Page 70 of Death Warden
I approached, scanning the inked lines, the swirls that made strangely compelling patterns. “What is it?” I reached out to run my fingers along one of those lines, up his ribs, and across to stop at his pectoral.
He sucked in a breath, and it hit me that I was touching him, that we were standing in his bedroom, too close.
I took a step back. “Wow, sorry, that was so inappropriate.” I held out the latte cup. “For you.”
He locked gazes with me for a moment, his amber eyes darkening to a malt whiskey, and my pulse quickened. He dropped his gaze with a wry smile. “It’s just something I designed.” He tugged on his shirt and took the cup. “I like drawing.”
I noticed the sketches pinned to the wall for the first time. Strange fantasy landscapes and vistas that caught the eye and drew you in.
“I love them. Do you have more?”
He indicated a sketch pad on the desk.
I picked it up and flipped it open just as he made a strange sound of distress and made a grab for it, knocking it out of my hands.
It fell to the floor and pages fluttered free.
“Shit.” He began to gather them.
“Sorry.” I crouched to help.
“No. I got it.”
He sounded strange, and then I spotted my face in one of his sketches and his attitude made sense.
He’d drawn me.
Several pictures of me, in fact. Oh…Oh, God…
I stepped back and allowed him to gather his work, heart pounding at the revelation those simple sketches evoked.
When he stood, his cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. He cleared his throat. “I like sketching.” He winced.
Fuck. I needed to change the subject. My gaze fell to the novel on his desk.The Woods at Dusk,by Frederick Harding.
My first thought was, shit, he knows about my pen name. But common sense asserted itself. There was no way he could know. Still, this provided the perfect distraction.
“Oh puh-lease, don’t tell me you read him.” I picked up the book and held it toward him like an accusation.
He frowned and plucked it from my grasp. “Frederick Harding is a master of the macabre.”
Okay, small glow of pride there. Focus, Adi. “His books are gorefests with no real substance.”
“Excuse me?” Logan bristled. “Harding explores the fears of our inner child, the shit that plays in our subconscious mind, and he gives it form.”
I arched a brow. “Axe murderers? Really?”
“This book isn’t about the axe murderer but the unrelenting pursuit of death in general, stoic and confident while we trip and fall, desperate to evade it.”
Wow…he really got me. My body flushed with heat because damned if that wasn’t sexy as hell.
It was my turn to drop my gaze. “I’m headed out this evening.”
“Yeah, Chrissy said. Thanks for that.” His tone was soft and intimate.
I looked up sharply. “For what?”
“For asking her to go with you. She told me you offered. I know the others wouldn’t have. I appreciate it. I appreciate you, Adi.”
