2. Every Painting is a Portrait #2
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there’s something called the internet.”
“Hm.”
“What does hm mean?”
Leviathan inclined his head toward him. “ Hm means hm . I was simply acknowledging that I’d heard you.”
“Okay, because it sounded like something someone would say if they didn’t know what the internet is.”
Leviathan laughed. “Your sarcasm is delightful.”
A gust of wind slipped under Asher’s jacket, sending a shiver down his spine.
“Take my coat,” Lev said. “I run hot.”
Asher eyed the lined olive coat. It probably smelled like him. The idea of wrapping himself in the ghost of Lev’s body heat was difficult to resist, but the last thing he needed was to accidentally pop a hard-on for Lev’s jacket.
“I’m not cold.”
Leviathan’s eyes narrowed. “If you aren’t cold, then why are you shivering? Unless… Are you scared? They’re only stories. I think.” He bent his lips to Asher’s ear and stage wh ispered behind his hand. “I’m approximately forty-eight percent certain I don’t believe in ghosts either.”
Asher laughed. He couldn’t help it. “The only thing scary is that you noticed me shivering in near darkness.”
“Observation skills are a must for any artist. Lesson number two, Mr. Blakely.”
The path curved.
“We’re by the cliffs now. Let’s switch sides,” Leviathan said, then, like a total fucking gentleman, guided him away from the ledge with a light hand pressed between his shoulder blades.
Asher was in trouble. Sure, he’d nursed a nerdy crush on Leviathan, but he hadn’t expected to be so smitten with him in person.
Was their chemistry real or imagined? Not that it mattered.
Even if Asher had a chance, which he didn’t, he refused to be chewed up and spat out like gristle by a man fifteen years older than him. Not again.
Leviathan drifted nearer, like the tide chasing the moon. Asher tripped on the lip of a buckled brick and lurched forward. Great. He was going to fall on his face in front of Leviathan Marks.
Except he didn’t.
Leviathan reacted faster than gravity and yanked him back. “Alright there, Blakely?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
It was a wonder Asher could talk at all because Leviathan’s hand was still on his shoulder, thumb sweeping back and forth in a soothing rhythm.
Asher looked down at his freckled hand and back up, a mouse caught in a snare.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” Leviathan asked, lifting his hand. “My mum always said I was like a Great Dane, clumsy and overexcitable, unaware of my strength. You look a wee bit like a gale would knock you over. ”
Asher scowled. He wasn’t skinny. Leviathan was built like a giant who bench-pressed tree trunks, and the only thing Asher lifted was his paintbrush.
His snarky response fell from his head as the castle materialized the same way Leviathan had, like the fog had taken shape, coalescing into a limestone fortress whittled by wind and stained with algae.
Sepia light made murky by fog glowed anemically from the lower windows. The upper floors were dark, save for a few lit windows carving the face of a jack-o’-lantern.
A riot of red and orange ivy climbed the eastern facade, gargoyles peeking from the foliage like phantoms. Laughter and music curled out, whispering come hither.
“Welcome to Lichenmoor.” Leviathan led him up the grand front steps, and opened a massive iron door. “After you.”
A glittering chandelier illuminated a double staircase. Framed art—most of it Lucian’s—hung on a grid of walnut wainscoting. The metallic screech of Leviathan sliding an iron drawbar over the door grated against Asher’s frayed nerves.
“Sorry. Most of the doors and locks protest. It’s all the salt and mist in the air. Stay here long enough, and you’ll learn Lichenmoor’s language. She’s always talking.”
“She?”
“Whomever. I’ve always felt a maternal stewardship, but perhaps that’s Luna.”
Asher opened his mouth to ask who Luna was, but then Leviathan removed his parka. The knitted cables of his sweater strained over stocky shoulders and a well-muscled chest. If he looked that good in thick wool, what did he look like underneath?
Leviathan flung his parka onto a coat rack. “May I take your jacket?”
“Oh, sure.”
Asher unzipped his jacket, but before he could slip out of it, Leviathan’s fingers dipped inside the collar at the back of his neck and slid it down and off.
