Page 47 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

“Ever,” he says. “Three…”

I tilt my head.

“Two…”

Ah, a countdown. I scowl at him.

“O—”

“I wanted you to come in,” I blurt out. “I thought if I left the window open…”

“Why?” Not angry. Not annoyed. Maybe a bit irritated at my clammed-up words, but he’s more curious than anything.

“Because—” A lump forms in my throat.

He edges closer, and I hate that I want him to comfort me. Hell, the fact that I need comforting at all has me on edge. He’s wicked and he’s nice. I can handle one or the other. I seem to crave one over the other.

Dark over light. Bad over good. God, I’m fucked up.

He runs a finger down my cheek, over my jaw, and down the side of my neck. He pulls the scarf away from my throat, eyes going to the dark bruises peppering my skin. They trail from my neck down my shoulder. There are more marks on my breast that I’ve been ignoring.

He presses his thumb into one of them, watching for my face to change. I keep my poker face until he pushes a little too hard, and I wince from the pain.

“You like these.”

It isn’t a question.

Add that to the list of infuriating things about Caleb Asher. Sometimes I think he sees more of me than I do.

His thumb traces small, soothing circles on my neck. My face heats up because at any moment, Robert could come back into the kitchen. Lenora could get home from her errands and catch… this.

He’s literally only touching me with a finger. It’s enough and not enough at the same time. I lean into him when he stops me, his palm flat on my collarbone.

“Draw,” he orders, sitting up straight.

And, damn it, his eyes close.

I wouldn’t have guessed that I’d get him to do it. That telling him the truth would unlock a favor. A big one.

I take a deep breath and start. It’s sloppy and not what I mean to draw, but that’s the beauty of charcoal: it smudges off, and it’ll all be covered by paint eventually. A thought occurs to me as I sketch the outline of his eyes from memory.

“Why wouldn’t you want to see what I paint?” I clear my throat. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Of course I’m curious,” he replies. “But I agreed not to ask.”

I hum. “Okay.”

I get as far as I can—as far as I want to—and tell Caleb that I’m done for the day. I managed to put a background on the canvas, smoky grays and blacks, but the space where his face and upper torso will go is only faintly outlined in charcoal.

He opens his eyes.

“Great. Cover that up and let’s go.”

“Go? But…”

He snorts. “You think I need to look at you to paint you, love? You’ve been ingrained on my brain since the beginning.”

I follow him through the house, to a door I have yet to see open. He knocks on it, tossing me a quick wink, before Robert calls for him to enter.

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