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 disconnect his emotions that gives me goose bumps. I don’t even know him anymore.
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.
“Funny,” Jeb continues, “how I thought something so insignificant could put a dent in what that drunk bastard did.” He laughs. Not the heartwarming laugh he used to have. It’s deep, brittle, and mirthless. “Now . . . now I can paint a piercing anywhere on my body, or a tattoo, and they become real. Alive. Powerful.” He sweeps the cool, creamy liquid across my back, creating a cropped T-shirt. “Anything I make will fight for me. My labret could be as deadly as a samurai sword. All I have to do is paint it and command it. If I’d had that in our world, I could’ve stopped him from hurting Mom and Jen. I could’ve made their lives better. I can do that here.” He pauses. “I have, you know. Those scenes play out as they should’ve. Every time, my old man is the one beaten to a pulp. And Jen and Mom are untouched and happy.”
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 humanness. Nothing else.”