“That’s enough!” Too angry to see straight, I shove my door open and stumble to my feet, blind with heartache and wrath. The driver’s side door slams shut a second later, followed by heavy footfalls that chase me down the gravelly shoulder.
He grabs my arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away from you.”
“Get back in the damn car.”
“No!” I wrench my arm free and make it another three steps before he hauls me off my feet. “Put me down!” I scream, fighting against the arm holding me to his chest. As if I weigh no more than a sack of potatoes, he flings me over one shoulder and heads back to the car.
I dig my nails into his back, hoping I’m leaving another set of marks on his skin that have nothing to do with pleasure. I want to maim, want to tear him apart limb from limb for making me crazy. I’m still flailing when he drops me on my feet.
With lightning quick speed, he grabs me by the nape, fingers unforgiving in their harsh grip. The set of his jaw tells me he’s not messing around. “It’s my month, which means what I say goes.” He yanks me close, bringing our noses together. “And I say you’re going to get back into the goddamn car.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Don’t test me, princess.” He wrenches the door open, giving the passenger seat a pointed glare.
“What? You’ll punish me?” I lift my chin in quiet challenge. “You wouldn’t be the first, and I doubt you’ll be the last.”
“I will if I have to, but I won’t do it in private.” He smirks as two cars fly past. “I’ll bend you over the hood and spank you right here.”
“You were right,” I spat, wrenching free of his hold. “You can be an ass.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
We enter a stalemate for a full minute, the rush of vehicles stirring my hair as they speed down the highway. A horn blares. Sebastian’s stubborn stare never falters, same as his will. The open door at my side taunts me. Even if my feet wanted to take me away from him, I have nowhere else to go.
My only ally is the waiting passenger seat.
So I get in, adrenaline spiking through my limbs, and try not to cry—out of hurt or anger, I’m not sure. He pulls the seatbelt across my breastbone and fastens it, tugging until it lies tight over my lap. As he veers back, our eyes meet.
“The next time you decide to hit me,” he says, brushing a hand over the light pink marks on his cheek. “Make it hurt.” With a slam of the passenger side door, he shuts me inside the vehicle.
Chapter Ten
After we return to the tower, we settle into a synchronous routine that allows us to sharpen our avoidance skills. For the first couple of days, I’m too angry to clear the air, so I throw myself into work, using Landon and Elise’s upcoming wedding as an excuse to hide in my studio late into the evenings.
On our first night back, when I return to the House of Leo, having already eaten dinner while pouring over a new batch of designs, Sebastian is nowhere in sight. He left me a note directing me to my room. The fact that it’s across from his quarters doesn’t escape me. I’ve never seen the inside of his bedroom, but he left the door ajar, and I spy the clothes he wore home from the cottage lying on the end of the bed.
The following morning, we exchange a curt and polite greeting over breakfast. Five minutes later, he grabs a croissant and makes his escape, mumbling something about a full schedule of clients. As he makes his way out the door, his signature ripped jeans send my fingers into a curl from wanting to touch him.
That’s when I realize my anger is subsiding, no matter how much I try to hold on to the bitter emotion. Now it’s pride stopping me from closing this horrible chasm. By the time the fifth night of this impasse comes to a head, and the painful silence over dinner shreds my defenses, his hurt-filled eyes flaying me alive, neither anger nor pride have any place inside my heart.
Not when it comes to him.
It’s almost midnight when I leave my quarters and find him barefoot, shirt removed and gripping a paintbrush in the living room. It’s the only space in the House of Leo where he seems to fit. His art covers the walls, and though there’s ample seating for entertaining guests, the great room resembles an art studio more than a main living space—almost as if he moved in and setup shop in this room while ignoring the rest.
Folding my arms, I watch him work for several moments before he senses me loitering on the threshold.
“You don’t have to hide in the shadows.” He acknowledges my presence without turning around, leaving me to wonder how he knew I was standing there.
Taking that first step toward him is like mounting a horse for the first time, or learning to drive. It’s scary and exhilarating all at once. I wander close enough to see what magic he’s stroking to life on his canvas, and my breath stalls.
The girl on his easel is me, her flushed face taking up most of the canvas, brown eyes warm with a glint of a smile even as they impart a lustful vibe. Her blond hair is mussed, the strands led astray by a man’s fingers holding her face in the cradle of his hands.
That girl isn’t just me—it’s me on the beach.
Me and him.
I’d give anything to go back to that moment, to how perfect things were between us for that single day. As he studies the painting, no doubt looking for imperfections, I eye him. One of us has to make the first move, but I’m not sure how to do it.
Things spiraled out of control so fast on that highway.
“Should I initial it, or should I just put Sexy As Sin on there?” The half grin he gives me weakens my knees.
It’s an olive branch, and I can’t help but smile back as my soul fills with hope. “Just your initials. That nickname isn’t for the public. It’s mine alone.”
He adds his initials with a scrawl of his brush before washing the tool in soapy water. He’s covered in paint, from a splotch of canary yellow on his cheek to the stains on his fingers. Waving toward his latest masterpiece, he asks, “You like it?”
“I love it.”
He hesitates for a moment. “I want to show you something.” His long stride carries him to a large painting in front of the wall of windows facing the sea. Whatever lay underneath that black sheet, it’s humongous, and it’s in the same spot it was two months ago when Landon brought me to the lion’s lair for the first time.
Sebastian shoots me an uncertain look as he fingers the edge of the sheet. “You’ll be the first to see this.” He tugs the covering off and reveals a wispy painting of my favorite place on the cliffs. A blonde stands on the edge, her flaxen hair caught in the wind as a white dress whirls around her ankles.
“It’s breathtaking.” I halt at his side, enraptured by the painting and the talent flowing through his blood.
“You’re easy to paint, Novalee. I could watch you all day.”
I think about all the times I escaped to that spot on the edge of the sea, needing to find a slice of solitude in a tower of demanding men. Knowing he was watching me, studying my private moments from the ninth floor, paintbrush in hand, should upset me. It would disturb me on a deep level if it were anyone else.
But Sebastian makes stalking a form of flattery. A work of art.