Page 56 of Drawn to Death
I look past him, out at the ocean. The horizon cuts a clean line between sky and water. My hand finds the small of his back, holding him there against me.
“Whatever we want,” I say. It sounds strange. New.
He smiles, slow, and a little surprised. “We're not running,” he says, like he’s testing the idea. “We’re just… here.”
“Yeah.” I nod. Something in my chest finally unwinds, like a coil I’ve forgotten is there. “We’re just here.”
The light fades, red-gold sinking into the blue of the sea. The last tourists pack up on the beach in the distance and leave, heading back to their lives. Quell and I stand on the cooling sand, his warmth pressed to me, our shadows stretching behind us, one long, dark shape.
I breathe in: salt air, paint, coffee, the sharp scent of Quell’s shampoo. I breathe out, and something leaves with it, a piece of the man I’ve been, a last bit of vigilance I don’t need anymore.
Quell’s fingers find mine, paint-stained and rough, tangling with my calloused hand. He tugs me gently toward the water.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s walk for a bit.”
So we do. Along the shoreline, where the waves lap at our feet and erase our tracks behind us. Just walking, unhurried, Quell’s hand in mine. Just being. Just here.
Chapter twenty-eight
Quell
The house is quiet, thick with the hush of waves through the open window. I lie sprawled across the bed, toes curled under sheets still warm from the afternoon sun. My sketchbook has tumbled to the floor, abandoned where I let it slip from my fingers. The pages are different now. No more strangers’ faces. No more death sketches. Just him. Just life. Charcoal smudges stain my fingertips, the ghosts of lines I traced along his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I press my back against the headboard, listening to the night sounds creeping through the walls. Crickets bicker with the ocean. Wind combs through the pines. The old house settles with creaks and sighs. The nightmares haven’t come in weeks. No more waking up with a scream stuck in my throat, no more frantic scrambling for a pencil to capture someone’s final breath. The quiet in my head feels strange, like a new room I haven’t finished unpacking. Mine, but not familiar.
The porch door creaks somewhere below, then footsteps, soft and measured. Talon, back from his evening check. He nevercalls it a patrol, but I know what it is. Scanning the beach, making sure the world outside stays where it belongs. Old habits. But he does it less now. Every day, the space between his sweeps stretches longer.
He appears in the doorway, backlit by the hall light. The scent of him drifts in before he does, salt, smoke from the driftwood fire he built on the sand. His hair is wild from the wind, eyes catching the dimness, watching everything with that careful, unblinking focus.
“Hey,” I say, voice soft, almost lost in the quiet.
He doesn’t answer, just watches me as he crosses the room. The mattress dips when he sits, and he reaches for my sketchbook, fingers pausing on the open page. I’ve drawn him at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up, sunlight glinting off the old scars that map his forearms.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, voice low, rough-edged but gentle.
I smile, watching him flip through the pages. There he is, over and over, leaning on the porch rail, squinting into the sunrise, reading a battered paperback, legs stretched out. In one, he’s asleep, face relaxed in a way it never is when he’s awake. I’ve caught him with his guard down, just a man, not a weapon.
“I’m drawing you now,” I say. “Just you.”
He nods, setting the book down with careful hands. “Not death anymore.”
“No.” I watch him peel off his boots. “Not even a little.”
He moves closer, the mattress shifting under his weight. His hand reaches for me, brushing my hair back, fingertips barely grazing my skin. I lean into it, letting him.
“You smell like the ocean,” I murmur, breathing him in.
He doesn’t look away. Not even for a second. Just sits there, eyes locked on mine, leaning in slow enough to make my teethache. And when his lips finally touch mine, it isn’t tentative, just unhurried. Like we have all night. Maybe we do.
I grab his shoulders, steadying myself, kissing him back. No rush. No drama. Just the careful, measured press of his mouth, his breath warm against my cheek.
I shift, straddling his lap. His hands land on my hips, not pushing, not pulling, just… there. Solid and warm through the thin cotton of my shirt. I loop my arms around his neck, pressing in, chest to chest, heartbeats thumping against each other.
That close, I feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the little tremor in his fingers as they slide up my sides. I pull back just a hair, enough to see him in the low light. His eyes are dark, fixed on me, like I’m the only thing in the room.
“I choose this,” I mutter. It comes out before I can second-guess it. “I choose you.”
He sucks in a breath. Those three words land hard. After all the running, the being hunted, the visions jerking me around like some gore-soaked marionette, this is different. This is me making the call. Owning it.
