Seventeen. She has seventeen visible freckles.
"You're doing it again."
"What?"
"The shoulder thing. And now you're glaring." She sets down her brush, stretches. Her back arches. I study the wall behind her. "Do you need a break?"
"No."
"You've been sitting for an hour."
"I've sat longer for less pleasant reasons."
"That's not the recommendation you think it is." She's mixing colors again, frowning at her palette. "This green isn't right. Your shadows have this underlying warmth I can't quite..."
She trails off, lost in color theory. I watch her while she's distracted. The way her hips shift when she moves. Her paint-stained fingers moving with complete certainty. The soft curve of her stomach her corset can't contain.
She's nothing like the angular women I occasionally take to bed. All soft edges and dangerous curves. Built for comfort, not speed. The kind of woman who looks like she enjoys dessert and afternoon naps and other indulgences I've forgotten exist.
My shadows shift. I force them still.
"Oh, that's interesting." She's watching my shadows now. "They move when you're thinking."
"They don't."
"They absolutely do. Earlier when I mentioned your breakfast habits, they went all spiky. Like angry cats." She goes back to mixing, adding umber. "Very judgmental shadows. Probably get it from you."
I don't respond. She's right and I hate it.
She hums while she works. Some tune I don't recognize. Probably about shepherds or farmers or other people who don't murder for a living. The sound does something unwelcome to my chest. Tight and warm.
"Can you turn slightly left? I need to see how the light catches your jaw."
I turn. She makes a pleased sound that goes straight to my groin. Forty-one years old and getting hard because a woman appreciated my jaw angle. This is how empires fall.
"Perfect. Hold that." She's painting quickly now, absorbed. "Your bone structure really is extraordinary. Like someone carved you from marble but forgot to add the smile."
"I smile."
"When?"
"When appropriate."
"Which is never, apparently." She's teasing, but there's fondness in it. "I bet you were a serious child too. All intense stares and advanced planning."
"I was a child who survived."
The words come out harsh. She pauses, brush hovering.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Keep painting."
She does, but the humming stops. Good. Moments are dangerous. Moments lead to feelings and feelings lead to weakness.
"I talk too much when I'm nervous," she says quietly. "Drive everyone mad with it. My brother used to say I could talk the rain out of falling."
"You're nervous?"
