Chapter 12
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I am but a spoiled seamstress mouse.
Maelin
Zakery’s been somewhat dazed ever since this morning, in the hall. I can’t say I am not also somewhat dazed, and skeptical, and hesitant, and staring at furniture that—singularly—costs as much as I spent yesterday, while he says, Oh, yeah, sure, get whatever you want, Maelin.
I keep waiting for the part where he tells me now that he’s “done all this for me,” he expects something more than me sitting around or making him clothes.
Making him clothes doesn’t even feel like a way to pay him back, honestly.
An excuse to make pretty outfits? To figure out how to do pants ? That’s a dream come true. I’ll be cussing, but I’ll be happy. Just like him, when he’s drawing.
Cool smile on his face and his hands in his pockets, he meanders after me through the furniture store while I look at shelves and storage and desks and armoires and crafting cabinets . Seeing the crafting cabinets made me drool. Then I saw the price. Three thousand dollars.
Three. Thousand.
Three weeks of allowance.
Because of how I behaved when I went over my budget on Saturday—or so he informed me earlier when I asked what my budget was today—I no longer have a budget. I am to get what I need . Point blank.
I do not need a crafting cabinet.
(Unless…?)
No. No. I do not . I can get a desk and shelves for a fraction of the cost. Who cares that the crafting cabinet opens up around the desk inside it, putting the person sitting at the desk in a little fantasy world of pretty things?
I don’t need it.
And I’m being very indecisive, wasting his time, causing trouble for him.
I need to pull myself together, pick some furniture, and stop being so wishy-washy because the idea of spending so much money gives me hives.
If I wasn’t going to accept his offer to furnish a studio for me in his mansion, I shouldn’t have let him drive us out to the furniture store. Period. I should have said, I’m sorry. That makes me uncomfortable. I’d prefer if we not do that.
Boundaries. After what Zakery told me about how he defines love …I’m pretty sure he’s fabulous with boundaries. I just need to, you know, make them .
Glancing back at him, in an effort to gauge his mood, I find him several yards away, still, staring at a beautiful bed display draped in elegant lace. Gentle smile forgotten, he blinks. He approaches the bed set, runs his fingers along the carved footboard, calls, “Maelin.”
My heart jumps as I force myself to his side. “Yes?”
“Should you get a bed for your studio?”
My stomach drops.
There it is.
A bed .
The gateway furniture to how he expects me to pay for his kindnesses. Except, he did say if he were interested in all that , he would just ask . It’s clear his parents did a number on him, and he says they were manipulators. Do I trust the thread of restrained loathing in his voice, or genetics ?
After Harry, I’m hesitant to ever trust a man again.
Even if that man has grand, impossible definitions of love and wraps me sweetly in his arms to whisper, beg, plead with me to value myself as though I am deserving of every impossible thing.
Innocently attentive, he murmurs down at the bedroom set, “You might get sleepy while you’re working…or want to play in your studio later than your sister works.” His hand dives into his hair, and he scratches his head as his brows knit. “Should I just get you your own car or… Both? What if you’re too tired to drive? I know how creative projects can be sometimes. You wake up from the trance, and it’s three in the morning. You shouldn’t be driving at three in the morning.”
His eyes close while he ponders, and my heart beats against my ribs.
Now he’s thinking about buying me a car ?
Where does this generosity end?
Why me ?
Why is he seeing fit to spoil a clumsy, jabbering lunatic he met in a fursuit?
Sitting around and making him clothes is not an equivalent exchange.
His shoulders droop, and he peers at me, gaze intense, burrowing. A smile graces his lips—wickedly—as he rocks his head back and takes me in. “Then again,” he purrs, “ if I don’t get you a bed, and you stay over one night, we can share mine.”
Ah hah! I knew it. “Sir, I would never do such a thing. You put the thought from your mind.” Oddly, concern is not at all reaching me. Even though it should . Harry gave me enough trauma in this regard to make me terrified of casual comments like this for life.
Except, of course, Zakery doesn’t press the joke. Not even for a moment.
Instead, his lip juts in a harmless pout. After an instant, the expression vanishes, and I suspect that someone has approached, but we’re still alone in the mock bedroom. A gleam lights fire in his eyes. “I just had a thought.”
“A terrible thought?” I query.