“Thank you,” Asher said, mouth dry. Leviathan Marks had undressed him. Sort of.
Leviathan smiled and hung Asher’s thrift store jacket on the rung below his own. If Asher was lucky, the spicy jasmine in Leviathan’s cologne would settle in the fibers of his own jacket.
“Who’s Luna?” Asher asked.
“She’s been with my family for ages, and has mothered me longer than my mum, truth be told.”
“Been with your family?”
Leviathan laughed. “Sorry. She started as my child minder and served as head of house. Now she’s my only family.”
Asher didn’t know what to say. Poor Leviathan.
Loud voices and laughter called down a wide hall on the left.
“It sounds like the others have continued drinking in my absence. Care to join them?”
That sounded like a nightmare. “It’s been a long day.”
“Are you a teetotaler?”
“Would it be a problem if I were?”
“Of course not. Teetotaler is a seldom used word, and I don’t want it to go extinct.” He shielded his mouth with his hand. “I’m so relieved you didn’t think I was talking about golf.”
Condescending snobbery shouldn’t have been so charming.
“Come, Blakely,” Leviathan said, and started up the grand staircase with Asher’s duffel.
Pheromones. That had to be it. Only a chemical reaction could explain why two words and Leviathan’s ass filling out his slacks sent Asher’s blood southward.
He steered his eyes away from Leviathan to the gothic majesty surrounding him.
Thorny rose vines lined the carpet runner.
A large stained glass window overlooked each landing they passed, depicting an emerald dragon and a griffin fighting over a bouquet of thistle.
The battle progressed as they ascended, and by the time they exited the stairwell, Asher was out of breath, and the dragon was winning.
“It’s a bit of a climb, I’m afraid,” Leviathan said without a hint of strain. He slowed his pace to match Asher’s as they walked down a wide hallway with stained glass on one side, and tapestry-lined walls on the other.
They passed five doors, each with a tarnished brass lock depicting a figure from Greek Mythology, before Leviathan slowed in front of Poseidon’s door.
“That’s my room.” Leviathan stopped in front of the next door. “And this room is yours.”
They’d share a wall.
Medusa watched over Asher’s lock, crown of coiled snakes so alive he had the absurd impulse to close his eyes.
Leviathan plunged an old key into her mouth and opened the door with an eerie shriek. “After you.”
The bedroom wasn’t the dreary tomb of stone and dark wood he’d expected. Periwinkle curtains framed large leaded windows. Pale oak floorboards and carved wood paneling brightened the space. A matching four-poster bed leaned against the tapestry-lined wall separating their rooms.
Was Leviathan’s bed on the other side?
“Are the accommodations to your liking?” Leviathan asked from the doorway.
Asher turned. “I’d sleep anywhere in the castle for the opportunity to learn from you, but this room is so beautiful I want to paint it.”
Leviathan said nothing at first, appraising Asher until his cheeks turned warm, then responded with a total anticlimax. “Lichenmoor Hall is not a castle. It’s an estate.”
“If it has turrets and more than one suit of armor, it’s a castle. ”
Asher knew it technically wasn’t a castle. With all the research he’d done on Lichenmoor, he could give a docent tour. But Lichenmoor Hall was too much of a mouthful to say and too sprawling to call a home or a manor.
“Americans, always so intent on being willfully ignorant.” Leviathan pushed off the doorframe and handed him the key.
Their fingers grazed. Static sparked.
“Sorry,” they both said.
Leviathan cleared his throat. “You must be knackered. You’ll find water and snacks in that basket.” He tipped his head toward a small table by the lit limestone fireplace. “I should nip back down to check the others haven’t destroyed anything.”
“This is perfect. Thanks, Leviathan.”
“Please call me Lev. If I’d had any choice in the matter, I would have picked something more sensible.”
So, Lev hadn’t been trying to be flirtatious or force familiarity when he’d asked Asher to call him Lev earlier.
“Lev,” Asher said, testing the word on his tongue.
“Good lad.”
Fuck.