Page 76 of Moth
“You designed this,” I suspect out loud, gathering up the nerve to trace the edge of the creature’s contorting back. He may not have inked it himself, but the artwork carries all his hallmarks—bold lines, expressive subjects, elusive emotion.
I gaze into those glaring red eyes and see a creature staring back, one accustomed to viewing the rest of the world as prey. A monster poised to spit fire at a moment’s notice.
“You wereangrywhen you designed it.” He pulls away, leaving my fingers hanging in the air. Slowly, I lower them to my side. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he stops short. I’ve irritated him. “You always apologize.” He makes it sound so strange, so aggravating. “Even for asking a fucking question.”
“I’m sorr—”
“It symbolizes power,” he says over me, but his voice is softer. Absently, he trails a hand along his shoulder, following the path my fingers had traveled seconds earlier. “Strength. A reminder, so I never forget what it fucking takes…”
“Takes to what?” I ask when he falls silent for good.
“To survive.” He sounds hesitant, and I can assume why, using my own slip of the tongue around him as a precedent. He isn’t used to speaking unbidden, not about this.
“It’s beautiful,” I repeat, unashamed by the awe tainting my voice. I inch closer, letting my hand fall between his shoulder blades. “Your drawings are beautiful.”
“You sound surprised, bunny.” He turns and deliberately lifts my hand, placing my fingers against the planes of his jaw instead. “Why?” he demands, letting me feel his mouth shape the word, how much tension such a simple motion carries. “Because I’m some illiterate punk? Too dumb for your lofty, artsy ways?”
“Because you’re talented,” I say simply. “But…”
His eyes narrow to slits. “But?”
“But it’s like you don’t want anyone to notice. Not really.” A blind man could see his bravado for what it is. Defensiveness. I’m so confident of that, I’m willing to go a step further. “You’d rather someone see you as a punk than an artist.”
“And you’re the expert?” He fingers a piece of my hair and laughs. “The girl who smothers everything inside her fucking notebook? Tell me, bunny. How would you describe me now?” Releasing me, he leans back against the counter and strokes his chin. “Use those pretty words.”
“You’re talented,” I reiterate. “You’re cocky. You’re…honest.”
“Cocky and honest.” He nods in approval. “Two out of three ain’t bad, rabbit—”
“You’re talented.” I’m not even sure why I’m so adamant about it. Or why he frowns, his jaw clenched. “Did you ever think of pursuing art? As more than a tattoo artist?”
“Like what?” He grunts, turning his gaze to the window.
“I don’t know… College,” I say, picturing him lumbering around the campus. “Studying art. Running a gallery—”
“You see all of that in a few fucking sketches?” he counters. “Or is that what it takes to be valid in a bunny’s world? College?”
I flinch at the hostility in his tone. “What I think has nothing to do with it. They’re good. They are.” Saying it out loud feels empowering in a sense. I’m the dragon for once, breathing out compliments that he interprets as fire. “Why does it bother you so much to hear me say that?”
“The same reason it bothers you to hear the truth about your fucking Bran,” he snaps back. “Hearingit doesn’t change shit, does it?”
Before I can respond, he pushes past me for his jeans and yanks them on, shoving his feet into his shoes without even bothering with the laces. He snatches his shirt next, and the ferocity of each action betrays how angry he truly is, sparked seemingly from nowhere.
“I don’t know what I said wrong,” I blurt out.
Moving toward my door, he wrenches it open without looking back. “I think we’re done now, bunny. I’ll save you the trouble of cutting me loose.”
He leaves, slamming the door behind him, and I blink, alarmed as my eyes burn. It feels so childish and almost pathetic to care that I may have upset him.
I’m a moth again, fluttering too close to a blazing flame, only to be shocked when it burns. The pain feels different from the cold, numbed state it’s used to flying in. One taste of something new, and it can’t get enough, no matter how reckless the act becomes.
It would rather burn than continue to feel nothing.
My legs shake when I finally remember how to move. I stagger into my bedroom, falling to my knees beside the bed frame. Reaching under it, I withdraw the worn shoebox, throwing it onto my bed.
But for once, I don’t feel each item individually. Pushing the faded article aside, I curl my fingers around one, in particular, holding it up to the light. The gold bracelet is so simple in theory. And in so many ways, it’s more dangerous than Rafe’s lighter, capable of sparking a raging fire volatile enough to destroy my life in the aftermath.
