16. Lick the Plate Clean
LICK THE PLATE CLEAN
LEV
“ W ell, that was embarrassing,” Silas said.
Lev retrieved the torn pages from the floor.
“I didn’t realize we were grading them like children in primary school,” Silas continued.
“But if we are grading them, Asher deserves at least a B+. That was the best art I’ve seen at Lichenmoor in decades.
” He stroked his chin. “No. I think I’d bring him up to a solid A for sheer swagger on the exit.
Be careful, Levvy. Our Asher has sharp claws. ”
“Shut the fuck up,” Lev whispered under his breath. Louder for the others, who still looked on, he barked, “Back to work!”
Lev crumpled Asher’s painting into a ball and crossed to the fireplace.
“What are you—” Silas lunged.
Lev chucked the paper ball into the flames.
“No!” Silas dropped to his knees in front of the fire, fingers sifting through the flames without purchase. “No,” he said softly, shoulders slumping forward.
Silas looked up from his empty palms and glared at Lev with utmost loathing. It was a look that pointed fingers, a look that said Monster , a look that shouted, MURDERER !
It was the look Silas would have given Lev if he’d had the chance before he died.
Silas leapt from the hearth and ran at him with spider-like speed. “How could you?”
Lev moved around him.
“You need to go after him,” Silas said, reappearing in Lev’s path. “What if he leaves?”
“Then so be it.” Lev walked through him.
“But the tide will take him!”
“Sod the tide!”
“Lev, are you alright?” Melody asked, eyes round.
Damn and blast! How much of that had he said aloud? He needed to get out of there.
If the outside world knew he was losing it, bad actors would intervene under the guise of good intentions. They’d wrest Lichenmoor from him, auction off Father’s art, the art Lev had made of Silas, his priceless collection of Asher’s art.
How would he ever find Silas’s body if he was forced from Lichenmoor? The thought of leaving terrified him.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” Lev said and sped from the room.
“Good. You’ve seen reason.” Silas joined him, spindly legs matching his stride.
He hadn’t seen reason. Anger propelled him as he shoved the door open.
Curse that insufferable American for whatever hex he must have cast to captivate him and unearth all of his secrets with his maddening clairvoyance.
His shoes clicked like a typewriter in the hands of someone writing a manifesto as he stalked toward the archway where the floor met wild moor. The walls of Lichenmoor were closing in, the bars of his jail cell tightening around him.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Silas said.
“How would you know?”
“I see everything, Levvy. You know that. Now stop talking to me out in the open or people are going to think you’re insane.”
Lev skidded to a stop. “You’re making me look insane!”
“Me?” Silas laughed. “You’re doing it all by yourself.”
Lev fisted his fingers in his hair.
“You need to trust me,” Silas said with less venom. “There’s a reason we picked him.”
“No. I found him. I picked him. You’re not real.”
“He’s probably packing as we speak.”
“Good riddance.”
“You can’t be that thick. Given the state he’s in, I doubt he’d even think to check the tide clock. Our Asher has a terrible sense of direction.”
“Mine, not ours.”
“Even if he knows about those scars I gave you, which he doesn’t, do you want him to meet Father’s fate?”
The bastard had a point. High tide crept ever nearer, dragging a blanket of fog with it. Lev would sooner drown than let the sea swallow Asher.
Silas leaned against the wall and buffed his nails on his black shirt, a perfect picture of nonchalance. “He’s not religious, is he?”
The church! Of course. If Asher was following his map, he might still be there. The abandoned church was an excellent place for sulking. Lev knew so personally.
“I hate it there,” Silas said.
Yes, that was why Lev had suggested it as a route on Asher’s map. Even after all these years, Silas still refused to enter.
Lev turned around, passed the ballroom, and hung a left before breaking into a run. A few minutes later, he stopped in front of an inglenook seating area wedged into an arched alcove.
He plucked a weathered copy of The Brothers Karamazov from the bookcase beside the fireplace, unlatched the lock hidden behind it, and pulled the bookcase open.
“What are you going to do when you find him?” Silas asked.
Lev didn’t know. The urge to fight or fuck was all-consuming.
He shelved The Brothers Karamazov and shut the bookcase behind himself.
“You won’t break him,” Silas’s muffled voice called from the other side. “He’s strong. That’s why we picked him.”
Strong didn’t mean invincible.
Lev raced through the short passage, squeezed under the squat door in the priest’s quarters, and rushed out onto the dais. The chapel was empty.
He hurried down the center aisle, and stopped, spine sagging with relief. Asher lay on his back on a pew bench, eyes closed, hands folded over his chest like he was in a casket, beloved sketchbook rested beneath his joined hands like he’d wanted to be buried with it.
