Page 63 of Partnering with the Artist

Returning to where I was before skipping ahead to our Fight Plan, I scan information concerning how Maelin expects that we’ll handle finances and stop short. “I’m not comfortable with you feeling like you have to earn your own income.”

“I’m not comfortable with taking advantage of you because you’re rich. If I want something, I’ll save up for it myself. No more several thousand dollar gifts.”

“What if I provide you with an allowance?”

“Is that allowance going to be anything remotely close to what Viktor’s is for you each week?”

…

Maybe.

She takes my silence as an answer and lets her lip pout. “I don’t want to grow complacent by having more than enough all the time. It’s good to work for things. If there’s anything really important that I can’t afford, I can let you know.” Her face tilts, eyes meeting mine. “Speaking of how Viktor manages the money, will that need to change? It’s…interesting…how he handles what you and your brothers make, but what if you want independence someday?”

I check the questions about where she wants to live and find she’s more than willing to stay here, at least assuming that she wouldn’t cause problems for my family. Silly girl. This place stretches like a palace. There are at least a dozen kitchens and twice as many suites set up like full homes. We’d have plenty of room for her to never bother a soul living in this area unless she so desires. “Viktor handles most everything that is annoying. I have access to the accounts that contain my income. He draws from them in order to maintain upkeep and funnels an amount into my spending account each week because I am significantly more likely to spend half a million dollars on something frivolous than he is likely to spend five on a necessity.He handles investments, taxes, and Sunset for all of us, so we can chill. It’s actually kind of mean of me when I give him a hard time for it. I do not want his job. I do not even want my portion of his job. He is doing all of us a favor.”

“So he doesn’t really control what you’re allowed to do or buy?”

“Respect for him and the guidelines he’s set up for our own good controls us more than literal restraints. I asked him about hiring you and Morana because the request affected our home and was a cost that could exceed my weekly allowance. Had I neglected the impact of bringing two strangers into our home without mentioning it, I still could have afforded to pay you both from my main account. But it would not have been entirely considerate. Rest assured.” I kiss her forehead. “I can support us quite well independently. It would take some learning to manage at the capacity that Viktor has achieved, but it is not impossible, and I am not unwilling if it makes you uncomfortable to think that someone else is in charge of our livelihood.”

“You trust your brother?” she asks.

“Completely.”

“Then it’s fine. Why fix something that isn’t broken, right?”

I agree. And I’m glad. I did not want to learn what a high-yield savings account was, or why Viktor sometimes gets muttery at the beginning of the month when he learns that hisAPYpercentagehas dropped.

My job in this family sphere is todoodle. I was not born to worry about interest rates.

Or maybe I was born for that, but Viktor saved me. Who knows?

Either way, sometimes when I’m thinking about it, I’m almost positive I know what gratitude feels like.

Maelin sighs, happily, after a few more minutes, so I peek at where she is.

The last question. It was early this morning when I fumbled my way through these questions, so I don’t remember half of them. But my answer tois there anything else you’d like me to knowappears to read:I’d like you to know that I’m grateful for you. Thank you for giving me and my oddities a chance. I promise to do my best, that I—a mere mortal—might prove myself worthy of your immaterial time.

Arranging the papers together, she sets them behind her then wraps one arm around my chest, settling in.

Exhaustion hits me as her eyes close. So much for coffee. Setting my pages atop hers once I’ve finished going through them, I sink down against the pillow, wrap her up, and soak in her cotton-clean warmth. She smells like those fresh, mild candles that remind me of detergent…

I…like this. A lot.

“Mm…Zakery?”

My heart thumps. “Yes?”

“Can you take off your jacket? The buttons are uncomfortable.”

I absolutely can do that. Not a problem at all.

Shifting, I undo the buttons then hook the high collar on the bedpost behind me. As I settle back in, her fist bunches in the fabric of my tank top, and she murmurs, “Thank you.”

My ink-painted arms close in around her pale flesh… Black and white. “Don’t mention it,” I murmur into her hair. Each of my breaths press my stomach against her knuckles as her heat saturates.

We are compatible.

None of her answers were so worrisome that I can’t accept them, and she’s not mentioned any of mine, either.

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