I don’t know what possesses me to run my fingers down the length of his inner thigh. He groans, his head shooting back. Then he sighs.
“Not nice. Sadly, I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” he says. “But damn, do I intend to make it worth your while when I can move without wanting to cough up blood.”
I shiver at the promise, but when he winces in actual agony, my brain shifts gears. I gingerly ease his jeans down his legs and help him step into a fresh pair. When I grab a shirt for him next, however, he scoffs and lumbers into the hallway with his chest bare.
“Give me a few minutes,” he warns near the bathroom door. “If I scream, I have not learned how to piss one-handed. I’ve got a lot to work with when it comes to aiming.”
I roll my eyes and grab a fresh skirt from my pile in the hallway. After stripping my soiled shirt, I find myself pulling on the one he discarded—a gray graphic tee with a local sandwich shop's logo on the front. When he staggers from the bathroom a few minutes later, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind him.
God, I have to blink a few times to recognize this strange, different Hannah. She’s a mess. Wide-eyed. Dazed. Visible bruises mar the flesh near my right eye, and my jaw is a colorful array of browns and purples.
My collarbone draws most of my attention, however. Tiny marks stand out against the flesh there, left by nipping teeth. Days later, they’ve settled into a deep burgundy reminiscent of a certain dragon tattoo. I finger one, trying to decipher my reaction. It would be wrong to call them beautiful. Logically, I think they should disturb me just as much as the state of my face does.
I can’t even begin to fathom why they don’t.
“Come on,” Rafe calls from the living room. “I wasn’t kidding when I said we were running late. If I’m supposed to be a new and improved motherfucker, earning money through legal means, then I need a shop to work out of, don’t I?”
That question apparently ends in him limping down the stairs. He enters the front room and thumbs through an arrangement of flyers tucked beneath the counter.
“Where the hell did I put that fucking hardware brochure?” he mutters before withdrawing a handful of flyers with a triumphant grunt.
As he orders a replacement for the door, I sweep the remaining shards of broken glass.
“You’ll need flyers, I guess,” I tell him once he’s hung up. A glance over my shoulder reveals him to be watching me, slumped against the wall in a position he must find the most comfortable. “That’s what Mr. Zhang had made for his reopening.”
“I guess I do.” He shuffles to another corner of the space and fishes out a sheath of paper and a pen. He flattens the sheet with one hand and starts to sketch. I find myself drifting closer, trying to guess the creature he’s forming with stroke after stroke.
Gradually, a woman comes to life. Her large, dark eyes stare from the page, full of questioning wonder. Frizzy bangs. Long, curling hair...
“Very funny,” I choke out once his subject becomes painfully obvious.
He doesn’t look up, his brow drawn in concentration. Soon, his entire posture shifts, as if he’s transcended the pain, too intent on his work. His hand moves steadily, possessed by some unnatural grace that allows him to form delicate lines in one motion and harsher broad strokes the next.
“Rafe?”
He doesn’t react, blind to everything but this. Drawing. Creating. Bleeding his thoughts onto paper, shaping reality with the swipe of a pen.
My irritation gives way to shameless awe. Some of the emotion swelling in my chest is pure jealousy.
But the rest?
At some point, I have to mentally separate the woman he’s drawing from myself. She’s too beautiful. Too mysterious, her gaze so penetrating it’s impossible to know what she’s thinking. Her expression could convey a million different emotions. Interest. Disinterest. Lust. Wonder. Hate.
She’s the type of woman I secretly strive to be. Someone confident. Talented. Prideful.
“Done,” Rafe declares, shoving the drawing aside. He reaches into his stash again, this time withdrawing two slips of paper and another pen. “I work. You write,” he commands, shoving both toward me.
I bite my lip rather than argue.
He’s already starting on another sketch, but I sense his intention is to deliberately provoke me this time. The outline is broader, spanning the width of the entire page. Like magic, a figure forms—someone feminine, slender with bare legs, and a delicately curved torso.
“Nice,” I scoff, my cheeks flaming.
He has the nerve to meet my stare without an ounce of humor. “Get to work.” He taps my untouched sheet of paper. “A deal’s a deal, bunny.”
He returns to his task, easily shutting out the world again.
Without taking my eyes from him, I pick up the pen. Hold it to the page. Stall…
Set it aside.
“Write,” Rafe demands, dropping all pretense. “Tell me what’s in your head, bunny. Right now. Don’t hold back. Let me fucking have it.”
Asshole, I scribble. But that word bleeds into another, and then an entire sentence. Before I realize it, I’m scribbling down a paragraph, the words disjointed and sloppy, the meaning unclear.
But watching him robs me of the doubt I’m used to fighting.
And I hate him for it.
Envy infects me instead. He’s so shameless in his expression. My initial suspicion was right, and a lewd display quickly comes together—a naked woman, lying on her side, her gaze concealing a dare. A taunt. A refusal. A beckoning.
She’s an infuriating contradiction, her shape etched with brutal detail. Slender hips, perky breasts, and a proud tilt to her chin. I’m frowning, and my pen drifts, forming a slash across the entire page until I drop the pen altogether.
“Stop!” I slam my hand over his sketch, but the look he
