“Nope. None of that smirky shit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shoots me a smoky glare instead, which is even hotter… Fuck my life.
Dorian unbuttons the shirt and pulls off what remains of it. The back is all ribbons and blood. He eyes my tiny, overflowing bathroom trash can doubtfully, then tosses the shirt into the tub with a sodden slap.
I saw a hint of his abs under a T-shirt when I ran into him near the marina. That was a sneak peek, a trailer, and this is the feature film, the sculpted reality. He could model for—well—literally anything.
“Turn around,” I say, breathless.
He rotates, showing me his back. Flawless slabs of muscle, shallowly indented across the shoulders, the groove of his spine flowing down to his waist. The landscape of him is bloodstained butunharmed.
He’s healed. Completely, perfectly healed. And that can only mean one thing.
“You already have a portrait,” I whisper. “Why the hell do you want another?”
Sighing, he faces me again. “Can I wash up first? This is a you-better-sit-down talk we’re about to have, and I’m guessing you don’t want blood on your sofa.”
Blood…on the sofa…
He has no way of knowing how those words affect me.
All strength drains from my body, leaving me weak and shaking.
“No,” I murmur. “No, I don’t want that.”
I try to move past him to the door, holding myself tight and small so I don’t touch him. The humming heat of his bare chest is right there; he’s so close, and it’s overwhelming, it’s terrifying.
I lose my balance and sway, my hip bumping the sink hard enough to bruise.
“Baz.” Dorian’s hand presses to my back, a steadying warmth. “Are you all right? Maybe you’re the one in shock.”
“Fuck off,” I whisper and hurry out of the bathroom, away from his touch.
I stumble into the kitchen and dizzily go about making tea. The motions of finding the teakettle, filling it, and turning up the heat are all automatic, conducted with trembling fingers while I blink away tears and memories.
Blood on the sofa…
A body, broken.
The shower starts running in the bathroom, liquid gurgling through the pipes in the wall. This old house is anything butsoundproof.
The flow of water is soothing. I pace the kitchen, waiting for the teakettle to heat.
Dorian already has a soul-bonded portrait. He healed because the portrait took the damage. That’s how it works. Hurt the person, and you damage the portrait. Harm the portrait, and the person’s body will reflect that damage.
Who painted Dorian’s portrait? When? And why does he want another?
The teakettle whistles. I open the cupboard, take out the canister of blackberry-sage tea, and extract two tea bags, inhaling deeply. The rich, dark aroma calms me at first—until another odor seeps into my awareness.
I rush down the hall to the bathroom and yank the door open without knocking.
Dorian Gray, shirtless and damp, slouches against the wall beside the window he has cracked open. A lit cigarette dangles between his elegant fingers, and water beads along his collarbone. He’s looking down, his hair falling in wet strands over his forehead, his lashes painting dark semicircles against his cheekbones.
He’s only wearing a pair of black boxers. Blood must have gotten on his pants, too. Of course it did.
God, I need to paint this man, in exactly this pose, with the light over the sink glowing on the angles and slopes of him and the red spark at the tip of his cigarette.
He turns toward the window, momentarily in exquisite profile, and breathes out a swirl of smoke before glancing at me. “Problem, Officer?”
