Julian
Sleep does not come to me. It’s Isidoro’s fault. I can’t stop thinking about a certain thing that happened between us. Three times now. I try all kinds of tactics, but my body just won’t calm down, still buzzing and still on edge.
I roll over to my stomach and grumble into the pillow. Why does he have to be so hot? Confident. Smart. Why does he have such a pleasant voice? Why did he show me a glimpse of this other him, of that vulnerability that lives so deep inside him? And why did he save me?
I shoot up, my head spinning a little from the sudden change of angle. We should’ve stayed enemies. This truce was a bad idea. How am I supposed to remember to hate him when he’s not being an asshole to me?
Someone send help, please.
Another fifteen minutes of suffering, and I deem that attempting to fall asleep just won’t cut it.
I contemplate waking Ria up so we can put our heads together about that logo, but it’s the middle of the night and humans do need their rest more than us.
Doodling? But I know that even if I tried now, I won’t get far without some inspiration.
None of my half-finished designs fit the theme of the show, and I didn’t get anywhere brainstorming something new in the car on the way here.
It’s decided then. I’m going on a tour of Isidoro’s house in the middle of the night. There’s got to be something lying around that I missed and that sparks my creativity.
My first stop is the rooftop, where a jacuzzi and a bar share the space with some bonsai.
It’s nice and modern, but nothing in particular stands out, so I move along.
Game rooms, hobby corners, a cinema hall, a private two-floor library, dozens of bedrooms later, and I’m still at a loss.
Isidoro has all the rooms you’d ever imagine, yet nothing grabs me.
Even outside, despite the beautiful blooming gardens, the muse just won’t strike.
“What do you think, Mary Eli? Is it an artist’s block?” I ask my lovely friend, hugging my knees and placing my head on top of them.
I somehow ended up in the stables without meaning to. Mary Eli stirred the moment I walked in, greeting me with a happy quack, but then she got comfy again and drifted off.
“Maybe stress? Or I’ve gone rusty? I mean, two months isn’t that long of a break, but...”
Mary Eli buries her head in her wing, my cue that my visit should end. I ghost my fingers over her head, then quietly slip out, petting the two black horses on my way out. They neigh in excitement, so I promise to come back and take them out for a walk or a run soon.
Back in the house, I swing by the kitchen.
My wounds are still healing, so my craving for blood is higher than usual.
We sent samples for examination, because clearly something’s off.
After I help myself to a bag of red liquid, I head back to my room via the lounge.
The cape Isidoro wore at the ceremony sits on the couch where he left it more than a week ago, grand and fit for a true king.
I lift the luxurious and heavy material, and something falls on the floor.
Squinting, I find it between the leg of the couch and the glass coffee table.
It’s the earring he wore with Mary Eli’s feather. I scoop up the delicate thing and hold it in my open palm. It’s pretty in an elegant way, the sheen shifting from black to green to bluish and purple as light catches on at various angles.
My breath hitches, an idea forming. Heat curls low in my stomach, unexpected and impossible to ignore. I close my fingers around the earring, goosebumps rising along my arms. Then I run up to my room and boot up my tablet, my mind racing.
Entranced, I sketch out a familiar-looking lean body to use as the base and a faceless head graced with the feather earring.
Gold, black, green, blue and purple, those are my colors.
I work them in as the design solidifies, first in my mind and then on the screen, everything engineered and articulated, meant to move with the body instead of weighing it down.
Strands of gold drape over the shoulders and arms, slipping down the body in slow, deliberate lines, as if they’ve memorized every curve. The bands at the biceps are heavier and intricate, while finer chains spill across the chest and ribs, soft, warm and alive against the skin.
My pulse won’t settle. It follows the lines I draw, quickening every time the stylus dips lower, every time the design tightens or reveals, directing the eye. Heat gathers within me, sharper now, coiling tighter with each stroke and decision.
Down the sternum and the center of the back runs a spine of blackened gold—precise, controlled, unyielding. Everything else bends to it. From that line, delicate chains branch and fall, tracing paths that would shift with every movement, catching the light in brief, blinding flashes.
The spine at the back continues further, thinning as it curves along the shape of the body. It tightens, becoming something more focused between the legs, then emerges at the front, resolving into a fitted silk pouch meant not to overwhelm, but to frame. To hold and define.
