Page 74 of Partnering with the Artist

“Are pants hard or something?” he asks.

“Take them off. You’re wearing your boxers to the ball.”

“My good madam.” He dodges me when I make a grab for myfirst pair of pants(without excessive fur to hide every flaw)ever. “Do not derobe me in the broadness of day. I shan’t be fixed to handle it.”

I giggle, losing my pout. “I’m just so thrilled! I’ve never made pants like this before. After this ordeal, my gown will be no problem.”

He glances at the atrocity on a mannequin that would look vaguely gown-like, if it were not such a horrendous mess.

“Will it?” he asks.

I wave my hand. “Ignore that.Thatis creative process at work.And…”

He nods. “And we trust the process. Yes. I understand. We trust the process,exceptwhen I’m drawing you, and part of the process makes you look like a hollow cavern of souls. That is sacrilege. We scorn the process then.”

“No.” If I had a squirt bottle…

He clamps his hands together, pointing his fingers at me. “Wemildly detestthe process then?”

I sigh. “I’ll allow it.”

He beams.

Which makes me hesitant to broach what we have beenadamantly ignoring for five days, ever since I drove over here in the middle of the night and cradled him to sleep. Today, showers have stolen the last of the ink he put on my skin during our date last Sunday. He’s not added any more…because of tomorrow. Very gently as I help him out of the tailcoat, I say, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

His movement hitches, for just a moment, then he frees a tight breath. “Yes. Of course. I’ve been preparing all week.”

If bypreparinghe means periodic breakdowns, including one night when I was staying over here that he woke me, crying and hyperventilating and apologizing and pleading to stay with me.

I held him again, combing my fingers through his hair while he kissed the fading stars on my chest. I spent that whole night wanting to dig up his parents’ graves so I could stab them thousands of times. If the embroidery on the suit jacket I am hanging up now is any indication, I amverygood at stabbing things. Repeatedly. Without pause and with an exceptional precision that does not carry over into my walking abilities.

The night is hardest,he’d whispered into my skin in between heart-wrenching apologies.

I worry about tonight. I worry that he’ll change his mind, just to avoid confronting parental figures and allowing them to control his future.

Control is something his parents stole from him for years.

He was allowednothing.

No control of his face, which his parents only ever let hold one expression. No control of his life, which his parents outlined, daily, step-by-step. What classes. What meals. What working hours. The threat of failure hung over him, constantly. And swift punishment met any shortcoming.

Mercy did not live in this home.

I wish I knew how to sink the concept that my parentsaren’tlike thatinto his blood, but he has no frame of reference to go by. All he knows ofparentsbegins and ends with controlling, demeaning, demanding monsters.

It’s going to take him a moment to see the differences, and he can’t start that process until we go to see them.

He peels off his dress shirt, and I catch a glimpse of the pale scar across his stomach when his tank top sticks to the material. My gaze clings to it and the way he’s left it unmarked. Veins of dark tattoos stretch from the pale line. His tank top falls back into place as he reaches for his usual overcoat, but I stop him from swinging it on as I lift the hem of his tank top again.

“Maelin—”

His muscles clench as I trace the scar, the veins. They attack a sword reminiscent of a pen and one pulling inspiration from a microphone.

“Viktor and Lukas,” he murmurs.

I nod. “They saved your life.”

“They did. I still don’t know how they knew it was so serious. I think…maybe…they just knew me.”

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