Page 52 of Knot Their Girl
I let my mind wander off after that. If he could speak, what would his voice sound like? Would it be deep and low, reminiscent of Gideon’s? Or would it have its own signature timbre?
I looked up articles about the accident. It was pretty big news when it happened eleven years ago, and of course it was: the Chase family were all famous, especially in the richer circles of society. Alexis Chase never took her husband’s name when they married; the opposite happened. He took hers, and when Colter was born, he remained a Chase. Alexis was one of the head designers of the fashion branch of the Chase business, while Gideon stuck to jewelry.
One night, Alexis, Terrance, and Colter were driving back from some charity event an hour or so away. It was late, pitch-black out. Just an unremarkable night to them… until a drunk driver swerved left of center just around a curve in the road and caused the Chase vehicle to launch off the side of a cliff.
Honestly, from what the articles said, it’s a miracle Colter didn’t die. The car hit a bunch of trees on the way down. Some of them broke. One of them impaled his father, who was in the driver’s seat. Another pinned his mother’s body in place, stopping her from escaping the car. Based on Colter’s statement, he couldn’t get the seatbelt undone, so he had to sit in that car with his dead father and his dying mother and wait until emergency services came.
And by the time they arrived, Alexis was gone.
I can’t imagine what it was like. Something like that would be traumatizing no matter what age you are, but for it to happen to a ten-year-old kid? It’s no wonder he’s traumatized.
Gideon became the de facto guardian for his nephew. Homeschooled him, took care of him, did everything he could for him, including getting him an omega when he put in an offer for me. He really wanted his nephew to have a life again.
Not going to lie, it’s a lot of pressure to put on little old me, but at the same time, I really do want Colter to learn to overcome his past. I want to help him. I want to make him feel better…which is an odd thing for me, since I don’t normally give a shit about how other people feel. Most of the time, I’m what some might call a bitch.
Hey, I’m a Whittenhall. Bitchiness runs in my blood.
But back to the current state of my painting: it’s not good. It’s not good by a longshot, no matter how hard you look at it or use your imagination to fill in the blanks. I can’t layer paint worth shit. It literally looks like a child did it. The window is not in anysort of rectangular shape, and where the floor meets the wall is basically one wavy line.
Ew. I want to burn this painting.
Once I’m done, I set my paintbrush down on my lap and stare at it for a while. I frown at it, but there’s no use. It’s shit, and no amount of staring at it will change it. I glance over at Colter, finding he’s ducked his head and I can’t see him over the canvas.
My curiosity gets the better of me, so I slip off my stool without making a single sound, and I creep over to him to see what he’s working on. Whatever it is will put mine to shame, I don’t doubt, but what I see makes any smart comments I might have ready to vanish. He’s only started to paint, but I can see the sketch and can put it together myself.
Me. He chose me as his subject.
I’m sitting on the stool on his canvas, my right arm lifted to my own canvas. He literally drew me as I was a few feet away, and unlike my shoddy work, his sketch is damn near lifelike. The curve of my cheek, the way I bite the corner of my mouth when I’m concentrating really hard, even the gentle waves of my hair.
“Oh, my God,” I say, my fingers curling around the paintbrush in my hand even tighter. “That’s… that’s amazing. How’d you do that so fast?”
He carefully puts down his paintbrush and reaches for his tablet.Years of practice. This is the only thing I do.
“Do you often have human subjects?” I mean it as a joke, but the way his amber eyes study me, way too intently, make my cheeks heat up.
No. You’re the first.
“That’s… insane,” I say. “You have to be lying. You have to invite girls up here all the time and try to woo them with your skills—” When he shakes his head no, I quiet down. “It’s really something. It’s beautiful.”
He types something then shows it to me:You’re beautiful.
Even though he didn’t say it aloud, it’s still like he spoke the words himself, and my heart skips a beat in my chest. “You’re sweet. Too sweet. I don’t know what to do with you, Colter Chase… but I can think of a few things.”
Before I think better of it, I step closer to him and lean in, pressing my lips against his cheek and giving him the softest, most gentle kiss known to mankind. And what would you know, as I do it, I wonder what it’d be like to actually kiss him.
I mean, he doesn’t leave the house. He hasn’t dated. That means he’s never been kissed, never had sex. It might be a turn-off for some girls, but for me… it isn’t. With how earnest he is, with how sweet he can be, I actually like the thought of no other girls knowing what his lips feel like.
Or, you know, other body parts of his.
He’s mine.
That thought nearly knocks me off my feet, and I can’t handle how serious things got in my head, so I do something to lighten the mood as I pull my lips off his cheek: I bring my paintbrush to his nose, dabbing some paint there.
“There,” I say, flashing him a grin. “No painter is complete without a bit of paint on his face.”
I go to step away from him, to put more distance between us so I can think straight again, but Colter doesn’t let me go. He grabs me by the hand and pulls me back to him as he slides off his stool, and the way he looks at me makes me wonder if he had a similar thought just now, if he looks at me and thinks:mine.
It’s an alpha thing, being all possessive like that, and normally I wouldn’t think it’s hot… but when it comes to this one, all the rules are thrown out.
