I’m still tryingto catch my breath when I enter my bedroom.The stack of pancakes I loaded with sugar sits heavy on my stomach.But I have more important things to worry about than my waistline.
Like Atlas Demetriou.
This is how I wish you saw yourself.Powerful.Sexy.But also vulnerable.
I can’t get his words out of my head.
Powerful.
Sure.
But sexy?
No.
Vulnerable.
Hell, yes.
The night they moved into the house, Ares called me sexy before he violated me with my gun and almost made me come.They have to be fucking with my head, using my insecurities to mess with me.
I stare at the page in my trembling hand, memorizing every inch of my body.
It’s me, but… not me?
Atlas drew me like a pinup girl from the 40s, with my breasts stuffed into a corset, making my stomach appear slimmer because my breasts steal the show.They’re pretty big, so that part is accurate.And with them taking up so much space, paired with the high-waisted panties that partially cover my stomach, I look sexy.
I would cry if Atlas drew me with all my flab hanging out.Instead, these are happy tears.
This is how I wish you saw yourself.
Which means he sees me this way.Atlas thinks I’m powerful and sexy.
With my thighs spread, I lean forward in the picture, resting my hands on my knees.I look like someone else.Seeing my face staring back at me with a seductive smile is weird.
I love it.
This is the best present anyone has ever given me.So, I search the hallway closet for a picture frame.My mom kept a stash for all her portraits hanging on the walls.She loved art and was one of the state’s most prominent collectors before she passed.
I find a frame and run back to my room.Dad rarely comes here, so I don’t hide the picture and set it on the desk.A reminder that I am powerfulandsexy.I smile so hard my cheeks hurt.
It’s perfect.
Now feeling foolish for leaving so abruptly, I head back downstairs.Atlas is still in the sitting room.He’s curled up on the couch by the window, with the sketchbook propped up on his thighs.His head is bent, those long, tattooed fingers gliding across the paper.
I could watch him all day.
He must hear my heels click on the tile because his head snaps at me.His black hair is messy, as if he’s been shoving his fingers through it.
“Thank you,” I say.
He doesn’t look like he’s going to respond.
Always studying me.
Watching me.
Sketchingme.
