Page 49 of Fanged Secrets
Amara sat on the sofa with a bowl of spaghetti tucked between her knees, watching me with wide eyes and a furrowed brow, the flicker of a smile on her face like she couldn’t decide whether she should be amused or concerned.
When my pacing grew fast enough to nearly burn a trail through the carpet, I halted, turning to her and signing swiftly, “Are you sure about this? There’s still time to back out.”
Amara nodded vigorously, squeezing her legs to secure the spaghetti as she signed back, “I told you, I can do this.”
When I remained standing, staring her down in the hopes of prompting a different response, she cocked her head to the side and contemplated me for a moment.
“It’s a nice night,” she signed eventually, gesturing at the ceiling. “Let’s go to the garden for a bit.”
I was perfectly content to pace the living room another thousand times if it meant shaking off the tense animosity that clung to me like a dark cloud, but Amara blinked big doe eyes at me and I had no choice but to comply. I sighed and nodded, following her up the stairs.
The cool night air greeted us as we stepped onto the rooftop. Amara took my hand and guided me to a secluded spot, surrounded by lush foliage and bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight. I sat myself down in a huff and Amara perched at my side.
We were silent for a long while, staring at the faint starlight before Amara turned a tentative expression toward me. “Would you let me draw you?”
I hesitated for a moment, but one look at her had me caving. Amara was as tense as I was, she was just doing a better job of hiding it. But I could see it in the stiffness of her shoulders and in the way she twisted the silver ring on her finger.
I nodded. “Sure, why not.”
I shifted awkwardly, unsure of exactly what she wanted me to do. Amara bit down on her lip, lifting her sketchbook to hide the blush noticeable on her cheeks even in the shadows.
“Can I draw you –” she gestured at my clothes, leather jacket zipped to my throat, “without all this.”
I stared at her agog, signing awkwardly, “Are you asking me to strip for you?”
“It’s not like that!” Amara signed hurriedly, hiding her face behind her curls as she punctuated her explanation withmumbled words. “I’ve just – always wanted to sketch you – like that. You know… You have a nice – form.”
“A nice form?” I spoke aloud, eyeing her with a dry smile.
“Just shut up and take your clothes off,” Amara signed with a flourish, scrambling to her feet and overturning a flower pot to sit on.
“You’re serious?” I asked, but slowly got to my feet anyway.
I wasn’t sure I’d make the best muse, stringy limbs and shamefully flat chest included, but I was at least willing to humor her. Amara was already flipping to a new page of her sketchbook, nodding vigorously.
She set up her sketchpad and charcoal, and I began to undress, slowly zipping down my jacket and shrugging it off. I kept my eyes on her, holding her gaze even as I tugged my shirt over my head. The vulnerability of the act wasn’t lost on me, both literal and figurative.
Amara watched quietly, gripping her charcoal tight enough to crack it in two. I stripped away the last of my clothes, feeling the cool breeze against my skin, and stood before her, exposed.
“Now what?” I signed, resisting the urge to shrink into myself.
But there was no judgment in her eyes. They slid over me slowly, taking in every soft curve and sharp edge with careful precision. An artist’s eye.
As Amara readied her charcoal I sat down, splaying out on my back over the pile of discarded clothes. Rather than writhe under her intense gaze, I stared upward, inspecting the canopy of curling vines that drooped toward me like reaching fingers.
She started to draw, her eyes flicking between me and the sketchpad, and I heard the scratch of charcoal on paper. The moonlight cast strange shadows that danced across my skin, highlighting every protruding bone and cresting muscle.
I wondered what I looked like in her eyes.
“So – I was wondering…” Amara began aloud, interrupting the lengthy silence. Her voice was soft and lilting, each word melding into the next.
I turned my head to the side to watch her, but she burrowed further into herself, avoiding my gaze. She rarely ever spoke out loud. I could see her second-guessing herself. But she was trying, which was more than I was capable of.
I loved the sound of her voice.
There was a long pause when she hesitated, swallowing her words before trying again. “What was Maxine – talking about earlier?”
I rolled onto my side, propping my head up with one arm, and waited for her to look at me. But she kept her gaze down, her brow furrowed in concentration, dedicated to capturing me on paper.