All the earlier flush had faded from his cheeks, the angry bend of his eyebrows smoothed out, his breathing slow and shallow. The poor lad must be knackered. The church was more nightmare fodder than a place to relax.
The urge to stroke Asher’s dark waves out of his face and press a kiss on his forehead was terrifyingly strong. Try as he might, he couldn’t erase the caregiving role he’d taken on with Silas. It reverberated throughout all his relationships.
He eyed the sketchbook. Had Asher added an entry that would explain what he knew about Lev’s scars and what he planned to do with the information?
No harm in taking one last look.
Holding his breath, he crept closer and reached for the topmost corner of the sketchbook. Asher tightened his grip. Hazel eyes blinked open .
“You’re not allowed to complain about my nose anymore,” Asher said.
Lev swallowed hard.
Asher’s voice, husky with sleep, sounded exactly as he’d imagined it last night. Throat all raw and swollen from swallowing Lev’s cock, voice worn out after Lev made him come over and over until it hurt. It was a voice only a lover would hear. Pillow talk.
“I don’t recall ever complaining about your nose,” Lev said.
Asher’s nose was perfect, masculine with a little pert he longed to kiss, not that he would ever tell him that.
“You said I was nosy,” Asher said, sitting up. “But you’re the one stealing my sketchbook.”
“Ah. That.” Lev sighed.
“You crossed a line,” Asher said flatly.
“I know, but I have a very hard time coloring inside the lines, and you simply draw so many of them.”
Asher’s eyes hardened. “Lucian might have spoiled you, but in the real world, you can’t have whatever you want.”
That rankled. Asher couldn’t possibly understand the expectation of perfection Lucian had demanded, or the creative punishments he’d crafted. Had Asher’s father ever forced him to paint his dead lover as punishment? Surely not.
“You aren’t in the real world. You’re at Lichenmoor.” Lev thrust his arms out. “Look around. You’re in my castle, and I am your lord.”
“It’s not a castle,” Asher said.
“Why are you so fucking contrary?”
“I don’t know,” Asher said between hastened breaths as he scrambled to his feet. “Maybe because you’re so fucking condescending.”
Lev scoffed. “I don’t condescend.”
Asher rolled his eyes. “ Okay .”
“Why are you here, Blakely?”
“I was lying in wait for would-be thieves.” Asher crossed his arms over his chest. “Where were you running off to? You weren’t chasing me again, were you?”
“Of course not.” Lev lifted his chin. “I had an urgent matter to attend to.”
“Bathroom emergency?” Asher stepped aside. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry, I forgot.” Asher mimicked quotation marks with his fingers and said, “A loo emergency.”
“What on earth are you going on about?”
“Your urgent matter to attend to. I assumed that was the snobby English term for it—that, or you’re full of shit.”
Lev’s nose wrinkled. “Crass jokes are beneath you, Blakely.”
“Oh my God! Talk like someone from this century.”
“I am. Read a book, and you’ll understand.” God, he loved fighting with the lad.
“Did they teach you that at Oxford? Talk down to the plebes when you want to win a fight. Confuse the commoners by talking like you have a thesaurus shoved up your ass. Or do you do it because you’re insecure? Want to know what I think?”
Lev lifted his eyes to the cathedral ceiling. “Please spare me.”
“I think you came to apologize, and now you’re too scared.”
“Whatever for? You’re the one who behaved like an insolent prat.”
“Me? You ripped my painting in half.”
“Please don’t tell me you wanted to take your picture home to hang on Mummy’s fridge? It’s a bit late for that.” Lev stroked his chin. “If you check the fireplace, you might find a handful of ashes for a souvenir.”
At first, Asher’s face fell like a child at Christmas who’d found nothing under the tree. Then, his eyes cycled through all five stages of grief, from na?ve denial to grim acceptance, before bouncing back to anger again.
“You burned my painting?”
“It wasn’t art!” Lev snapped.
Asher shook his head as if he could shake loose everything Lev had said before it took root and spread. “What a disappointment you turned out to be.”
Father would agree.
“You were a fool to put your faith in me,” Lev said.
“If only I’d known you were an old hack with an ego so fragile you can’t stand to be bested by me.” Unshed tears illuminated the gold flecks in Asher’s gaze like embers. “I want to know why. Why am I here? Why bring me to Lichenmoor only to destroy me?”
“Destroying you was never my intention. I…”
What could he tell him? The truth is, I’ve been obsessed with your art for years, but was too afraid to invite you until my dead ex-boyfriend pestered me into action, and now that you’re here, I don’t know what to do with you because I can’t have you, but I can’t not have you.