Page 76 of Possessive Ink

“We’ll need to expand it. You have more clothes than I do, and I barely have space for my things.”

“If you make this closet any larger, it basically becomes an apartment,” I scoff.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Princess,” he says, curling his arm around my waist and looking at our reflection in the mirror.

Just like yesterday, he’s in a perfectly fitted black button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. But on top he’s wearing a vest that clings to him like a second skin, and black suit pants that accentuate every one of his many, many muscles.

I swallow so thickly, I think it’s audible. But honestly, how the hell is a man who looks like Atticus interested in me?

“Did you make this dress?” he whispers against my ear, our gazes still locked in the mirror.

I shake my head. “I designed it and made the pattern, but I had a seamstress make it because I didn’t want to mess up the stitching on the corset,” I tell him, running my hands over the perfectly flat boning.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. So do you,” I tell him, then immediately feel stupid, because who tells a man that they look beautiful?

“We look beautiful together,” he says, either not noticing or not caring about my stupid comment. But he’s right. Despite our differences, we do look good together. My white, princessy innocence is such a contrast to his dark, dangerous vibe, but it works. We work.

Tilting my head to the side a little, Atticus curls his finger beneath the gold collar at my neck and presses a hot kiss against the pulse point in my throat. I’m still not sure that I’ve processed the real significance of the collar, or if his dominant nature will ultimately become an issue. But right now, it feels right to believe his words and that he doesn’t want or need me to be anything but me.

“Let’s go and make breakfast. Their flight just landed, so they’ll be here in about an hour.”

When we get into the kitchen, I set to work making blueberry cinnamon sheet pan pancakes, while Atticus heads down to the studio to let Felix know that his friends are going to be here soon.

Last night, Felix only came upstairs long enough to have dinner with us and Marcus before he disappeared back downstairs to keep working. I’ve never met an artist before, but right now, Felix seems to be hyperfixated on his work. Only neither Atticus nor Marcus seems to be concerned with how many hours he’s spending in his studio, so perhaps this is normal for him.

The pancake batter is done, and I’m pouring it into the sheet pan by the time Atticus comes back upstairs. “I’ve asked Marcus if he’d mind going to get some croissants from Tori’s store for us, and while he’s gone, I’ll cook some bacon and sausage. Would you mind cutting some fruit for a platter?” Atticus asks.

Working beside him in his kitchen is easy, like we’ve been cooking breakfast together all our lives and not like this is the first time we’ve done it.

“I’m pretty sure this is more than just some croissants,” Marcus says as he pushes through the loft door carrying an enormous cake box.

Chuckling softly, Atticus nods, then steps forward to take the box from Marcus, placing it on the large dining table and opening the lid. Inside are several huge, flaky croissants as well as other delicious-looking pastries and some of the macarons Felix ate out of the box Atticus picked up from his sister’s store on Thursday.

“She always does this,” Atticus says, smiling indulgently as he pulls a platter from a cabinet and artfully places the baked goods onto it.

When the timer dings, I open the oven and pull out the pan of baked pancakes, slicing them into squares before I set the whole pan aside to cool a little.

“Oh, that looks good. Are those pancakes?” Marcus asks, peering into the pan.

“Yes, cinnamon and blueberry sheet pan pancakes. They’re my favorite, but I haven’t had a chance to make them in a while,” I tell him, remembering the one and only time I cooked them at home. Avery had lost her mind at the scent of the cinnamon and the mixing bowl and pan being set on the side while I loaded the dishwasher.

In the end, she’d made me feel so uncomfortable that I’d put all the slices into a Tupperware and frozen them without even serving myself a hot portion. Every time I’d tried to reheat them, she’d complained about the smell for days, so I’d ended up throwing the remaining batch away to avoid the conflict.

“I’ll grab the maple syrup,” Atticus says, running his fingers over my arm as he places a platter of bacon and sausage links on the table.

“Shall I make some eggs?” I ask him.

“That’d be great.”

Nodding, I open the refrigerator and pull out the container of eggs and the carton of milk. Turning back to the counter, I scan the kitchen, wondering where a mixing bowl might be.

“In here,” Marcus says a little sheepishly, opening a cabinet and handing me a large glass mixing bowl.

“Thank you. I’m barely ever allowed in the kitchen at my place. It’s nice to have a chance to cook, but I have no idea where Atticus and Felix keep things,” I tell him.

“Is your roommate a great cook?” Marcus asks.