A sturdy black-gold chain circles the waist, subtle but essential, anchoring the front piece, which connects into it seamlessly, distributing tension so everything stays exactly where it should.
I exhale slowly, but it does nothing to ease the tension in me.
My grip tightens around the stylus as I add detail to the face, the lines sharpening as intent slips through where it shouldn’t.
A sharp, but delicate jaw. The suggestion of a mouth I’ve tasted thrice now and can’t stop thinking about.
The fall of hair inked over with that unmistakable red hue.
A tremor runs through me, sudden and involuntary, heat tightening low and pulling a rough breath from my lungs.
I stop. Stare. Because it’s not just a design anymore. Not just a body.
It’s him.
The tilt of the shoulders, the line of the waist. The face, the hair, the seduction in those wine eyes, the way everything works together like it’s meant to undo me.
My cock jolts, sending a cold rush through my veins.
“No, no, no—no. Hell no. Absolutely not. Not happening.”
I drop the stylus like it’s on fire and push back from the desk, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. This is ridiculous. It’s a concept, that’s all. A direction. Inspiration doesn’t mean—
It was one kiss. Okay, two. Three. It was adrenaline. Bad timing. Stupid decisions. That’s all it was.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once, twice, like I can shake this feeling loose. He’s attractive—fine. Anyone with eyes can see that. The face, the body, the way he looks at people like he already knows exactly how far he can push.
But it doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t mean this.
My jaw tightens. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s not just some guy. He’s him—enemy, husband, problem, the target of my future revenge. We’re barely holding a fragile truce as it is, and I’m… What? Designing the show’s most important piece around the memory of his mouth on mine?
No. I won’t give in. I’m stronger than this.
I huff out a sharp breath, forcing myself back toward the desk, even if I don’t sit. You don’t just start wanting your enemy. You don’t just… flip like that.
Right?
Whatever those kisses were, they don’t get to be more. They don’t have to.
My tablet buzzes. I freeze. Don’t breathe, don’t move. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what was I thinking? Why would I—
It buzzes again. I scramble to grab it, jaw tight and body already bracing.
It’s Isidoro, of course it is.
Heat flares all over me, my face burning as I unlock the screen. It’s a message, thank god. I don’t know what I’d do if he’d called.
A file is attached to it with no preamble, and when I open it, it’s a list of models along with their names and pictures. Another message follows before I finish pointlessly skimming through, even if I already know none of these beautiful men and women will cut it. Not when I already have my muse.
Bastard Tyrant Sexy Annoying Isidoro: Thought you’d want options. I’m sending over the info of my contact as well. He handles castings and knows a lot of people. Maybe he can help if nobody I shortlisted tickles your fancy. Don’t stay up too late. I want you on that logo first thing tomorrow.
This arrogant asshole.
Me: Thank you very much, but how about you don’t tell me what to do. I’ll stay up if I want to.
He doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best. I need to focus because this is work. I’m doing this for my company, that’s all it is, even if my infuriating husband ended up as the inspiration for it.
“No, I’ve never seen this logo before,” Ria says when I present her the patch I ripped off the creature’s uniform.
I let her continue researching the Red Leaf for any connections we missed and plop on the leather couch across the desk she’s claimed.
The logo looks geometric. I stare at it.
A broken circle maybe? Except the curve cuts off too cleanly, like something is missing.
Straight lines intersect it, sharp angles that don’t quite match but seem too intentional.
Isidoro enters the room, clad in a dark beige suit and a light gray shirt with ruffles and lace. “I need to step out for work. Can I trust you two to behave while I’m gone?”
Again? How long for this time? I shrug, chiding myself on the inside and too self-conscious to meet his gaze. “No autopsy results yet?”
“It will take them a couple of days.” He adjusts his cuff link, but it tilts. “Should I send someone to help you with that logo?”
“I can handle it on my own, it just… It will take me some time, okay?” My voice comes out a little snappy, but I can’t help it. After last night and with the frustratingly little progress on the logo this morning, I’m a little off-center.
Isidoro walks over to the desk and places a business card down. “If you decide otherwise, here’s a number you can call.”
My eyes zero in on his cufflink as it reflects the sun. It’s still crooked. I glare at it, but when that does little to fix its annoying dissymmetry, I stand against my better judgment and walk over to him.
