Another page. Another. He slowed as he moved deeper into it, the joking edge draining out of him.
Portrait studies. Movement pieces. Outlines layered with watercolor until the paper bowed. A series of figures in motion, bodies colliding, hands reaching, faces caught mid-expression.
“You did this?”
I stared at him. “No. Every night when I turn off the lights and leave, little elves sneak into the studio and—”
“Okay, fine.” He snapped the book closed and jabbed it at me. “Sorry I asked.”
I took it quickly and slid it onto the counter behind me, out of reach. Out of sight. Out of the realm of any further conversation.
“Now take your shirt off.”
He blinked. “I thought you weren’t touching the Cup.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I deserve to know why you have me here?”
Taking his attempt at clarity to heart, I balled it up and threw it right back at him. “Why are you here, Aiden?”
The question sat between us.
He looked at me like he was still deciding. Then he reached for the hem of his jacket and pulled it off, tossing it over the back of the chair. The Surge jersey followed, cotton catching briefly at his shoulders before clearing them.
The light in my station traced every line the fabric had expertly hidden.
His chest was a study in contrast. Clean muscle broken up by ink. Black lines wrapping across one pec, color blooming across his ribs. Script along his collarbone. The dragon just below it, scales etched with meticulous care.
I’d seen it before.
I’d touched it before.
That had been with gloves on. Professional distance. A layer between my skin and his. Also, I wasn’t really paying attention.
Tonight there was no barrier and no distraction.
“Maybe a touch-up wouldn’t hurt,” he said, settling back in the chair. “Seeing as how I forced you back into work mode, and all.”
I stepped closer.
The air between us tightened, and I lifted my hand before I could overthink it. Letting my fingertips hover over the ink on his chest.
Then I touched him.
My fingers traced the edge of the hatchling dragon’s wing, following the curve of muscle beneath it. The lines were clean. Saturation strong. Whoever had done it had known exactly how far to push the color without muddying it.
His skin was warm under my hand. Solid. Real.
I moved lower, mapping the path of another piece that cut across his abdomen, the shading subtle enough that you had to get close to see how layered it was. Get close is exactly what I did, my breath causing goosebumps to rush onto his skin under it.
He went still in the chair.
My hand drifted back up to the dragon, and the style clicked into place in my head. I tapped it lightly. “Amos Kane.”
His brows lifted. “You know him?”
“Who doesn’t?”
