We reach the back door. Late afternoon sun slants across the courtyard, making everything look softer than it is.
"Same time tomorrow?" Gray Streak asks.
"Same time. Unless your boss changes his mind about being documented for medical purposes."
"Medical purposes?"
"That's what we're calling it. Sounds better than 'I want to paint his face because the light does interesting things to his bone structure.'"
Gray Streak definitely smiles at that. "Want me to walk you back?"
"I'll manage. But thank you." I adjust my grip on my bags. "Make sure he eats dinner. Something with vegetables. Green ones if possible."
"I'll... try."
"Oh, and remind him that sitting won't actually kill him. He seemed very concerned about that."
I leave Gray Streak standing in the doorway, probably wondering how his life reached this point—taking nutritional orders from someone half his size who's more worried about curtain hygiene than personal safety.
The walk home feels lighter despite my empty bags. Tomorrow I'll finish the outline. Maybe start on the eyes properly. They're not actually black—more dark amber when the light hits right. Need to mix that exact shade.
My studio welcomes me back with familiar smells. I unpack carefully, already planning tomorrow. Curtain soap. Vegetables. Maybe that tea he might actually drink if I don't make a fuss.
The partially finished portrait goes on my easel where I can study it. He looks younger in sunlight. Tired still, but a different kind of tired.
"You need so much more than vegetables," I tell the canvas. "But we'll start there."
My stomach growls, reminding me I forgot lunch again. There's probably bread somewhere. And that cheese is definitely still calling.
But first, a list. Curtain cleaning supplies. More vegetables than any reasonable person needs. Paint forthose sad beige walls—maybe sage green? Soothing but not aggressive.
He'll complain. He'll say his study doesn't need color or clean curtains or plants. But he'll sit in that chair tomorrow and let the sunlight find all the places shadows usually hide.
Progress. Slow, vitamin-deficient, curtain-related progress.
I eat cheese while mixing the exact shade of "tired but getting better" I'll need for tomorrow.
The portrait will be beautiful when it's finished. Not because he's beautiful—though he is, in that sharp dangerous way—but because it'll show him human.
And maybe, if I'm very careful and bring enough vegetables, he'll start to believe it.
Chapter 11
"Stop flexing."
"I'm not flexing." I am absolutely flexing. Have been for the past twenty minutes while she paints my arms. Something about the way she tilts her head when she's concentrating makes me tense. Combat readiness. Nothing else.
"You are. Your shoulders keep doing this thing." She demonstrates, pushing her shoulders back in exaggerated tension. The movement strains her corset. "Very dramatic. Very uncomfortable-looking."
I force my shoulders down. She goes back to painting, tongue poking out slightly as she focuses. The late afternoon light through my newly cleaned windows—she showed up two hours early with soap and wouldn't start until every pane sparkled—catches her hair. A strand escapes her bun, curling against her neck.
"Better," she murmurs. "Though you're still holding tension in your jaw."
"I always hold tension in my jaw."
"That's concerning. Do you grind your teeth? My landlord grinds his teeth. Says it gives him headaches." She leans closer to her canvas. Paint and lavender. Whatever she baked this morning. "I told him to try meditation but he laughed. Rude, really."
She's close enough that I can see the freckles dusting her collarbone. Count them, if I were that kind of man. Which I'm not. I run a criminal empire. I don't count freckles.
