Page 73 of Angel

I heard him place the pad down and reach out, then twitched when his calloused thumb traced my cheekbone.

‘Why are you upset, Rox?’

Opening my eyes, I shook my head, unable to speak, for his full, unvarnished focus on me left me speechless.

It was like sitting too close to an open flame, so I sliced my eyes away.

I’d always known he had a capacity for gentleness, but having it focused on me was almost too much to bear.

That’s when he cupped my jaw and turned my face to his.

‘Rox,’ he rasped, ‘would it help if I told you that I’ve never found you so fuckin’ hot as I do in this moment?’

My soul leaped.

‘It would cross the line.’

Then I shot my shot, reckless, uncaring, my heart so gone for him.

‘Still, would that be such a bad thing?’

‘That’s just it, gorgeous,’ he murmured, his thumb tracing my jawline. ‘I suspect it’d be wild, savage, and we’d flame out together.’

My heart lurched as I stared into his intense, heated eyes until he sliced them away.

He felt it too, but he fought it hard.

He tore the sketch out of the notebook and handed it over.

‘Keep it.’

‘I will.’

I tucked it into my notebook as his eyes shuttered.

I sensed he wanted out of the surge of emotion whirling around us.

He turned away from me, picked up his acoustic guitar, and his fingers started picking at the strings.

Song sheets ended up scattered over his bare feet, scratched-out lyrics and alternate progressions scribbled in black ink.

He was in his own head now, locked into the music.

Six Sinners wrote songs that almost sounded bled out in an alley, utter grit and desperate survival.

Listening to him work out a melody was like watching a soul tear itself open to see what was inside.

‘Listen to this,’ he grunted, striking a rich minor chord and singing a rough, unfinished verse about the dark places people hid in when everything fell apart.

His voice was pure gravel and smoke.

‘What do you think?’ he growled, raising his eyes to mine as the last reverberation died out.

‘Gives me chills,’ I said, rubbing the bumps on my arms. ‘It works, but change ‘chains’ to ‘shackles’ in the third line. Fits the rhythm better.’

He pursed his lips, dragging a hand through his beard as he thought it over.

He ran his fingers over the fretboard again, testing the new word with an acoustic strike.