The dimple on his chin cries out for me to touch it and I do, lightly, still trying not to disturb him. But the instant my fingertip makes contact, he grabs hold of it, slipping it into his mouth and gently sucking while his eyes open, lazy with sleep, finally releasing it back to my care.
“Why do you look so worried?” He tucks me against him, hand cupping one side of my face, the other against his chest.
We’re too close for me to lie to him. Mentally, physically. “It still feels like you’re tricking me somehow and I’m waiting for the revelation.”
He presses a kiss to my head. “But you came back.”
My fingers lightly trail across his skin, marvelling at how amazing it feels just to touch another naked person. How intimate it can be without any other actions. One of the reasons I’m here, trying to believe what he says for long enough to wring every second of enjoyment I can. “I came back.”
“I’ve barely been in here since my mother died,” he whispers, rolling onto his back and taking me with him until I’m half sprawled across his chest. “If I were going to trick you, I’d find a far less painful way to do it.” He lies still for a moment, face creasing as his gaze wanders to the corners and crevices of the room. “I haven’t picked up a brush since she died, either. Walking into that art class felt like walking into a cloud of poison gas.”
My lips twitch at the memory. My shock. My indignation.
“But at least we gave you a warm welcome.”
He snuffles out a laugh. “Fuck, I love your sense of humour.”
“I stopped painting after my father died.” It seemed like something to share but when I say it aloud, it’s disingenuous.“Not because of him. Because…” And the words drift away, too difficult to catch.
“Was that when you were bullied?”
I’m about to ask how he knows, then remember the painting. Remember how it felt when he saw straight into the heart of me; my soul laid bare.
“Yeah.” My hand reaches to grip his shoulder, needing something sturdy to hold on to. “He died in a sex club dungeon. The kids in my class couldn’t believe their luck. Such juicy gossip.”
“That’s so mean.” Then he gives a derisive snort. Aimed at himself, not me. “I was about to say, how could they pick on you at such a difficult time, but that would make me the king of hypocrisy.”
“Well, you are royalty. You’ve got to be king of something.” And because I don’t want to strip myself any barer than I am already, I deflect back to his revelation. “Your mother died of cancer?”
“She killed herself.” I must gasp because the pressure of his hand briefly increases, then relaxes. “Not in a slashing her wrists way or anything. The end-of-life bill had just passed, so it was all done with respect. A doctor prescribed the drugs, everyone who wanted to got the chance to say goodbye, and Dad and I sat at her bedside at the appointed time.”
He shifts his shoulders and I think he’s about to get up, to use movement to free himself of what must be a staggering burden of memories, but he settles again, finding a more comfortable position on the bed.
“My dad was the one who told me what she wanted. He let me take out all my frustration and grief on him so I wouldn’t bring it to her and as I stood at her graveside, all I could think was that she didn’t know. She didn’t know how I would havefought to keep her here another day, no matter what. No matter how bad things became.”
He chokes to a halt, exhaling with force, inhaling short, snappy gasps of air.
“I worry she died thinking we didn’t want her if she was a burden. That our love for her came with conditions and if she couldn’t meet our standards, we preferred her dead.”
His fear is so awful it knocks the breath out of me, and I gasp, throwing my arms around him and squeezing hard, trying to hug reassurance into him. I don’t have to imagine his pain; his face is twisted with the struggle.
“Sorry,” he says in a tiny voice. “I know I’m being stupid.”
“It’s not stupid to care what someone thinks about you, especially someone you love as deeply as you loved your mother.” My hands cradle his face. “But… I can see it. She must have, too.”
When his eyes find mine, they’re gently pleading. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes.” Then I wave my hand around the room. “Didn’t I tell you one of the things I loved about your mother’s art was how deep her perception was? How every time you look, there’s another layer.” He nods and I ruffle his hair, tugging it between my knuckles. “And do you really think someone who saw the world that clearly, couldn’t see the love shining from you at every turn?”
Zane relaxes even if his expression stays unconvinced. And I know that feeling. When your logic centres tell you one thing, and your emotions stick on another.
Then I give him a poke. “Are you saying you only picked up a brush now because you wanted to harangue me in class?”
“That was a large inducement, yes. But I also wanted to sketch you. In the corridor, after John stopped tormenting you,your face… There was something there I wanted to catch. It was the first time since stopping that I felt the urge.”
The flattery is so monstrously large I don’t know what to do with it, diverting the praise. “It’s lucky for you I’m so weak, otherwise, you wouldn’t have your mojo back.”
A troubled expression forms, then he launches to his feet, dragging me upright. “This is getting far too maudlin. Time for a shower.”
