Chapter 14
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Everything comes at a cost.
Maelin
This bed…
Lying sprawled across my pretty black bedding in my pretty, furnished, and filled studio, I stare up at the dark ceiling, watch the blades of the oil-slick fan above me go round and round.
This bed was a beautiful decision. A truly, truly wonderful and amazing decision.
I’ve never had a new bed before, a new mattress, something soft and stable, without any indents or springs poking through. I could close my eyes and drift right into the darkness, little more than a single pearl blight in this dark room color splattered only by my sewing supplies.
This is divine…being surrounded by dark furniture, dark walls, dark floors and ceilings. All my fabrics, all my accessories, all my tools. With an empty closet full of hangers and a row of mannequins ready to bear my designs.
I can’t believe this is happening.
I can’t believe I could be lucky enough to have someone prepare all of this for me.
Something hurt inside my chest says I don’t deserve any of it, and something will happen to prove that pain right, but—so far—my lingering anxiety has yet to grasp reality. All the Bachelor brothers have been nothing but kind to Morana and me. Our lunch breaks with them are peaceful, warm, devoid of tension and formality. It’s safe here in ways that remind me of home, with Mom and Dad and Morana and I all tucked in around the fireplace in the winter, or planning beach trips in the summer, or raking leaf piles in the fall, or planting flowers in the spring.
This is normal.
This is family .
The Bachelor brothers feel like family.
“Don’t…move.”
My gaze shifts toward Zakery’s voice to find him lingering in the doorway, wide eyes pinned on me.
He swipes a hand down his face. “I leave you for two minutes, and you become art . Stay right there.”
I don’t think I could move if I wanted to. Probably because I don’t want to. I really, really don’t want to. This is the most comfortable bed I have ever touched, and after spending all afternoon moving all my sewing things in, I could fall asleep…right…now.
Zakery returns, LeoPad in one hand, his stool in the other. Planting the legs of his stool down feet from my bed, he begins to sketch, gaze intent on me while he mutters about the contrast and how beautiful .
I tilt my face toward him, and his breath catches.
I smile, and his strokes stutter.
“Thank you so much, Zakery, for… everything .” A week ago, I was in a fursuit, desperate to find something that made the lingering ache of rejection and whiplash go away. I was at my lowest. I was desperate, and pathetic, and dejected. Now, I am worth effort, time, adoration. “I can’t explain how much what you’ve done means to me.”
“What I’ve done?” he asks. “What have I done?”
I glance toward my sewing cabinet, the brand new sewing machine he bought since—according to him—someone as skilled as I am should never be far from her medium.
Harry hated whenever I’d talk about making clothes, whenever anyone would compliment me on my outfits. He was all too ready to remind me they were little more than old sheet sets or patched together bargain bin items from thrift stores. He said it was embarrassing. He told me it was nothing to brag about, and I was better off keeping it to myself.
In contrast, what has Zakery done?
He’s treated what I do like art.
He’s supported what I love.
He’s been kind .
“You’ve spent an egregious amount of money on me, for one thing.”
He waves me off and continues sketching. “Pocket change. Housing a little seamstress mouse who’s pretty and lets me paint her is well worth any expense.”
Right. He’s been so lax about everything, I forgot that there was a reason he set me up like this. I’m supposed to be making him clothes. “I can start on your suit for the ball as soon as I get your measurements. Should I plan outfits for your brothers as well?”
He scowls. “No. I don’t like the idea of that very much. If they wanted a seamstress mouse, they should have found one themselves.”
Should it concern me that he’s continuing to call me a seamstress mouse ?
Huffing, he glares at his tablet, then at me. “Why can’t I just…” His eye twitches. “I’m on the wrong layer.” A dry laugh worms its way out of him. “I think I’m going to go kill myself.” He stands. “Enjoy the studio, princess. If you’ll excuse me.”
I catch his sleeve, stopping him.
He casts a petulant look down at me. “Do let go. I’ve an appointment with a very tall building. Or, possibly, a cliff.”
“If you’re going to die anyway, can I see what you drew?”
Despondent, he sits. On the bed. Right there next to me. Very close, even.
Turning his LeoPad back on, he presents the sketch, and I sit up to get a better look at the wild strokes outlining the darkness surrounding me. He depicted me staring hauntingly at the camera, my eyes void of all details. The tails of my white hair cut recklessly through the dark.
It’s beautiful.
I’m beautiful.
“I really like the way I look in your eyes,” I murmur.
He faces me and freezes, nose inches away from mine. Breath leaves him. “I’m…glad you approve. It is, of course, far from worthy to bear your likeness…but…” His attention drops to my lips, holds, drags away. “But what can mere mortal hands truly expect to accomplish? Were the myths true, you’d be at risk of angering Aphrodite for existing, Maelin. And I, surely, would not have gone a day without incurring her wrath.”
There he goes again, with his myths and adulation. It’s nearly so common at this point I’m tempted to roll my eyes.
“Maelin.”
My heart thumps. “Yes?”
“I have an odd request.” He lowers his tablet, darkens the screen, and does not look at me.
“What is it?” I ask.
“May I kiss you?”