Page 117 of Inked in Bloom
“Giving you ample space to work with. Don’t worry, I’ll leave these on.” I gesture at the fitted black underwear, savoring the way she nibbles her bottom lip. “Wouldn’t want to distract you.”
My smirk earns an eye roll.
“Fine.” Monroe grabs the paint tubes and summons more, along with a paintbrush. “Stay still.”
“I’ll try my best.” She crawls over and takes her time, scanning every inch of exposed skin.
I count backward from three hundred to keep the only covered part of me from reacting. Failing the moment she steadies herself by holding on to my leg, drawing a long stroke along my stomach where a stem reaches up from my pelvis. “Fair warning, I may not be able to control every part with the way you’re staring up at me from your knees.”
“Noted.” Her focus remains on painting along the inked lines of my flourish marks, filling them in like I’m a life-size paint-by-numbers.
After the flowers curving up my abdomen, she works her way up my chest, avoiding the entwined peonies and foxgloves that reach over where my heart once beat. Not that I remember a time when it did.
It doesn’t make a difference, though. It’s just an organ. Something left behind. The love I feel for this woman goes beyond human frailty. It doesn’t bend or break or yield. It’s as immortal as I am. And I’ve never felt more immortal than I do right now with my mate’s hands reverently manipulating my body, her brush becoming an extension of hersoul, transitioning from firm strokes pressing into my shoulder to soft sweeps curving like a caress along my neck.
She swipes a fine-tipped brush through a smudge of evergreen, and I clench my jaw, trying not to laugh as it tickles its way up my throat. When she steps in front of me, I don’t miss the glint of mirth in her eyes. She’s fucking breathtaking. Tension uncoils, starting in her shoulders and descending her frame as she paints. Every ounce of calm is a welcome relief. The sun dips behind the trees, soaking the sky in the velvet purple of twilight.
“Feeling better?” I finally ask once I think the rage part of her rage painting has subsided.
Her eyes flick up through a fan of delicate lashes. “You know I am.”
I swallow thickly, wanting to keep the peace, for those walls to remain down between us. “True. But it means more hearing you say it.”
She scrunches her mouth, concentrating on following the long stem of the foxglove crossing over the left side of my chest. I take a deep inhale and search for the courage to speak. “About what you said earlier, about giving you time to come to your senses…”
Be brave, idiot. This is your chance.
“I’m not biding my time waiting for you.”
“You’re not?” She keeps her attention on her painting, but I don’t miss the firmer press of her brush.
“No. I’ve already waited a lifetime.” Every year that passed, I wondered when the mark would arrive. Then my girls became my world and it seemed even further out of reach. “I’m just grateful to finally know who my mate is and honored it’s you.”
Our eyes meet, and the brush curls over my chest, filling in one of the foxgloves in dusty lavender.
“Can I ask you something?” She bites that bottom lip of hers, and I summon the image of moldy cabbage for the innumerable time this paint session.
“Anything.”Moldy cabbage. Moldy cabbage. Moldy cabbage.“I’m basically at your mercy right now.”
She continues to paint, attention flitting between my face and the foxgloves she’s shading. “Did you mean what you said earlier? That you felt something for me before you got the mark?”
“Of course I did.” I catch her chin with the crook of my finger. “I’ll admit, the bond did help me act on it.” The mark tingles with each chilling streak of paint she adorns me with, and I’m not sure if it’s her reverent treatment of it as she works, but courage wins out over the fear of scaring her away. “I was fascinated by you when I was in your care. The more time I spent with you, learned about you… It was the first time I really wanted to know more about someone from the mortal realm.”
I fall into the depths of her stare, drunk on the knowledge she’s trying to piece me together.
“And then you showed up at the Conservatory. When I found out what happened, I knew it didn’t matter you’d been on my mind since my return, you’d never forgive me. You said as much yourself, so I was prepared to stay out of your way as you’d asked… Then, of course, the mark arrived and you wanted nothing to do with me.” I release her and swallow down the jagged pieces of the truth, speaking them despite how raw the pain is. “At first, I was going to do just that.”
She rocks back on her heels and sets down the paints, not taking her focus off me. “What changed?”
“Once Fate confirmed she couldn’t change things, that you’d be stuck with me despite your anger toward me, Icouldn’t stand by and do nothing. Maybe I deserved the pain of a withered bond, but you didn’t.”
“You know I don’t blame you for what happened—not anymore.”
“I know.” Have known that for a while now. “But your forgiveness only lessened the heft of guilt I’d already placed on myself.”
When Monroe sits back up, she doesn’t pick up the paint. She slides her fingers over her creation, trailing her nails along every stroke and line of art decorating my body. A mural of duty reinvigorated by her vibrant touch. I never got to live, not truly, but ever since she took her brush and swathed my world in color, I’ve never felt more alive.
Her hand stills above the mate mark.
