Page 125 of Wicked Minds
Beautifully broken and strikingly scarred.
Love and life and shadows and trauma all rolled into one.
Radiant yet haunting.
I’m laid bare in the sketch, every layer of my identity exposed. Every insecurity, every doubt, every fear and neurosis noticed by Royce and drawn so intimately that it leaves me with the stark realization that this brooding, complex enigma of a man sees me. Trulyseesme. The dancer, the dreamer, the scared girl, and the protective mother.
Every aspect of who I am.
He sees it, and he’s enthralled by it. It’s drawn into every stroke of his pencil, every shading done by his finger, every hard line and gentle brush.
His affection.
“Royce.” His name is a scratch at the back of my throat.
“What do you think?” he asks, voice carefully guarded.
It’s beautiful.
Mesmerizing.
Transcendent.
Perfect.
Lifting my head, my eyes scan his face with a new awareness. He deliberately avoids my penetrating stare, glaring unblinkingly at the drawing pad, yet in his eyes, I see a reflection of his soul—a soul that has been shielded, sheltered, and hidden away from the world’s gaze.
But not from mine.
He’s lowered his shields—for me. For this moment. Because he wants me to see him as exposed as he sees me.
Doesn’t he already know that I do?
Placing one hand on the table, I slowly rise to my feet, lifting my other one to cup his cheek and direct his attention to me. He doesn’t come willingly, but he doesn’t resist either, putting it off for as long as he can before he dares to lift his eyes to mine.
In those blue depths, I see the anger, the masculine force that has become his armor against a world that wounded him. Yet, there’s also a flicker of vulnerability buried deep into the edges. A yearning for understanding that he guards with an iron resolve.
I stroke my thumb affectionately across his cheek, and brick by brick, his guard crumbles, that shield of apprehension disintegrating into dust, those ice-blue eyes melting with a warmth reserved solely for me.
Through his sketch, Royce has demonstrated that his gaze doesn’t just skim the surface; it delves deeper, and in return, he allows me to do the same to him. It’s a privilege to witness the cracks in his armor, the vulnerability he’s allowing me to glimpse.
I place my palm over his heart, feeling the rhythmic thud beneath my palm. There’s a quiet intensity in his gaze as it bores into mine—a yearning, a curiosity.
With Logan, everything is so simple because he says what’s on his mind and tells me how he’s feeling. There’s none of that with Royce, and yet I don’t feel as though we need words to identify what this is between us. I’m not even sure if words could accurately define it.
Royce might not know how to express his feelings verbally, but he does it with these sketches. With the fact he faithfully shows up at Lux every weekend. When he crawls into my bed at night to quell my nightmares. By bringing me home on Christmas morning.
With all the small and big gestures he makes every single day.
“You see me.” My voice is barely above a whisper, but we’re standing so close that I don’t need to talk any louder.
His throat bobs, and I trail the hand that rests over his heart up his chest, along the side of his neck until I’m cupping his face in both palms. “I see you too. I see the shields you keep around you, the haunted look in your eye when you talk about the past. I see your desolation, but I also see the hope you keep hidden. I want to be your hope. The one who pulls you out of the darkness. Not so I can claim I converted the bad boy, but because you deserve to live in the light, Royce. You deserve to be free of whatever pain it is you’re carrying.”
An audible gulp fills the space between us. “What if I’m not ready to come into the light yet?” he asks in a broken tone.
“Then I’ll readily hold your hand and navigate the darkness with you.” My eyes dart to and fro between his. “You have it all.” His muscles go rigid as his eyes bulge. “My body, my mind, my soul. My good days and bad ones. My strength and tears.” I swallow roughly. “You have all of me.”
“Fuck, Ry,” he rasps, somehow managing to make my name sound as though it’s his undoing. His hands circle my face as he stares down at me with such devout admiration. “You own all of me. Every broken and jagged piece—even the parts I don’t know how to share with you yet.” He sags forward, our chests fused as he drops his forehead to my shoulder and his arms come around me, fingers fisting the back of my jersey. “I want to tell you. I know I need to.” His exhale is a shudder I feel against my bare skin at the juncture of my neck.
