Page 126 of Quiet Obsession
“I’m making sure Millie sticks with me at Creed’s fight this weekend,” Noah says, making my brow furrow.
Hyde’s grip tightens, but he says nothing, pulling me into the cafeteria. By the time we’ve grabbed some food, Creed’s already at our table, and once again, my stomach does a tiny nervous flip. Though this time it’s a good kind of nervous.
I smile before I can stop myself.
“What have you got there?” Noah asks, nudging me with his shoulder as we sit down.
I follow his line of sight. One strap of my book bag has slipped off my shoulder, revealing my sketchbook. The cover’s turned out, the drawing I was working on during my morning class there for all to see. I swallow hard, dropping into my seat.
“It’s nothing,” I say, placing my tray down.
“What’s nothing, sis?” Hyde asks, settling in beside Creed.
I pinch my lips, shrugging the sleeves of my sweater until only my charcoal-stained fingertips poke out. My brother clocks that immediately, his eyes softening.
“You’re sketching again?”
Creed looks up, both elbows on the table, pasta dangling from his fork. “She never really stopped.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You’re always drawing.” Creed mimics the doodling Ihabitually do over my hip, thigh, or—most recently—his chest or ribs. “Invisible art.”
“How do you know?” Hyde asks, tension bleeding into his voice. “I’ve never seen her do that.”
“I noticed back in Seattle when we played chess.”
“So?” Noah prompts over the rim of his coffee cup, inching closer. “Can we see?”
“No,” Hyde clips, his hand covering mine. “It’s okay, sis. You don’t have to show us anything.” He squeezes my fingers. “I’m glad you’re drawing. Let me know if you need supplies.”
Anger claws up my throat, his patronizing tone heating my blood. It reminds me of Evan and his patronizing tone when he belittled my art.
She genuinely thinks she’s good.
Everything she paints is more dramatic than she is, and that’s fucking saying something.
I pull the sketchbook out, passing it to Noah. I don’t want Evan’s words crushing me forever. Maybe reclaiming a sense of pride in what I love is the way to keep that weight above my head.
My pulse kicks up when Noah stares at the close study of my lips, sewn together with dark thread, a pair of small scissors cutting through the stitches.
It feels more personal than handing him my journal.
“It’s... fuck, beautiful, I wasn’t expecting it to be this good,” Noah huffs, looking at me sideways. “You’re really talented.”
“She takes after her brother,” Hyde pipes in, stuffing his mouth with a BLT.
“You can’t draw a straight line,” Creed says, holding his hand out to Noah, who passes the sketchbook over.
My stomach does a little pirouette when his eyes move over the page, taking in every detail, brows set in deep concentration. He turns the pages backward, scrutinizing every sketch until he reaches the girl clawing her way out of the paper at the front.
He leans back in his chair, those dark eyes boring into mine, a myriad of things he doesn’t say clear in the way he watches me.
It’s the same look he gives me when he strips me of my clothes, and that burning gaze takes a moment to eat me.
“Can you draw something for me?” he asks.
“Um... maybe? What kind ofsomething?”
