Page 49 of Rebel
Rebel was turned on when we drew blood from each other. I should run from that fact alone.
Beside me, Katrina’s back straightens, and she licks her lips, she’s gearing herself up to approach him. My throat aches, so I ignorethem both and turn around to tidy my things away. I already know what Rebel is going to say as he walks toward us.
Before he gets to our side of the street, Katrina is moving toward him. From my crouched position, I continue putting my spray cans into the large canvas bag, watching their interaction.
They’re talking too low for me to hear. From his expression as he speaks and the set of her shoulders, he’s telling her to leave. When Katrina heads off in the opposite direction to the church, her steps are angry, and she looks back at me as I stand up, hauling the bag up onto my shoulder.
She is not happy at all when Rebel comes over and takes the bag out of my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Aren’t you tired of this dance?”
My glance cuts to Katrina, who has stopped by her car and is watching us over the roof.
“Do you let all your conquests down so brutally?”
“You tell me.” He smirks, but his expression turns serious. “Inside.”
“That was where I was going as soon as I saw your ornery ass coming over.”
The car door slams behind us, but Rebel doesn’t care, his full attention is on me. Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?
He follows me back to the annex and inside because he is still carrying the bag of spray paints.
“You need to be careful,” I tell him.
“About what?”
Turning and putting my hands on my hips, we’re both well aware what I’m referring to. Rebel ignores it and sets my bag down, but he pauses, staring at the table.
Ohshit.
He picks up the sketchpad, his gaze focused on the drawing. I freeze in place, freaking the hell out as he trails a finger over the surface of the paper. He is impossible to read at first, then he shows his surprise, followed by a little anger, his jaw is ticking as he clenches his teeth.
Maybe I should give him a moment alone with it. Leaving sounds like the right idea. I step away, but he turns to face me, freezing me in place, the pad still in his hand.
Any usual quip I’d fire back gets lodged in my throat.
“What is this?”
“Um…When I’m stressed, I draw the things that interest me.”
Damn, wrong choice of words.
“I interest you?” he arches a brow.
“Your face does. Not your personality.”
He looks back at the portrait, holding the pad closer. His nostrils flare and his eyes lift, giving his expression a sinister cast, but there is no intent behind it. He’s not angry, he’s intrigued. And something else, which becomes apparent with his next words that come out low and husky.
“Is that blood?”
How does he know that?
“I know what dried blood looks like, and I can see your fingerprints in it.”
“That doesn’t mean its blood.”
