Page 154 of Sinister

Without thinking, I pull down the neckline of my own dress to check. And there it is. The same sigil. On me.

“What is this?” I breathe, half in awe, half in fear.

“Our connection,” he says softly. “See? We both have it. It ties me to you. And you to me. We’ll always be bound—across this life and the next.”

His words send a tremor down my spine. I can’t tell if this is my mind warning me or indulging me. Am I trying to convince myself that, no matter how much I try to reject him, part of me is still his? That beyond the physical, something in him speaks directly to something in me?

I don’t want that to be true. And yet, my heart races. My hands tremble. I pretend to focus on the sketch, trying to distract myself, trying not to feel the heat crawling up my neck.

But then I look again.

He’s unbuckling his belt.

I nearly drop the pencil. “You—you shouldn’t do that! It’s not proper!”

He says nothing. Just smiles. And slowly, deliberately, steps out of his trousers.

Now he stands before me, completely naked.

“Draw me,” he commands.

Blushing furiously, I force myself to return to the canvas. My strokes are hesitant at first, but soon the rough outline of his form begins to emerge.

I try not to stare. I really do.

But it’s impossible not to be aware of him—the taut lines of his body, the strength in his limbs, the sheer, unapologetic masculinity he radiates.

And then there’s that other part of him.

That maleness that commands attention, even when I know I shouldn’t look.

But I do.

Just for a second.

And I feel like I’ve done something terribly wicked . . . and terribly thrilling.

Still blushing, I reach for the array of paints and begin choosing colors. The outline on the canvas is done—rough but passable—so I may as well try my hand at painting. It’s not as if reality offers me better prospects. At least Dream-Me gets to live her fantasy.

I settle on a dark brown to start with his hair and grab a tube of paint. But when I try to squeeze some out, nothing happens.

Frowning, I shake it, press harder, try again. Still nothing. Maybe it’s dried?

I tilt the tube upward toward my face, peering into the opening as I apply more pressure.

Just then—splatter.

A thick line of dark paint shoots straight into my face and across my dress.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then laughter. His laughter, rich and unrestrained, echoes through the room.

He crosses the space in a few easy strides, already offering to help. But as I look at him—his bare chest, the open amusement in his eyes, my face smeared with paint—I don’t hesitate. I squeeze the tube again and send another jet of paint straight at him.

It hits his chest, dripping lower.

He stumbles back a step, blinking, but then grins. Instead of scolding me, he grabs a tube from the pile and launches a counterattack. Blue smears across my shoulder, and I gasp.