Page 148 of Bleed

My chin dips in a nod. “Completely normal.”

“Huh?” Her brows draw in, eyes narrowing.

“Your body is adjusting to the bond,” I explain. “You’ve undergone a substantial physiological change in a very short period of time. It may take some time for your system to reach equilibrium.”

“Great,” she snorts, bending over the island and propping her elbows against the granite.

The position causes the hem of her shirt to ride dangerously high over the backs of her inked thighs. I make a concerted effort to keep my attention on the wine, ultimately failing.

Beatrix presses her thighs together, shifting her weight slightly. “If it doesn’t level out soon, I doubt I’ll ever be able to sleep again,” she mumbles, staring into the decanter.

“If necessary, I’m more than willing to exhaust you every night.”

She looks up at me, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Promise?”

I give her a loaded look that conveys my dedication to the task, and she laughs, pushing upright and rounding the island.

She’s a few steps from me when she notices her sketchbook lying open on the counter. She abruptly slams to a stop, head whipping toward me.

“You didn’t look at that, did you?” she asks, her tone thick with accusation.

“I did.”

She stares at me, mouth dropping open as though I’ve just admitted to some egregious moral failing. “Eli!”

I frown. “What?”

She snatches up the sketchbook and snaps it closed against her chest. “This is private.”

My brow furrows. “Then why did you leave it there?”

“Because I didn’t think you’d go snooping through it,” she scoffs.

“Why don’t you want your art to be seen?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Your work is extraordinary, you should be showing it off.”

“Says the guy who keeps his Nobel Prize shut away in an upstairs office,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “And besides, I do show it off. All the time. My tattoos are literally walking around on people’s bodies.” She hugs the sketchbook tighter against herself. “But the stuff in here is different.”

“How?” I ask, not following.

“Because it’s just…” Her nose scrunches as she searches for the words. “These sketches are straight from my brain. I draw whatever I’m thinking about, whatever I’m feeling. It’s personal.”

Ah.

My gaze drops to the book clutched against her chest. “What didn’t you want me to see?”

A flush creeps into her cheeks. She says nothing, but she doesn’t need to– I already know precisely which pieces she’s referencing.

There were dozens of drawings inside that book. Some unfinished, little more than loose lines and shadows, while others were rendered in meticulous detail. Studies of hands, eyes, mouths, and faces.

My hands. My eyes. My mouth. My face.

One particularly detailed sketch of me in the lab was so precise I could identify the exact evening she must’ve drawn it from memory.

Satisfaction settles warmly in my chest.

“You scolded me for watching you,” I point out, unable to keep the smugness from my voice, "but it appears you’ve been doing the same thing.”

She gasps dramatically. “This is not the same.”