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My hand was still shaky in his when he pulled me inside. The only reason I hadn’t burst into tears in the den was because this wasn’t about me. Luca had been hurt. I was the wielder of the weapon that had injured him. It wasn’t his job to comfort me when I was in the wrong.
Suck it up, buttercup.
Luca was being sweeter than I deserved, but who was I to tell him he couldn’t be?
“I made you something,” he said.
“What? You did?”
“Yes. It started with the sketch I couldn’t get right.”
“The sketch of me,” I murmured.
“Mmhmm. Then capturing you became something of an obsession.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him he’d captured me months ago. That I was his and had no intention of escaping my binds anytime soon.
But of course, that wasn’t what he’d meant.
His hand was warm around mine as he pulled me deeper into the studio. “Then I realized my pretty girl can’t be captured. When I stopped trying to confine you to one thing, I was unblocked. And…well, you’ll see.”
The walls had been covered in paint splatters and dents but otherwise bare. Now, they were home to drawings, paintings, and chrome-dipped sculptures.
First, I went to my shining silver profile. It was hollow and one-sided, allowing it to be hung from the wall. There was a flower tucked over my ear, and my hair was whirling swirls of metal cascading behind me. My chin was tipped up, and my mouth was stretched into a wide smile.
Luca stood behind me, clutching my hips. His fingers latched around my bones, attaching himself to me like a snapped button.
“You have questions?” he asked softly.
I nodded, but nothing came out, which made him chuckle and hold me a little tighter. But dear god, his gravity was the only thing keeping my feet on the ground. I needed his tether, or the lightness in my bones would betray me.
We moved together to the next piece, which was a pencil sketch of the same pose. Profile, hair blowing, smile. I reached out to touch it but stopped myself. When I dropped my hand, Luca picked it up and placed my fingertips on the paper.
“It’s from a picture the judge took,” he murmured beside my ear.
“The pictures you’ve kept from me since that day.”
“I didn’t know you wanted them.”
I turned my head, glimpsing at him over my shoulder. “I do.”
He hummed. “Now I don’t know if I want to share them.”
I leaned my back against his chest and tipped my face to the side to kiss his jaw. “Send them to me when you want me to have them.”
We slid over to the watercolor painting. I was reading in this one. My legs hung over the side of the couch, one finger twirling the end of a lock of hair. This must have been based on one of the many evenings I’d spent with him in the studio.
My heart stretched my chest, making it feel tight and overstuffed. My tongue was too big for my mouth, and my brain had shrunk to the size of a pea. I couldn’t form words, much less get them out.
Luca shifted me to the next sketch, then the next. There were at least ten pencil or charcoal sketches of me reading in various poses. Always relaxed and serene. Was that really what my face looked like or how Luca saw me?
I thought back to the nights we’d spent here when he’d finally let me into his private world. Something had settled in me. An anxiousness I’d been battling. Luca had noticed it and immortalized that feeling on paper.
The last thing hanging on the wall was a chrome-dipped sculpture of two hands. I recognized our rings. These were our hands.
“I took that from one of the pictures too. I liked the dichotomy of your fine bones and my—”
I spun around and crashed my mouth against his. His response was immediate, taking me in his arms and kissing me back with soul-melting fervor.
