She thrusts a construction paper monstrosity at me—more glue than paper, whiskers sticking out at impossible angles, googly eyes crooked and wild.
"That's... a lot of whiskers."
"Whiskers are important." She peers at my abandoned craft, still sitting half-finished on the tiny table. "Yours is messy."
She's right. I've been watching Toby instead of cutting, and my mouse looks like it went through a blender.
"It's abstract," I tell her.
"What's abstract?"
"Art."
She considers this for a moment, head tilted. "It's bad art."
Across the room, Toby laughs at something Miss Glitterbomb says, head thrown back, neck exposed despite the turtleneck. The collar shifts just slightly, and I can see the edge of one mark peeking out—purple and possessive against his pale skin.
Tonight. I'll finish what I started tonight.
Chapter 9
Toby
Knox is leaning against his bike when I exit the library, and I stop short.
He's been here before — this morning, surrounded by children and craft supplies and Robin's ice cream sandwiches — but this is different. This is nighttime Knox, all sharp edges and dark promises. He's wearing dark jeans that fit like they were made for him and a black henley that shows off his arms, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the tattoos I haven't had a chance to properly catalog yet.
His eyes track me as I approach, gold flickering in the streetlight, and I can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. Like hands on my skin. Like the promise of everything we didn't get to finish last night.
"Hi," I say, then immediately launch into nervous babbling because apparently that's just who I am now. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late. Margaret cornered me about the young adult acquisition budget, and you know how she is — well, you don't know, but she's very persistent about fiscal responsibility which is ironic because she wanted to spend three thousand dollars on those awful beanbag chairs that literally no one asked for and no one would use — "
"Toby."
"Right. Yes. Hi." I adjust my messenger bag, suddenly very aware of how much I'm sweating. "Should I — do I need to drop this off at home first? I have my laptop and some books and — "
"It's fine." He holds out the spare helmet, the same one from that first night. "You remember how to do this?"
"Hold on, don't let go, lean when you lean." My face heats at the memory — my arms around his waist, my thighsbracketing his hips, my whole body pressed against his back. "I remember."
The helmet still smells like him. Leather and something wild, something that makes my pulse jump. I fumble with the straps, fingers clumsy with nerves, until he steps close and bats my hands away.
"Let me."
His fingers are deft on the buckles, adjusting the fit, and then they drift lower. Brush against my throat. Find the edge of a mark hidden under my collar and press gently.
I shiver.
"Still marked up?" he asks quietly. His voice is rough, intimate.
"Yes."
"Show me."
My hands tremble as I tug the collar down, just enough to reveal the bruises scattered across my neck. Purple and red and healing yellow, a map of everywhere his mouth has been.
His eyes flash fully gold.
"Good." His thumb traces one of the marks, and I have to bite back a whimper. "But not enough. Not nearly enough."