“Let me just…” I poke my tongue out, focused on the fiddly thing as my fingers work to fix it. A few moments of fussing, and it settles in place the way it should.
Isidoro slides his hand through my hair, breathing in softly. “Thank you, Julian. Don’t get up to no good while I’m away.”
I flush, locking my gaze on the floor. Ria chuckles. Oh my god, can the ground please swallow me?
After he leaves, I retreat to my room, needing a break from my fruitless efforts and my companion’s imploring eyes.
I work on the design for the show the entire day and late into the night.
Once I start, I just can’t stop, needing to make every line perfect, every material function, every color work in cohesion.
At some point in the early morning the next day, I doze off, waking up when the sun’s setting again.
When I check the house, Isidoro doesn’t seem to be back, so after a couple more pointless tries to crack the mystery of the logo, I decide to finish my piece for the show first, so I feel at least somewhat useful.
By the time I send it over to Andrea for approval and have lost a few more hours in pointless research of the logo, Isidoro finally comes home.
He looks tired as he grabs a bag of blood, which tells me that whatever he had to deal with likely wasn’t all that pleasant.
I wonder if it’s the Las Vegas project again...
When he spots me lurking in the lounge, which connects to the kitchen, he waves me over. “It is rude to spy on people, Julian. I’d have thought you’d have learned at least that much.”
I blow air out of my nose and cross to the fridge, helping myself to some blood as well. He’s poured his in a glass, and winces almost imperceivably as he sits down.
“Still hurts?” I nod my chin toward where his injury from the other day approximately is.
“It hasn’t fully healed yet,” he confirms, taking a slow sip. “It’s rather unusual.”
I rub my hip, the area of the cut tingling slightly. “Mine neither. I think the creature’s claws were coated in something.”
Isidoro looks out the window thoughtfully. “We’ll know soon enough.” Turning back to me, he lets his lips upturn. “Any progress on your end?”
I shake my head, frustration budding inside me. “Logo? No. I’ve tried all kinds of recognition software, scoured databases. Nothing comes up as a match.” He opens his mouth, but I halt him. “I did call your guy… He’s the one who helped me look stuff up. Why didn’t you say it was Tommy?”
Isidoro hums, gulping down the rest of his blood. “I didn’t think it necessary.” He holds up his hand. “Let me have a look. Maybe it will spark something.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but you look like shit. Go rest or something. We can figure this out in the morning.”
Looking at me like I’m some sort of undiscovered species, he slowly bobs his head. Graceful as always, he stands and rinses his glass. “I suppose I’ll follow your advice. Who’d have thought that dealing with the city council could be this troublesome…”
Oh, that confirms it. It’s that damn casino again. It must be causing him more issues. The gears in my brain turn. Could I help him somehow? But I don’t know shit about construction. I could listen though, if he wanted to rant or something.
“Permit issues again?” I say carefully, testing the waters.
His eyes cut to me, some of the lines leaving his forehead. “Indeed. That man keeps pushing back, wanting more money. At this point, it might reflect badly on the schedule.”
“And that might lead to problems with the deadlines,” I add.
A hand cups my cheek, firm and deliberate as a fraction of the tension seems to vacate his shoulders. “Yes, precisely. But never mind that, I’ll figure something out. I heard you sent your design for the show. How come I didn’t see it?”
I blink at him, speechless. Oh shit, how does he know? Andrea? She needs to stop telling him shit! “Ye-Yeah! All good. I, uh, worked something out. It’s nothing special. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hmm, now I want to see it even more.” He leans in, my heart thudding and my gut clenching.
Is he gonna kiss me again? No! Yes! Fuck.
“Absolutely not. This is, uh, a company secret. Until the show passes. No one is allowed to see our designs until they are made public,” I argue, grasping at straws.
His eyebrow pinches up as he lets go and crosses his arms. “Even Julian Corvath’s husband?”
“Especially Julian Corvath’s husband.” I herd him out into the hallway. “Shoo now, go rest. And take a shower. You stink of cigarettes and dust.”
His laughter echoes off the walls as his form gradually disappears, but even though he’s no longer near me, his presence lingers, ghosting its phantom fingers all over my skin as I try to calm my nerves down.