”

His laugh fills my body with warmth. “While I appreciate the gesture, I think I’ll survive the criticism. This type of art isn’t for everyone. I only wish people wouldn’t go out of their way to email me about how much they hate it.”

“That’s disgusting behavior.” I wrap my arms around his neck and go onto my toes, dropping a kiss on his lips. “I love your art. You’re so talented.”

He gives me a bashful look. “Thanks, bunny.”

“Any time, big guy. Now, take me back to the pack, I need some snuggles.”

He scoops me up. “So demanding.”

“I know,” I say with a soft sigh.

As he carries me up to the bedroom, I tell him all the ways I love his work and the painting he did of me because he deserves to hear the praise. He deserves to know he’s amazing. My alpha—my pack—deserves love.

And it’s my mission to give them every drop I have to give.

Forty

DARIA

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