Page 152 of Rogue & Her Hunters
When he woke up, he peered at the sling. Then he dragged Bird into a hug, before doing a thumbs up.
Asshole.
How did he turn our prank on its head like our gesture was romantic?
I glance around the art room, intrigued. It is as disciplined as the other rooms in the cabin are.
I don’t know why I expected this single room would somehow be a chaotic, creative mess. I have been reading too many of Mars’ romance books about artist Alpha heroes.
Along one wall are shelves that hold ranks of paint tubes, some of them fat and full, while others are squeezed flat. Brushes soak bristle down in jars.
Finished paintings are stacked on the opposite wall. They are leaned carefully with their corners protected by cardboard and scraps of cloth.
Next to Phantom is a small worktable, which is covered with a wooden palette with fresh paints, rags, charcoal sticks and pencils, along with a sketchbook.
I scrunch up my nose against the sharp stink of turpentine and oil paints, which smother other scents.
When I swagger toward Phantom, he points his brush at me to stop me. Then he points it significantly at the shelf.
“I get it.” I take a detour to balance the mug of steaming tea on the shelf next to a dulled palette knife. “Don’t let it go cold.”
Phantom looks at me like he’s expecting me to leave.
Naïve for an ex-Seal Commander and bounty hunter.
When I attempt to approach him again, however, he waves me away with his brush.
“Do I need to be trained in brush language now too?” I quirk my brow.
Phantom points the brush at me as if to say that I am understanding it just okay already.
Fair.
I respect Phantom’s request and wander to the wall, which is stacked with paintings. “Can I look through these?”
Phantom hesitates but then nods.
I scan across the paintings.
They’re all of Joker.
They are extraordinary.
Haunting.
I can’t look away.
Unsteady, it is as if something has shifted inside me, and I don’t even know what. I didn’t expect that Phantom’s art would hit me like this.
Phantom can’t simply paint. He’s fucking devastating with his paint brush.
He wields it like a dagger that will pierce your heart.
Joker looks back at me from the paintings, as if from a dozen mirrored shards. Some versions of him are fierce, others seductive, but a surprising number are gently domestic.
Romantic. Happy. Sleepy. Terrified.
Every private moment is captured.
