“I’d feel it.”
“Because I’m the last of my kind. Your only chance.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
Slowly, I approach him. “It’s hard for you, isn’t it? Finding something you can’t control with your beauty or money?”
His teeth are gritted, bared.
“You can’t make me do anything. You can’t make me stay in the room, and you can’tmakeme paint you. And that’s driving you wild, isn’t it?”
He scoffs and looks away. “I could make you do anything I want.”
“Not true.”
“Beauty and money aren’t the only ways to get a thing done,” he says darkly. “There are other methods. Unpleasant ones. Don’t force me to go there, Baz.”
It’s the first time he has openly threatened me or hinted at how he’ll react if my final answer is no. I’m not an idiot; I’ve considered the possibility that he might try other ways of convincing me to paint him. But he hadn’t mentioned any such thing, and now that he has, I feel as if I’ve lost something precious. As if the sweet, tentativeconnection we’ve been weaving has been abandoned, hanging frayed and useless in the wind.
“I’m not forcing you to go there,” I say quietly. “You always have a choice. To be the person you think you are or someone better.”
He wavers a moment, then strides to the bag of pharmacy supplies and takes out a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of painkillers, the last of which he tosses to me. He disappears into the bathroom, and when he returns, I ask, “Do you really have to brush your teeth? Or does the painting take care of that decay too?”
“I don’t get cavities,” he says curtly. “But surface bacteria can affect how I smell, so yes, I shower and I brush my teeth. Now I’m going to bed, and since I don’t have any other clothes, I’m sleeping naked. I’ll stay on my side of the bed, don’t worry. Put pillows or towels down the middle if it makes you feel better.”
I’m speechless, and I don’t look away even though he pauses, giving me a chance to do so.
Then his towel drops, and holy shit.
I want to paint him. Scratch that—I want to sculpt him, including all the beautiful inches of that dick. I don’t miss the fact that he’s half-erect or that his ass, when he turns away to climb into bed, is damn gorgeous.
That gorgeous ass just threatened me with violence if I don’t do what he wants, yet I still crave him. What does that say about me?
Our argument unsettled me, but it was weirdly reassuring, too. Aside from the subject matter, it felt oddly normal, like something a regular couple would do. Maybe we both needed that conflict, not only to talk through some stuff but to release some of the tightly coiled tension from our epic battle.
Dorian has his back to me, his body half-draped by the sheet and his rigid posture declaring that he’s still royally pissed off.Which doesn’t bode well for kisses or anything else between us tonight.
I’m still too wound up to sleep, so I sit in the armchair and nibble on cheese crackers while watching the TV on low volume, and then I brush my own teeth before climbing into the right side of the bed and switching off the lamp. I left the light in the bathroom on and the door cracked, so the room isn’t entirely dark. If any monsters do manage to get into the building, I want to be able to see them coming.
The air conditioner kicks on, a loud hum in the shadowed room. Somewhere down the hall, a door bangs and someone laughs, loud and shrill. Drunk, probably.
Two minutes later, another door bangs, and there’s the grinding roll of a wheeled suitcase.
Five minutes later, raised voices arguing.
I thought Dorian was asleep, but he vents a frustrated sigh and rolls over stormily in the bed. “Fuck motels.”
“Did you text Sibyl and Vane so they know where we are?” I whisper.
“Yes. I texted while you were in the shower. Sibyl said she would check on your cat for you.”
“Should I text Mrs. Dunwoody?”
“No.”
“She might worry about me.”
“Who the hell cares?”
