Page 125 of Inflict

“With markers.”

Evelyn looked down at the package in her hand. “Metallic markers.”

“I didn’t buy those for you to draw on the feckin’ walls!”

Her dainty shoulders shrugged, and she never once turned to face him, instead continuing her task—whatever in the hell it was. He could see perfectly what the image was, of course, but that didn’t help the fact she had apparently taken a good five-foot by eight-foot section of wall to draw a colorful, metallic feather.

Her love of feathers was going to be the death of him. Every time he got a peek at the beautiful tattoo she’d let him do on her back and shoulders, he damn near lost his feckin’ mind. She’d finally allowed him to put color into the tattoo, as well.

“Evelyn,” Connor said quietly.

“Sasha,” she corrected.

Since when were they going back to that?

“Goddamn it, your name is Evelyn.”

“And Sasha. I haven’t decided which one I like yet.”

“You’re Evelyn to me.”

“But maybe Sasha, too.”

She was like talking to a wall sometimes.

She drove him crazy.

She made him love.

He didn’t know what to make of her, him, them, the whole situation they were in, or what was going to happen beyond tonight or the next day. But Jesus, the woman was going to put him in a grave.

“This is … this is just grand,” Connor said, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That isn’t coming off, love. I’m going to have to paint over it.”

Finally, her hand stilled, and her back stiffened. Silently, she shot him a glare over her shoulder that frankly, hurt worse than a slap might have. He’d not once seen her really get angry about something, not truly angry.

Right then?

She looked right pissed.

“You can’t paint over it,” she said. “It’s mine. I made it.”

How simple her views could be at times.

Connor almost wished he could see life through the same simple, honest perspective, but he knew the truth was a lot harsher than perhaps Evelyn could handle. The world was brutal, and it did not care for any one person, or even for all the people. Sure, she had seen her own version of how awful the world could be—she was living proof of it, for feck’s sake—but her view was still limited.

So very limited.

“Love, listen—I get you’re bored and whatever.”

“I’m not bored. You just didn’t have a big enough canvas, and this wall was, plus it was white,” she replied with a brilliant smile.

He sighed. “You can’t draw on the walls.”

“Can’t and shouldn’t are not the same things, Connor.”

“Exactly, so why would you draw on—”

“It’s art, the same thing you have all over the house, except on canvas.”