Chapter 4 #2
"This is..." He paused, searching for the word.
"Messy?" I offered bitterly. "Useless?"
"Visceral," he said.
He turned to look at me. His eyes weren't cold anymore. They were curious. Calculated.
"You drew this just now?"
"Yes," I whispered.
He looked at the other sketches on the wall. A study of a gargoyle screaming. A sketch of a dancer mid-fall.
"You're good," he said. It wasn't a compliment; it was a fact. Like stating the sky was grey. "You're exceptionally good."
The validation hit me harder than any insult could have. My knees went weak. I leaned back against the stone fountain for support.
"Don't tell him," I said, my voice cracking. "Please, Max. If he knows I'm spending time on this instead of studying Law, he'll burn it. He’s done it before. He burned my sketchbook when I was sixteen."
Max’s face darkened. A muscle in his jaw jumped.
"He burned it?"
"He said distractions were for people who didn't have a legacy to uphold," I said, wiping my dirty hands on my leggings. "So I became the brat. Because if I'm going to be a disappointment anyway, I might as well have fun doing it."
Max looked at me. Really looked at me. He looked past the brat, past the sequins, past the attitude. He saw the charcoal smudge on my cheek and the fear in my eyes.
He walked over to me.
I stiffened, expecting... I didn't know what.
He reached out. His hand—the same hand I had just drawn—came up to my face. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone, wiping away a smear of black dust.
His skin was rough, calloused from the stick and the gym. His touch was incredibly gentle.
"He's an idiot," Max said softly.
The air left my lungs. "What?"
"Your father," Max said, his thumb lingering on my skin. "He looks at a thoroughbred and sees a mule because he doesn't know how to ride."
I stared at him, my heart doing a traitorous flip. "Are you comparing me to a horse?"
"I'm comparing you to potential," Max corrected. He dropped his hand, but the heat of his touch remained. "You have talent, Imogen. Real talent. It’s... structural. It has weight."
He looked back at the drawing of the hand. He recognized it. He knew it was his hand. He knew it was the moment he had stopped Jinx.
"But you're failing History of Art," he said, the mask slipping back into place. "Which is ironic, considering you can create it."
"I hate the theory," I said weakly. "I just want to make it."
Max nodded slowly. He crossed his arms, the fabric of his hoodie stretching across his chest.
"Here is the deal," he said.
"A deal?"
"I need you to pass," he said. "You need to paint... or draw, or whatever this is. If you fail, I lose my scholarship. If you don't draw, you burn the city down out of boredom."
He stepped closer, closing the distance again.
"So, we trade."
"Trade what?" I asked.
"I will help you hide this," he gestured to the studio. "I will cover for you. I will tell your father you are at the library when you are here. I'll even model for you if you need anatomical references that aren't gargoyles."
My mouth went dry. Model for me. The images that flashed through my brain were strictly X-rated.
"And in exchange?" I squeaked.
"In exchange," Max said, his eyes hard, "you actually do the work for your degree. You let me tutor you. You follow the schedule. You get the B. And you stop acting like a spoiled child in public."
He held out his hand.
"Do we have an accord, Princess?"
I looked at his hand. I looked at his face.
For the first time, he wasn't just the Warden. He was a conspirator. He was offering me a lifeline. He was willing to lie to the man who held his future in his hands, just to let me have my charcoal.
I realized then that he was dangerous in a way I hadn't anticipated. He didn't just want to control my behavior. He wanted to understand my chaos.
And that was terrifying.
I reached out and took his hand. His grip was firm, warm, and engulfing.
"Deal," I whispered.
"Good," Max said. He didn't let go. He pulled me slightly closer, until I was forced to look up into his slate eyes.
"Now, pack up your things," he commanded softly. "You have charcoal on your face, and we have a conditioning session to get to. If you're going to be my secret burden, you're going to watch me work for it."
"Watch you work out?" I raised an eyebrow, trying to regain some footing. "Is that part of the punishment?"
Max’s lip curled. A smirk. A genuine, barely-there smirk.
"No, Imogen," he said, turning and walking toward the door. "That’s the reward."
I stood there for a second, clutching my charcoal, watching the muscles in his back shift as he walked away.
I was in so much trouble.
I shoved my supplies into my bag and ran to catch up.
The car ride to the rink was different.
The silence wasn't sharp anymore. It was... companionable. Max turned on the radio—classic rock, low volume.
I sat in the passenger seat, scrubbing at my face with a wet wipe he had produced from the glove compartment (because of course he had wet wipes).
"Why?" I asked quietly, looking out the window as the snow-covered town blurred past.
"Why what?"
"Why help me?" I turned to look at his profile. "You could just force me to study. You hold all the cards. Why let me have the art?"
Max kept his eyes on the road. His hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel.
"Because," he said, his voice low. "I know what it’s like to have to be perfect to survive. And I know what happens when you don't have a place to put the noise."
He glanced at me, his eyes softening for just a fraction of a second.
"Everyone needs a release, Imogen. Even you."
The word hung in the air. Release.
It was innocent. It was true. But coming from his mouth, in the quiet intimacy of the truck cab, it felt like a promise.
I looked down at my hands, still stained faintly grey with charcoal.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," he said, pulling into the rink parking lot. "Wait until you see the study guide I made for you."
He parked the truck and killed the engine.
"Let's go," he said. "I have pucks to stop, and you have flashcards to memorize."
We walked into the rink together. He didn't touch me. He didn't have to.
We had a secret now. And secrets were the strongest glue of all.