His head shakes. “No, no. A brilliant thought. You know those robes.” He motions with his hands. “They’re sheer, and large, and often lined with some kind of faux fur?”
“Um. Yes?”
“Can you make one of those?”
“You want a luxury, fur-hemmed robe?”
“Yes. For you. In pink.”
I peer at him. “Why…?”
He cups his hand to his mouth. “I just had this image of you, against dark bedding, wearing one of those robes, the sheer fabric spilling everywhere like water, your eyes half-lidded and unfocused, your fingers in your hair…” He swears, unseeing. “It’s so beautiful. It’s the kind of image that belongs painted, on canvas, with oils and brushes, so you feel the texture.” His head shakes some more. “No, no . I could never hope to do such a thing justice. But…”
It is almost, quite entirely, as though he doesn’t understand the scandalous nature of what he’s just described. At all.
Silent, I watch his mind race, what if s bombarded by no, no . I watch pain gleam and his brows knit as—in barely a few short minutes—he talks himself out of the idea. “I just couldn’t hope to capture the angelic nature. There’s no way. And without an undo button no less?” He mutters, “What am I on today?”
I am certain I have no idea.
But.
I do know one thing.
Whatever he’s on, it’s not the kind of drug Harry seemed to be taking when he cast me aside.
I say, “I can make a robe like that, if you want to try. It doesn’t need to be oil paints and canvas. It can just be your LeoPad.”
His attention hits me. “You…think I could manage such an astounding feat?”
If I can manage working with all that sheer fabric, yeah. He can totally do this. “I think your art is incredible, and you are more than able to capture my likeness accurately. You…actually make me look more beautiful than I feel.”
“Poppycock.”
I blink. Poppy what now? Who actually says that?
He lifts a finger. “I’ll not allow those insults, you know. I’ve told you before.”
I fold my arms. “How come I can’t say anything negative about myself, but you can undermine your skills all the time?”
His mouth opens. His gaze drifts. His finger curls. “That…is an excellent point.”
I smile.
“It must be because you’re a goddess, and I’m merely of mortal flesh.”
I frown.
He reaches for my chin. “Oh…that’s quite fun. I haven’t yet painted you with a frown. I really should include a range of emotion in my character sketches. That’s common sense, I fear.”
I can’t hold the frown. I laugh. “Yes, I think it really is.”
He smiles, tapping my lips with his finger before pulling away. “Truly. Where has my mind been?”
Picturing me on beds in sheer gowns, clearly.
But.
I’m not going to tell him that.
Or think about how I accepted to do it when I could have been free after he shot himself down.
Facing the bed set again, he says, “I think a bed would be a good idea. I want to make sure you’re sleeping enough, and I know you won’t be able to do laundry overnight if you’re safe and sound in your little studio bed. Do you want a car as well, for the freedom of choice? Or would you prefer I take you home at your request?”
I do think I’d prefer he not buy me a car on top of everything else. “You can take me home, if it’s not that much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I enjoy the way the street lights bathe you in the evening. Surely soon it shall inspire a new realm of dreams. Have you decided how you’d like to furnish your room yet?”
“Um.” My mind and head drift in the direction of the crafting cabinet. So many shelves. So many drawers. “Are you sure I don’t have a budget?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’re positive you want to do this? I can make you clothes in my bedroom. You’ve paid for the materials anyway, so it’s only right.”
“I am quite positive. Once we’re done here, we can look at paint and flooring, which we perhaps should have done first.” Sighing, he rubs his temple. “I don’t know where my mind is today.”
“I…like the black.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I do. It doesn’t hurt my eyes or reflect the light in weird ways. I can control it better. Pink also goes well with black, so it’s perfect.”
“Well. I suppose it was good we came here first, then. I guess from here, we’ll head to the mattress store, then a home goods store for bedding. I’ll have to look up where those are.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “If you can’t make a decision without a budget, princess, consider your budget five hundred thousand dollars.”
I choke.
“And, also—” He lifts his gaze off his phone screen. “—you’re getting the crafting cabinet. I don’t care that it’s three thousand dollars. The joyful, delirious sparkle it brought to your eyes when you saw it is worth at least ten. If you try to fool me at this point in favor of getting other things that are functionally identical, yet cheaper, I will take great offense. Understood?”
“U…understood.”
He smiles, returns his gaze to his phone, and seems entirely oblivious to the odd sensation he elicits in my chest…