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Part of me wants to ask Della if she has it, but seeing the picture I was sketching on the day I perfumed will trigger memories I don’t want to remember. Maybe it’s best it’s gone forever.
Although Mom gives my sketchpad a long stare, she doesn’t ask to look inside.
“That’s a good one. The quality of the paper is excellent,” she says.
“It is,” I agree.
Trust Pack Ashe to buy me the best sketchpad I’ve ever had. The pages are smooth and silky, perfect for a pencil to glide over the surface.
Her eyes are openly curious. She wants to look but doesn’t want to ask.
I’ve already looked through her sketchpad—without her permission—so I flip open the front page and hope my drawing of Rune won’t cause her to have a panic attack.
I hold the book out to her, watching her reaction closely. “It’s not very good. I struggle with capturing movement, but I tried to…” My voice trails off because I can tell Mom isn’t listening.
She’s staring down at my sketch of Rune.
Mom has no reason to trust alphas, and here I am shoving a drawing of Rune right under her nose.
I’m scrambling to apologize when she puts her pad on the grass and reaches for mine. “You drew this?” she whispers.
I nod as I hand it over. “Eventually, I think I want to take lessons. Maybe a teacher can help me figure out…”
Again I stop talking because she’s no longer looking at the picture. Her eyes are on me. They’re glassy and I’d swear she’s getting ready to cry. “You never had lessons?”
I shake my head, willing her not to cry. If she cries, I’ll cry. And then we’ll spend the rest of the day crying over each other. “Just what I learned in a book.”
She swallows hard, and her hands tighten around my sketchpad sitting in her lap. “I’m not going to want to know the reason why, am I?”
I chew on my lower lip and shake my head. “Probably not.”
“But I think I’m going to need to,” she says softly. “Aren’t I?”
“Maybe one day,” I say, and before I can overwhelm her with things she doesn’t need to know, especially on her first day of freedom, I hastily add, “We’ve just found each other. So there’s no rush to share every bad thing that happened to us all at once, right?”
“Right.” She nods.
Her eyes return to the sketch I did of Rune in the kitchen. “I think you’re better than I was at your age. I had the benefit of art school. But this…” She waves at the sketchbook. “Raw talent. I can see where some technical skill could improve it, but it would take away from the life you’ve captured.”
She hands the pad back, not asking why I chose to sketch Rune.Thankfully. I’m not sure what I would tell her. Or how I would explain to her what he means to me in a way that won’t hurt her.
When she picks up her sketchpad and pencil, I realize maybe now is the perfect time to mention something I found in the office last night. Something courtesy of Rune, Kylian, and Cian.
“I found a folder in the office,” I say.
Mom sketches a tree and a squirrel with a deft, experienced hand. For a second, I just stare at her, amazed at her talent. “How did you do that with so few lines?”
She lifts her head, notices my wide-eyed stare, and offers me a small smile. “I’ll show you if you want.”
I almost take her up on the offer. “Maybe later.”
Nodding, she returns to her sketch and I continue to watch her, absorbing her quick motions. “You were saying something about a folder in the office,” she prompts.
I hesitate, wishing I’d taken more time to think about how to word this.
When I don’t immediately respond, Mom lifts her head. “Everleigh?”
I clear my throat. “It had the name and contact details of a therapist. For trauma.” Mom’s face is blank. “It said she was the best in the country and…”
