Chapter 25

25

Aubree

Iflipped open the sketchpad to a stark white page that almost glowed in my dimly lit room. As always, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, searching my thoughts for that strange, fairy-like female that’d plagued my mind the last couple of days, trapped in a cage far too small for her body, wings bent and bleeding. Lounging on the bed, I set to work, trying to get as many details out of my mind and onto the paper as I could.

Time passed in a blur, as it often did when I got in the zone. I focused on the lines in her face, the shadows that clouded her eyes, the pain that aged her. Details I saw in myself every time I looked in the mirror.

Fingers curled around the bars, she sat crouched, head lifted, staring toward something outside of the cage—something that called to her, telling her not to give up. To keep fighting for her freedom.

“I see you’ve made use of the supplies.”

My hand jerked at the interruption of Nick’s voice, sending a line of lead up the female’s back that resembled a scar.

I paused to examine it, exhaled a breath, and lifted my gaze to where he stood framed by the door. I’d never seen him, or any man for that matter, in black leathers, but damn the way they hung loose on his legs and stretched across his groin had my throat turning dry. Chains hung from his loops and the holster at his hip carried a gun. The black tank only stoked my burning curiosity to know what the hell the man looked like without a shirt. The muscles in his arms and chest gave me a pretty damn good idea he sported a set of washboard abs beneath.

The gun caught my attention a second time. If he typically carried weapons, they’d hadn’t been visible prior to then. “You startled me.”

A smirk teased the corner of his lips. “You’re an artist.”

My shoulder twitched with a half-hearted shrug. “When I’m feeling inspired, I suppose.”

His gaze fell to my lap, where the sketchpad lay open across my legs. “So, what’s this?”

“Personal?”

He crossed his arms, his muscles bulging in the folds, and that pissed off scorpion scowled back at me.

“It’s an image that’s appeared a few times in my head. I’m just trying to capture it.”

The narrowing of his eyes told me he was studying the sketch, maybe picking up on the similarities between me and the female in the cage. My cheeks burned at the full, pert breasts I’d drawn on her, in likeness to my own.

“This is your cage, huh?” His rich voice had a way of tickling my senses, and a part of me yearned for him to say something totally off the wall, completely inappropriate, just to hear how it’d sound. “The wings are bent and bleeding. Not broken?”

“Not yet,” I whispered.

“What’s she staring at?”

I looked him straight in the eye, my gaze unflinching. “Hope.”

“So, this is how you deal with captivity? Drawing yourself as a victim?”

Clearing my throat, I gripped tight to the pencil, swallowing back the urge to stab him in the eyeballs with it. “It helps to purge these images. Gives me a moment of focus.” Flipping the page, I held up the sketchpad and the pencil. “You should try.”

“No thanks. I’m not an artist.”

“You don’t have to be. That’s the beauty of creating art. It’s cathartic. Think of your past, your present, your future. Draw what troubles you. It can be a face, a place, a story inside of one single image.” I set down the sketchpad and crossed my arms, eyes narrowed. “Wait a second, you’re a game designer. I find it hard to believe you can’t draw.”

“I never said I couldn’t draw. I design games. Not a bunch of useless ink blot pictures for some arrogant asshole with a string of acronyms to come along and study.”

Swallowing a chuckle, I tapped the pencil to the sketchpad. “Draw something from your game.”

His jaw shifted.

C’mon, give me something. “No one’s going to study it. You don’t even have to show me what you’ve drawn. Keep it for yourself. Burn it afterward, if that makes you feel better.”

The way his face ticced, the sliding of his jaw, the twitch of his eye, I couldn’t tell if he wanted to punch me, or if he might’ve been considering the suggestion. He sniffed and unraveled his arms. “You keep drawing your pretty pictures. Keep the hope alive. As for me? I’ve had enough fucking quacks trying to crack open my head, I don’t need you digging around in there.” He turned and strode from the room.