Page 70 of Partnering with the Artist

Maelin, Maelin, Maelin.

Maelin, who might marry me in fourteen days. Maelin, whose parents I have to convince should give me their blessing.

Maelin, beautiful, perfect, wonderful, soft, sweet, hot, addictiveMaelin.

She takes up my screen, every panel a new angle of her—with a few side characters and scenes thrown in. Onescenerypanel simply has the scribblemountains here. My editor knows I can draw. He doesn’t need the proof at this point. He just needs the story, so he can mark it up.

And I just need my heart to stop racing.

In my skull, over and over, Maelin kisses me, lets me pull her on my lap, lets me draw all over her body. It almost killed me totake her home. It is killing me to not drive back at this hour and beg her to come hold me. Just…hold me. All night.

This is the problem with feeling.

I do not regulate. I do not participate in halves. I throw myself into the burning, lapping, fiery waves and find myself dashed to pieces.

It sickens me—particularly because what I’mfeelingright now is a desire so deep it burns the very heart in my chest.

I want her in my hands. Spilling from my palms.

This feeling is not kind, gentle, orloving.

It’s just…desperate.

I love her.

I do.

I have decided that I do, so that will not change no matter what happens. If her parents see the flaws she is overlooking and banish me from her world, I shall mourn her eternally. I shall burn likethiseternally. But I will not stop loving her. I will not be able to.

I can’t.

When my pen falls from my shaking hands, I reach for my phone. As the pen rolls across my floor and tumbles off the dais step, I findPrincessin my contacts. I take a deep breath. I dial.

It is two in the morning, and I’m calling her.

I don’t know why.

I just know there’s a physical pain gnawing inside me, and I need a help only she can give.

She, by some mercy, picks up. “Hello? Zakery?” An edge of fear. Nothing of rest. “Is everything okay?”

No. “I… I’m sorry.”

Silence. “S…sorry? About…what?”

About what? What does she mean? It’stwo in the morning. “For waking you.”

“Oh. Um. That’s all? I don’t mind.”

She doesn’t mind that I’ve woken her up in the middle of the night with a phone call when we haven’t spoken on the phone even once since she called me to accept my offer?

“Is something wrong?” she presses, gently.

“I might be having a panic attack.” Even now, I am not getting enough air. I’m gripping my free hand over my heart and feeling it thunder against my ribs. I’m shaking. It hurts to swallow.

Something rustles, then somethingthuds. Weakly, she says, “Ow…”

“Are you all right?” My voice pitches.

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