Page 64 of Shadowed Obsession

I swing our clasped hands together a little as we walk hand-in-hand from our house toward Southern Steel, the studio garage I've been holed up in for the past several days.

“You'll see.” I grin at her raised brows, ticking my smile up a notch so it showcases my dimples. I know they make her a little weak in the knees, and I'm not above using that shit to my advantage.

She rolls her eyes at me, but I can see the faint blush rising on her cheeks. “You're incorrigible,” she says, mock-scolding me. Her sly little grin sort of detracts from the whole thing though.

I chuckle and tug her closer to my side, swinging our clasped hands up and brushing a kiss along her knuckles. “You love it.”

“Maybe,” she concedes with a shrug, her deep brown eyes sparkling as she looks up at me.

It's insane how just being in her presence changes shit—changes me. She brings me a semblance of peace, a bright spot of something good in a world that can seem pretty fucking gray sometimes. Around her, I feel like I can finally breathe again.

Or fuck, maybe it's because I spent the last few days creating shit inspired by her. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm a fucking goner.

“So how was your day with the greatest nephew in the world?”

She smirks. “He is pretty great, isn't he?”

“I mean, it's well documented that he takes after me,” I tease her, bumping my shoulder into hers.

She flashes me a wide smile. “Obviously. It was a good day. We went to the farmer's market with your mom. I introduced Hunter to jam and he got some questionable flavor combos, so you're welcome for that,” she says with a chuckle.

The sound fucks me up a little, and I think I might do just about anything to keep hearing it.

“How was your day?”

I bite my lip as I feel the weight of her question. It's innocent enough, but it feels loaded. “Busy. I had some stuff to work through.”

“And did you? Work through it, I mean.”

I nod, my eyes focusing on the ground as my boots scuff over loose gravel. “Yeah, I think I did.”

“Good,” she responds, her tone soft.

I look over at her profile. The slope of her nose and the curl of her long lashes. Her cheekbone and her full, pouty lips. She's so beautiful it makes my chest ache.

Finally, we reach the back entrance of my garage. I let go of her hand to unlock the door. I hold it open and gesture for her to go in first. “Welcome to Southern Steel.”

“Oh wow,” she murmurs.

“Not what you expected, yeah?” I go in behind her, flicking the lock.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “It's very . . . white.”

White walls and white vinyl floors. Ornate gold and black frames with colorful art in white mats.

I chuckle, wiping my hand across my mouth. “Yeah. I like to see the way colors look, and the white sort of makes it pop. But that's not what I wanted to show you. C'mon, sweetheart.”

I lead her through the garage half of the studio to the art space in the corner of the building. It's decorated in the same way—white walls and white vinyl flooring for easy clean up.

Waning sunlight filters in through the half-opened blinds in front of the large floor-to-ceiling corner window. I leave the lights off, watching her as she slowly walks into the room. My gaze glues itself to her face without my permission, vulnerability sinking its poisoned talons into my flesh. I wonder what she's thinking as she looks around the space.

The drafting table against one wall, sketch paper covering every available inch of the table. Canvases leaning against the other wall in various sizes, some incomplete with layers of paint, others blank. Art supplies on the shelves against the wall next to me. An empty easel in the window corner. And a six-foot-by-six-foot drawing taped in the center of the wall on my left.

It's the best thing I've ever created in my life.

And with fucking charcoal of all mediums. It's my least used, and I still don't know why I was drawn to it.

But I exorcized some demons in this room, many of them this week. And this—this is the product of the journey.

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