Page 45 of Partnering with the Artist

A semicolon, most often, is the place where a sentence could have ended, but didn’t.

His parents used to hit him and his brothers.

With my family as warm and caring as it is, I can barely picture growing up in an environment like the one Zakery must have known. I feared punishment, like most children, but never being hit. Even spankings were rare, controlled, and calm. Most often, my punishments consisted of being very, very quiet and standing in the corner. I could leave when I’d been silent for five minutes.

The worst punishment Ieverhad left me in the corner for an hour. But, even then, it was my own fault. I was angry, for some reason. I don’t even remember it now. I just know I kept blurting final words and restarting my clock.

If Harry was abusive, if all the feelings of worthlessness and being unlovable or annoying are clinging to me after only seven years of scattered dates and classes mostly spent in separate sections, how much worse is whatever Zakery’s parents did throughout his entire childhood clinging to him? He’s only been free of them as long as I knew Harry.

Since these are questions I can’t google, and I shouldn’t even be on my phone right now, anyway, I put it up, push my hair behind my ears, and get back to sewing.

?

“Zakery?” I murmur, knocking on his ajar door. I haven’t seen him since he stumbled out of my studio hours ago. Morana’s gone home for the day. I don’t know why I’m still here. Or why she just grinned at me and chirped,Don’t worry. I won’t tell your old sewing machine that you’re cheating with a new side thread.

Sisters and their incurable compulsion to tease…

Pushing the door slightly more open, I peek inside and losemy breath.

He’s asleep. Scattered light from his windows trace the black ink all over his arms as his chest softly rises and falls.

Mindlessly, I slip inside, set his tablet on his crowded dresser and find a free hanger in his closet to put his jacket on. Then, I stand in the middle of his room, chewing my lip and fiddling with my fingers.

It’s going to be dinner time soon.

I donotwant to have dinner with the rest of the Bachelor brothers all by myself. I really shouldn’t be here still. I don’t know what compelled me. Maybe I’ll skip dinner in favor of continuing to work on his suit? Pants are my new archenemy, after all. I could be up for hours pinning hems and making slight alterations. I don’t know why I’m going with such a form fitting design…or intending to add dozens of embroidered branches to every centimeter. It’s bad enough I need to make a vest, and an ascot, and a tailcoat, but nothing short of vastly regal fits for Zakery.

I will be up for days sewing golden threads.

And I will both love and hate every second of it.

“Zakery?” I try again, voice still much too soft to wake anyone. I curl my toes, recalling that I took my shoes off to get comfortable on my bed earlier. Stocking feet are very dangerous with such slick flooring.

Maybe I should wait until Viktor calls everyone to dinner?

He’ll probably wake his brother.

I don’t have to.

Being in here is weird, and wrong.

Weirder and wronger still is the way I can’t stop myself from inching toward the bed to get a better look at the ink petals scattered over Zakery’s broad shoulders. Those petals mix with dappled stars and fade into pale skin where he stopped being able to reach. The stars and buds cover him like universespunctured into his pores.

My fingers itch to trace the strokes.

So I turn—quite swiftly—around, take a step, and lose the feeling of the ground beneath my feet.

Horror explodes in my chest as I realize I’m falling back, back, backon top of Zakery’s bed.

My half-squeal of terror meets a paineduuf, and then. It is too late.

I am on top of a wincing Zakery, who is coming very much awake in the worst way possible.

Naturally, I scramble while he attempts to push himself up, inked muscles flexing. Voice husky with sleep, he mumbles, “Maelin?”

Naturally, I cannot be expected to stand underthoseconditions, so my efforts do little more than send me flailing back on top of him. This time, on his chest. “Zakery— I—”

He grips my upper arm before I can attempt to flee again, cementing me to his body. Drowsy, he says, “Please don’t hurt yourself.”

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