Ensnared

I don’t budge. “You know I’m not talking about the door. I can’t stand the way you’re treating him. Flaunting the fact that he’s powerless . . . that you hold all the magic.”

“Oh, right. Because he’s never done that to me.”

I look down at my bare feet. Clenching the paintbrush’s handle between his teeth, Jeb cups my elbow and positions me atop a drop cloth.

He lifts my chin with a fingertip, then takes the brush from his mouth. “Look straight ahead.”

My body remains stationary, but my opinion leaps for a chance to be heard. “You know, I expect that kind of cruelty from Morpheus. His sense of right and wrong is skewed.” I study Jeb’s face. “But yours isn’t. Bullying? I thought those days ended with Boy Scouts in seventh grade. You’re a man now. And you’re not that kind of man. Not like your—” I stop short and bite my tongue, hard enough to draw blood.

Jeb’s expression hardens. “My father? Damn right I’m not like him. I’m stronger than he ever was.” His voice is low and controlled. “I’m beyond what he thought I could be. Beyond what he said I was capable of. You know how he felt about my art. Wonder what he’d say if he could see me now.”

He holds my gaze long enough to register my unspoken acknowledgement. Then, without touching me, he parts my shirt’s plackets. My skin reacts to his hands’ proximity—remembering what it’s like to be stroked by them. The shirt slides off my shoulders, free of my wrists, and puddles on the floor behind me, baring my bandaged breasts, waist, and naked stomach to the light. I’m exposed, on every level.

Jeb inhales a sharp breath. We stand there, blinking at each other in the brightness. The scent of paint and citrus soap lingers on his skin. Wet smudges glisten in patches on his arms and neck, spotlighting taut muscles.

On impulse, I trail my forefinger through a blue streak next to his collarbone.

He grimaces and jerks away. I drop my hand, defeated.

Intent on his palette, Jeb swishes the paintbrush through a black tincture. He smooths it across my left arm, from the shoulder to the top of my bicep. Defined lines form a cap sleeve. The bristles tickle and the paint is cold, but it’s Jeb’s ability to disco

He steps back and reloads the brush, then moves to the right arm. Absently, he runs his tongue across the inside of his lower lip, nudging his labret. “Do you remember when I got this?”

The unexpected question unbalances me. I hold still in spite of the blossoming heat beneath my skin. “Two hours after your dad’s funeral,” I answer hoarsely.

“And you know how long I’d wanted to do it before that, but every time I’d bring it up . . .” He flips over his forearm.

The tattoo glows, yet it’s the cigarette burns that hold my attention. “Yeah.”

“Well, it was about more than proving his reign of terror was over.” Jeb’s voice is aloof, as if he’s reading from someone else’s life pages. “It was a reminder. That I was in control of my choices, of my body and my life. That I had a say in what happened to my sister and mom.” He circles around to my back, leaving my chest and stomach unpainted. After he finishes the backs of my sleeves, the bristles trail a line down my spine and stop a few inches above my waist, making a stripe from one side of my ribs to the other.

I suppress any reaction to the tickling sensations.

“Fu

I shiver, terrified at how detached he’s become from reality. “Jeb, that’s not your sister and mom. These are all just paintings. You know that, right?”

His brush resumes its journey across my back, but he says nothing.

“You have to let go of the guilt,” I say. “You were only a kid. If you let it fester, it will kill everything good inside you. You’re not like him. Even when he hurt you, you weren’t violent. That’s what made you a better person. Not the power to hurt him back, but the power to rise above and help your sister and mom have a good life in spite of it. You found a way to do that peacefully, through your art.”

“I’ve found an even better way now.” The danger edging his voice makes the hair along my neck stand up.

Tears singe my eyes. A few slip free and run down my face. They hang at my jawline before dripping down and spattering on my chest.

Jeb finishes the back of my shirt—leaving slits at my shoulder blades for wings—and moves to my front. He studies my face. “You’re going to have to stop crying. You’ll smear the paint.”

“Jeb, please.”

“It’s not worth the tears,” he assures me, though a tremor shakes his voice as he notices the wetness on my chest. He drags a horizontal strip of paint along the bottom of my rib cage and above my navel to form the shirt’s front hem. “You’re looking at this all wrong. To be able to create your own scenes and landscapes. That means you get to reign over them. Hell, I’ve given myself wings with my shadow. I can fly with you. Together, we could rule this world and build our own happy endings. I have everything to offer you that Morpheus has.” He juts out his chin in thought. “Had,” he corrects with a smug smile.

My lungs ache, as if he’s knocked the breath from me. “I don’t want those things from you. I love your faults and imperfections. Your kind heart. The scars that match mine, and the struggles to find ourselves. I want your huma

He frowns. What I wouldn’t give to witness his lips break into a genuine smile. The one with those dimples I love. My throat hurts, clogged with emotions I’m afraid to unleash.

“I would’ve followed you anywhere,” he mumbles, his voice raw with agony. “All I ever wanted was to spend forever with my best friend. With the girl who gave life to my paintings. But I’m not the one who inspired your mosaics, am I? It was always Wonderland. That’s why you chose him.”

“Chose him? It was a kiss, that’s all—”

“It’s not the kiss. Sometimes words are louder than actions.”

“Words . . . ? What words?”

“The promise you gave him that you couldn’t give me.”

I growl to keep from crying again. “You’re not making sense. Please, tell me what you mean.” Maybe Morpheus told him about my vow. If he’s been taunting Jeb this whole time about our day together, that would explain some of this animosity. But not all of it.

“No more talking. I need to concentrate.” Jeb fills in the lower half of my shirt. He layers paint along the skin beneath my bust line, avoiding where my necklaces hang. I should take them off . . . get them out of his way, but I can’t move because the brush is riding the curve of my right breast, coating it so no bandage peeks through.

Jeb’s breath catches at the same time as mine. I know his body language, how the muscles work in his jaw when he’s struggling to stay in control.

The brush becomes an extension of his hand. It doesn’t matter that bristles and a handle stand between us. Even through the bandages, I can feel our co