26. The Huntress and the Trap #2
Mostly Ben. He nibbled his lip and shook his head, erasing the image of perfectly tousled brown hair graying at the temples.
“I hadn’t realized you went to art school,” Lev said slowly, adding the mushrooms next.
“I never finished. It’s not a secret, but it’s not something I’m proud of.”
“Did you leave by choice?”
“Yes… No.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”
“Was it Ben?”
Asher’s stomach sank. “So you do know who he is?”
“No.” Lev slid the peppers and mushrooms onto a plate, then cracked the first egg with one hand, dropping it into the sizzling pan. “You mentioned him, and gatekeeping men, and I made an educated guess.”
“Ben was my professor.”
“I see.” After cracking the next egg, he added a dash of milk and whisked the mixture with more violence than necessary. “Let me guess, he lured you into his bed and broke your heart when you wanted more?”
“Something like that.” And a hell of a lot more that Asher didn’t want to think about. “Did that happen to you too? ”
“No.” Lev returned the vegetables to the pan and tucked them in with a fold of the omelet. “But I’ve met my fair share of predatory art professors.” He sprinkled a handful of cheese and slid the omelet onto the plate. “Voila.”
“Thanks.” Asher crammed a huge piece into his mouth with his fork.
“No thanks necessary. It pleases me to see you eat.” Lev leaned against the butcher block and knit his fingers together, watching him quietly.
Rain battered the window over the kitchen sink, but this time the storm was cozy instead of frightening. A few minutes and half an omelet later, lightning flashed, casting the contours of Lev’s face in shadow. Thunder boomed. They listened to the storm draw nearer as he ate.
“How is your stomach now? More settled?” Lev asked when Asher had nearly finished.
Asher wiped his mouth with a napkin and nodded.
“Good. I want you to sleep with me.”
Asher nearly choked on his last bite of omelet. “What?”
Crow’s feet winked at the corners of Lev’s eyes.
“Blakely, not everything is about sex.” He sobered.
“I’ll sleep better knowing you’re safe. I know I didn’t show it well, but I was terrified when I thought I’d lost you on the moor with high tide and a storm approaching.
I’m still afraid I’ll wake and find your bed empty. ”
How could Asher say no?
Lev’s room was brighter than Asher’s, even in the dark.
The tapestry lining Lev’s walls told Medusa’s story from Poseidon’s point of view in gold and seafoam thread.
Instead of the oak four-poster bed in Asher’s room, Lev’s bed was golden walnut carved with subtle ocean waves that turned the wood into water.
The wingback chair beside the fireplace was more substantial than the antique chairs strewn around the castle. A slanted architect’s desk overlooked a row of arched windows.
Crumpled paper littered the floor, including more than one map of Lichenmoor that must not have made the cut. Asher smiled at how much thought Lev had put into helping him navigate the grounds.
Colored pencils on a wooden tray sat beside a large sketchbook lying open on the desk. Asher crossed to the sketchbook as if drawn by a spell.
“Can I look?”
“Please.”
Asher drifted closer, fully expecting Lev to rush past him and slam the book shut. It’s what Asher would have done. Instead, Lev wrapped his arms around Asher’s waist from behind, all solid warmth against his back, and rested his chin on his shoulder.
On the open page, Lev had drawn a side profile of Asher painting, a rough sketch, but for an artist as talented as Lev, it was so polished and alive it might as well have been complete.
“You drew me?” Asher asked.
“I love watching you paint. The way your tongue darts out when you’re concentrating.” He kissed Asher’s neck, igniting goosebumps. “The most adorable wrinkle forms between your eyebrows when you’re debating what to do next.
“Your lips part and your body stills, except for your brush, when you’re in that place all artists go, where everything else ceases to exist except for your canvas.
” Another kiss, this one below his ear. “I could watch you paint for hours, and never tire of it.” Lev tightened his hold around Asher’s waist.
“I know what you mean,” Asher said.
Witnessing Lev paint was the only time Asher sensed even a fragment of vulnerability, at least until today. Over the years, Asher had consumed every video of Lev painting that he could find until Lev’s mannerisms and diction were almost as familiar as if they’d been friends for years.
Asher slipped his finger under the previous page and paused.
“Go ahead. Have a look.”
Lev had sketched them in the chapel, the perspective of Lev on his knees looking up Asher’s body, the ouroboros tattoo in focus, the other tattoos forgotten.
In another sketch, Asher was on his knees looking through the keyhole in the east wing.
The next page was from the tower. Back and back Asher went until the first evening they met.
Lev had sketched Asher lost in the fog. The page before that was Silas, as good a stopping point as any.
“Have you ever given thought to how art breeds intimacy?” Lev said, crowding him against the desk, pressing them together.
“A true artist slits their wrists and bleeds paint onto the page. Oscar Wilde said something similar, and a little less macabre. Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter .”
Lev nuzzled the back of Asher’s hair, inhaling deeply. “That’s far more intimate than dating.” He flipped forward to the scene in the tower. “That’s what I was trying to explain that night. Falling in love through a painting.”
Asher nodded, too moved to speak. Lev had put into words the strange connection he’d experienced long before they’d met, the reason Asher felt like he knew him already, the reason he could read Lev so well.
Lev closed the book. “I can’t wait to draw the rest of you. I want you to see all of me.”
“I could make a Titanic joke, but I won’t.”
Lev’s bark of laughter rumbled in Asher’s chest. Earning Lev’s laughter was almost as satisfying as earning his praise.
“It’s late.” Lev pulled him back from the desk.
They brushed their teeth side by side at the sink. Lev insisted Asher wear his flannel pajama bottoms to bed, and climbed in behind him, large hands pulling him into the little spoon position. It was all so surreal.
Asher scooted back, nestling his ass against Lev’s cock.
“Behave, Blakely.”
“I’m just getting comfortable.”
“Right.” Lev rolled his hips. “I’m just getting comfortable too.”
“Don’t start things if you aren’t going to finish them.”
“Hush.” Lev kissed the crown of Asher’s head.
The storm waxed into a steady rain, but beneath the percussive symphony, the crash of waves crept closer.
“The ocean is so loud,” Asher said.
Lev squeezed him. “Fret not. Lichenmoor has stood here for centuries, and it’s never flooded above the dungeons. You’re safe with me.”
The waves crashed louder and louder until sleep finally took him with a single thought—the ocean was the huntress, and Lichenmoor the trap.