Page 22 of Possessive Ink

“You were close?”

“Best friends,” I admit.

I’m not entirely sure how we get there, but a moment later, I’m in Atticus’s lap on his bed, my feet dangling toward the floor while his arms are wrapped tightly around me.

“Tell me who you have in your life,” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Your dad?”

“I’ve never met him. Mom had a one-night hookup with him in college, and I was the result. She told him about me, and he said he wasn’t ready to have kids and signed his parental rights away in exchange for her not pursuing child support payments.”

“He never took care of you, not even financially?” Atticus growls angrily.

“I don’t even know his name. But I never needed a dad. My mom was the only parent I ever needed.”

“No grandparents?” he questions.

I shake my head.

“So who do you have now that she’s gone?”

Instead of answering straight away, I take a moment to think. “I had friends in Bozeman, but I lost touch with them when the place I worked closed down, and I moved here. I guess life goes on. I’ve been meaning to join a club or start a hobby since I got here, but I never got around to it.”

“I don’t have many friends either,” Atticus admits. “Most people struggle to understand Felix’s and my relationship. They don’t get it.”

“You’re twins. I doubt anyone but other twins or multiples could truly understand that kind of connection. I mean, you have a built-in partner for life,” I say, feeling slightly envious of the connection that Atticus and his brother must share.

“It is for life because he’ll always be a part of me. We live together because that’s what we both need, and I doubt that will ever change, no matter who we meet or how our lives evolve. Felix isn’t the same as everyone else. He’s an artistic genius, and sometimes that means he can struggle with real life. But that doesn’t make him stupid. He’s not weird or messed up. His brain just functions on a higher level than some people’s. He lives and breathes his art, and because of that, the things he creates are fucking masterpieces,” Atticus says, his words gruff as his chest heaves.

“I’d love to see some of his work,” I say, intrigued to see what amazing things the man who gave me the best hug I’ve had since my mom died creates.

“I’m serious, Lemon. If he calls, I’ll answer. If he needs me, I’ll go to him. It doesn’t matter who I’m with or what I’m doing. He’s my brother, the other half of my soul, and nothing and no one will ever change that.”

It’s obvious that Atticus is trying to make sure I understand his and his brother’s importance to each other. I’m just not sure why. I’d love to have a sibling who I could rely on one hundred percent, and if I did, I doubt anyone except maybe my husband or children would ever come before them in my life. “I think if I had a twin, I’d feel the same way,” I tell him.

His expression is still conflicted, but he nods, exhaling slowly. Cupping my cheek, he leans forward and kisses me softly before pulling back.

“I’m so glad we met today, Lemon. I believe that things happen for a reason, and you crashing into my cart happened because it was meant to lead us to this moment.”

Smiling, I giggle softly. “You think me being a klutz was actually destiny?”

“Maybe,” he says, his lips curling into a smile that echoes mine. “Remember how I told you my brother likes his bedroom to look and feel a certain way?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I like things a certain way too.”

“What kind of things?” I question breathily, as he slides his fingers down my face to cup the side of my neck, his thumb rubbing circles over my throat.

“I like it when beautiful princesses do what I tell them to,” he purrs, his voice seductively smooth.

“What do you mean?” I question.

“I want you to let me take the lead, Princess. I want you to let me worship you by doing exactly what I tell you to.”

“I don’t understand. What would you tell me to do?”