Page 56 of Brat Baby
“All you need to do is stay perfectly still for me. Can you do that, princess?”
Her only response is to press her cheek into my hand before closing her eyes and relaxing into the pose. Could she be any more perfect for me?
Glancing around, I spot a spare easel. If I get to spend the next few hours with her, but not actuallywithher, I’m going to at least make a memory that I can hold on to. Something I can use to get me through this next week.
That meeting with Thayne cannot get here fast enough.
Chapter 31
Emery
A faintshushingpulls me from the quiet space my mind has been floating in, not quite asleep, but definitely walking the boundaries of dreamland. The noise goes quiet, but I’m unable to drift off again.
Without moving any other body parts, I slowly open my eyes. A warm overhead light shines down at me from an angle, and therest of the room is dark. It takes several blinks for my vision to adjust before I can make out the backs of several empty easels.
An art studio.
Darcy’s art class.
Oh shit, did I sleep through the entire thing? That wasn’t the plan. Fuck, did he leave me here alone as some sort of punishment?
My shoulders twinge the tiniest amount as I rotate them down so that I can use my elbows to push myself up and get a better look at the room. The erratic beating of my heart settles as I spot a heavily shadowed figure sitting just outside the ring of light, closer to my feet.
They’ve dragged their easel and canvas several feet closer than the rest of the half circle, and all I can see of them is paint-splattered shoes, crossed at the ankle beneath their chair. The shushing noise is coming from the other side of the canvas, and I need zero clues as to who it is or what they are doing.
I scan the room to confirm we are definitely alone, and from the lack of light coming through the windows, I’m going to assume it’s been a while since there was someone else here with Darcy and me.
Not sure if I am actually allowed to move at this point, I stay as I am, slightly propped up, really hoping I haven’t messed up his work. But, at the same time, I was only supposed to be here for a couple of hours, and clearly that time limit blew by without him setting me free.
Just in case, I wait to see if he checks on me, but after several minutes, there are no sightings of his face. As quietly as possible, I sit up straight and gather all the fabric to me, only now noticing that I am slightly too cool.
Pushing to standing, I wrap the fabric around me like a shawl, clutching it with one hand between my breasts. It doesn’t domuch to warm me, and I end up with a fair portion of it trailing along the floor like a train on a bride’s dress.
I take a wide arc, so I end up behind him, not exactly sure what I’m going to see. But the moment the charcoal sketch of me is in view, my mouth gapes open.
It looks like a black-and-white photo of me. An actual photo.
There is texture and depth, contrast and flow, form and shape.
Nothing I have ever drawn has looked like this. This is…
He has only drawn from my knees to the back of the couch near my fingers and the top corner of the cushion beneath me, like a photographer zooming in. The fabric has individual threads, and where it was bunched or doubled over shows in the drawing as darker shadows and lines.
I follow the fabric as it winds up my body, noting that he has captured the few random freckles I have on my ribs.
The shadow of my nipple is alluring, yet demure, while my other breast is completely exposed, every bump and ridge exposed for all to see. My necklace is on full display, the heart having sunk into the hollow of my throat. The key dangles free, away from the rest of the pooled metal.
My face is… Is that how he sees me?
I look so peaceful. Like I know that, even in sleep, I’m in a safe place, that I’m protected. That I’m happy. Every single eyelash, eyebrow hair, lip line, all my freckles, and even the tiny wrinkles I have beneath the inner corners of my eyes is an individual detail that blends together to frame my features.
But what really gets me are my hands.
The way the fingers are slightly curled in, the arch of each nail bed, the ragged edge of one nail—I raise my hand, and yep, definitely broke that at some point today.
My bracelet shows the engraved letters, DHDX, in their cross formation, resting against the inside of my wrist, and I wonder if he positioned it while I was floating.
I have always thought that you can tell by a person’s hands whether they will be cruel or kind to you. Scarred and cracked knuckles, thick, worn-looking fingers have never given me a fond memory. But the hands Darcy has drawn—they are delicate, unblemished. Fragile. Easily broken.
