Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
OPHELIA
I’m still trying to catch my breath when I enter my bedroom. The stack of pancakes I loaded with sugar sits heavy on my stomach. But I have more important things to worry about than my waistline.
Like Atlas Demetriou.
This is how I wish you saw yourself. Powerful. Sexy. But also vulnerable.
I can’t get his words out of my head.
Powerful.
Sure.
But sexy?
No.
Vulnerable.
Hell, yes.
The night they moved into the house, Ares called me sexy before he violated me with my gun and almost made me come. They have to be fucking with my head, using my insecurities to mess with me.
I stare at the page in my trembling hand, memorizing every inch of my body.
It’s me, but… not me?
Atlas drew me like a pinup girl from the 40s, with my breasts stuffed into a corset, making my stomach appear slimmer because my breasts steal the show.
They’re pretty big, so that part is accurate.
And with them taking up so much space, paired with the high-waisted panties that partially cover my stomach, I look sexy.
I would cry if Atlas drew me with all my flab hanging out. Instead, these are happy tears.
This is how I wish you saw yourself.
Which means he sees me this way. Atlas thinks I’m powerful and sexy.
With my thighs spread, I lean forward in the picture, resting my hands on my knees. I look like someone else. Seeing my face staring back at me with a seductive smile is weird.
I love it.
This is the best present anyone has ever given me. So, I search the hallway closet for a picture frame. My mom kept a stash for all her portraits hanging on the walls. She loved art and was one of the state’s most prominent collectors before she passed.
I find a frame and run back to my room. Dad rarely comes here, so I don’t hide the picture and set it on the desk. A reminder that I am powerful and sexy. I smile so hard my cheeks hurt.
It’s perfect.
Now feeling foolish for leaving so abruptly, I head back downstairs. Atlas is still in the sitting room. He’s curled up on the couch by the window, with the sketchbook propped up on his thighs. His head is bent, those long, tattooed fingers gliding across the paper.
I could watch him all day.
He must hear my heels click on the tile because his head snaps at me. His black hair is messy, as if he’s been shoving his fingers through it.
“Thank you,” I say.
He doesn’t look like he’s going to respond.
Always studying me.
Watching me.
Sketching me.
“I shouldn’t have walked out on you.” I sit on the couch beside him. “I kind of panicked.” Feeling compelled to explain myself, I add, “I didn’t think anyone could ever see me the way you do.”
He pauses, then he slides his feet off the couch and scoots closer to me. “Which parts don’t you see?”
I shrug. “All of it, I guess. I’ve never felt…”
I can’t even bring myself to say the word aloud.
He raises one eyebrow, tapping the pencil on the paper. “Sexy?”
I bite my lip and nod.
“Watching you handle my brothers…” He shakes his head, a smile stretching the corners of his mouth. “Especially Ares? It’s hot.”
“What can I say? I’m a bitch,” I toss back to protect myself, one of the many lies I tell. “That doesn’t make me sexy.”
His brown eyes meet mine, and I feel so exposed when he looks at me. Like Atlas can see straight into my soul. “I only draw what I see.”
Be still, heart.
The vein in my neck throbs like it’s about to poke a hole through my skin. My ears are practically ringing from how hard my heart pounds.
“Do you want to review the marketing materials for Olympus?”
He nods and flips through his sketchbook, placing it on our thighs. With Atlas this close, I can feel his body heat. Smell the hint of citrus in his cologne. Our thighs nearly touch, and I suddenly get the urge to reach over and kiss him.
I don’t.
But I want to.
He’s given me the greatest gift of my life.
Confidence.
Atlas leans over, his fingers brushing each page as he flips them for me. I stare at the ink on his skin and take in his designs. Everything he creates is a work of art, even his tattoos.
I’m amazed at his talent. His sketches are so creative, every line and curve dripping with inspiration.
“Your work is incredible.” I smile, and his expression mirrors mine. “Have you ever thought about creating a comic book series? Or writing a graphic novel? These are seriously incredible.”
He shakes his head, and his dark hair drops in front of his eyes. His hair is the longest of his brothers and flops onto his forehead.
“You should think about it,” I tell him. “I bet you could make a lot of money telling stories with your art.”
He doesn’t answer me.
Just stares.
I can’t tell what he thinks when he looks at me this way. He inspects my face, searching for something I bet I don’t see. That’s his hidden talent. Atlas understands people and can draw out all of their flaws. But he’s also good at revealing what’s inside a person.
I like that he’s quiet because I can breathe around him. We don’t fill the void with awkward conversation, which is nice. I’m usually not a big talker.
I point at his designs and offer my opinions on the best ones for each club. My father owns dozens of nightclubs, strip clubs, and bars across Beacon Bay. All of them have a social media presence and have ongoing weekly promotions.
Monica would have handled this, but our marketing guru quit two weeks ago after one bouncer broke up with her, so I had to clean up the mess.
Atlas covers every aspect of our marketing. After I pick the designs, he reviews his plans to improve our social media presence. Then, we discuss the changes he thinks we should make to our websites. The list goes on until my head is spinning.
I glance at the black ink on Atlas’s forearms. “Do you draw your tattoos?”
Atlas nods. “I would never let someone ink me with their art. No artist with any self-respect would.”
“I’m guessing you’ve drawn Ares’s tattoos, too.” Settling into the cushion beside Atlas, I lower my guard and inch closer to him. “I noticed he has a lot of them. But Apollo doesn’t have any.”
“Because Apollo is too much of a prude. He thinks tattoos will make him look less like he went to Yale and more like a thug.”
“I’ve never gotten a tattoo,” I say in what I think sounds like a sultry tone. “But I’d get one if you drew it for me.”
“Yeah?” Atlas grins. “Your body is the perfect canvas for my art.”