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Chapter Eleven
Daphne
It’s not fair, how well it works. I should be able to think this clearly when I’m not painting. And when Emerson’s not touching me.
You shouldn’t have come back here.
No. What I should have done is been more prepared.
Emerson’s fingers push into me, and all the should-haves and he-can’t-mean-its fly out of my mind. They’re in a holding pattern on the canvas. I’m in his arms, where I belong.
It’s getting harder to paint. Significantly harder. I want to lose myself in being finger-fucked and then actually fucked and then I want to go to sleep in Emerson’s bed.
Want is different than need.
I pull the paintbrush away from the canvas. It’s a mess, but I’ve made some progress.
Emerson takes his hands away immediately. He’s been watching. Taking in every moment, every movement.
Well, he’s not the only one who can play games.
“I’m done painting like this.”
I put the brush on the easel and turn toward him, putting the palette down as I do. His blue-green eyes are bright with intensity and, yes, fear. He hides it with a blink. I can still feel his attention like a warm blanket, getting hotter with every second.
“You’re not done painting.”
“That’s not what I said. I’m done with that canvas. I want another one.”
No one in the world has ever watched me so carefully. “I have others.”
“Those aren’t the ones I want.”
There’s no need to rush. It’s hard to believe, even in my own head. The drive from Leo’s house was terrifying. Carter ran three red lights. What I have with Emerson is bigger than a single painting. It’s bigger than one statement he made when he was about to run for his life.
Slow down, Daphne.
I remember the first line of a book.
An old one, from when I was first learning to read. I can see my pointer finger on the page. Leo’s hand holding the book open on the top.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who always wore blue.
Emerson waits, watching.
I watch back. Look back. Before, I was only concerned with getting here in time to keep him alive. Convincing Leo to let me stay hasn’t made things any less complicated, though. There’s a strained energy in the room. An uncertainty. I don’t think Emerson expected to be alive right now. He’d played out another scenario in his mind. One where I wasn’t here, either.
It’s obvious as soon as the thought crosses my mind.
Emerson is as tall and strong and beautiful as he ever was. That doesn’t mean he’s okay. He’s not. He looks at me with concentration and intensity, but his eyes dart down and across my body. Behind me, to the rest of the room. The last time I saw him this tense was in the cave. I bet that lasted the whole time we were apart. It’s too much for anyone, but especially for Emerson. On top of that, he doesn’t think this is a scenario with a neat conclusion. A predictable one. A safe one.
He’s said what he can already. He’s thinking of an ending with the finality of death. He’s making plans for what will happen to me when we’re separated again.
I’m not going to let that happen. I don’t know how to explain it to him in a way that he’ll believe. I don’t know if either one of us is capable of trusting it, at least not tonight.
It’s never going to be simple with Emerson. Everyone in my family could accept him as mine without a fight, and he still might not believe it was right. It’s a conversation that could last months. Years. It’s an argument I’m willing to make forever.
Because Emerson’s not just right for me. He’s the only one.
