Page 62 of Tears of Ink

“I would never want you just once. I’d always want to know more, to discover everything. Because under these.” His fingers trail my ink. “Is a story I’m sure I’d like to know.”

I’m lost in his eyes, floating away to some crazy place where his words make sense. I shake my head. “I can’t offer that.” My response is bitter and broken.

His nose skims my jawline, and I hold my breath. “I know.”

I stare at him sadly.

“You wanted to know why I only have five Facebook friends.”

“You have five thousand.” I quirk an eyebrow. He’s still pushed up against me, his breath fanning across my face, making my stomach do crazy flips and my palms sweat.

“The real me,” he says.

“Who is the real you, Eli?”

“Come, I’ll show you.” He shifts his body from mine and surprises me by grabbing my hand and leading me out into the outhouse hallway. He doesn’t let go as he leads us through a set of doors back into the main house. I squirm my fingers. I don’t want to give anyone any more reason to judge me, but he won’t let go. “Relax,” he says. “Mum and Gran have retired to their rooms.” He sends me a sideways glance and a smirk. “They need a rest after having lots of strangers in their house.”

I snort with laughter and he chuckles. His fingers squeeze mine tighter. At least I think they do. I could be imagining it.

We head up the stairs. “Oh my god, are you taking me to your bedroom?”

“Shh.” He points at a dark door down at the end of a carpeted corridor. “That’s Gran’s apartment.”

I pale a little. And I thought she’d sleep on a broomstick. We go up another flight of stairs and then another. “Seriously, this is very Flowers in the Attic. Are you taking me to where you’ve been locked up your whole childhood?”

He rolls his eyes. It’s cute.

Finally, when we can go no higher and I’m close to suffering a nosebleed, he pushes on a plain wooden door. “Welcome to my room.”

“Aha! I knew you were luring me to your room.” I’m laughing, my eyes dancing as I walk into the room. I’m so distracted, it takes me a moment to work out what I’m looking at. “Why’s this a studio?”

There are a handful of easels. All of them placed in different shafts of light.

I freeze on the spot. “What is this? I thought all my studios were downstairs?”

He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. “It’s not all about you, Miss Hitchin.” I gauge his expression, but quickly work out he’s teasing.

“I hate to inform you.” I’ve got a stupid smile plastered all over my face. “It’s always about me.”

I step into the room, spinning on the spot. “What’s all this, Eli?” His name still sounds funny, but it’s also creeping under my skin. Whispering its sweet nothings inside my skull.

Eli. Eli. Eli.

“Yesterday, I was trying to explain what my family were like. Now I’m making excuses for being so evasive all the time. I figured it was just easier to show you.”

He’s watching me with a hooded gaze. I step around an easel, my mouth open in total shock.

Hell.

My roses are there again. A bloom of them, beautifully recreated with oil paints. Thick and dense, they lift from the surface of the square canvas. A perfect blend of cream, peach, gold, and brown that together make a perfect dusky hue.

“All this from that photo?”

He shrugs and peels himself away from the doorway, filling the space—brighter, fairer, than all of his paintings. I can sense a spell of obsession weave itself around me. For his smell, for his fingers on my skin, for his kiss. Even worse than wanting all the physical things I know I shouldn’t want—I want to know his story.

I’m rooted to the spot. Unable to run.

“Your room was an afterthought.” He shoots me a shy smile.