Page 60 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
Another good goddamn reason to bridge careers and find something less demanding the minute this fuckery ends.
Ifit ever does.
I last another half hour, walking slower, working through the deafening ache until it fades, before my patience thins.
Finally, when I can’t stand it, I tear the door open and stomp out.
She’s not drawing anymore. She’s lying flat with her legs kicked over the back of the sofa, awkwardly twisted on top of a couple pillows.
My eyes flick to her ankle. I’m glad it isn’t swollen.
I stand and listen for her soft breathing, not quite a snore, wondering if she’ll pop up and give me another shitty look I probably deserve.
Not now. She’s out cold.
Fuck me.
The tension drains from my shoulders. At least she’ll hold off on harpooning me for barking shit at Fairfax tonight.
I step closer, silent as the grave.
Nile’s actually peaceful when she sleeps.
The little tornado, gone.
No anxiety on her soft face. That bleached stripe in her hair gives her an angelic look.
A sad expression curdles her face, and she twists, adjusting herself on the sofa hopelessly. There’s no way she’ll ever be comfortable on this thing.
It’s one of those chic modern fabrics, fine to sit on, but prone to catching if you move too much.
Not a place to sleep.
Let alone a place to be watched by an older damn creeper.
I sigh.
Leonidas loved his aesthetics, and it didn’t always translate to comfort. She’s not going to get any decent rest like that. And after the spill she took leaving, she’ll wind up with a nasty crick in her neck.
Dammit, no.
I walk closer and notice her sketch pad lying open beside her. On the page, there’s a detailed sketch of her holding the Hera Egg, looking hopeful. It’s sectioned off into a square panel, almost like a cartoon.
Her detail makes my breath stall, right down to the neat rows of sparkling diamonds and the stripe folded through her hair.
Behind her, a very obvious, large, scowling shadow, rippling with dark lines like a storm cloud.
Predictable.
So fucking predictable it makes me smile.
She’s still got it in her to draw me, and it’s a lot less flattering than last time. Perhaps I am a raging asshole to her, but that doesn’t mean I’ll leave her to wake up sore and limping.
Her attitude hasn’t changed much, and neither has mine.
After I spent a solid decade looking after this girl, old habits die hard.
She’s warm silk as I carefully slide my arms under her and hoist her to my chest. Between Leonidas’ grandkids and Kit, I’ve had a lot of practice carrying little people to bed without waking them. It’s not much different with a grown woman.
