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 connection. There’s no heat, or warmth, or pressure. It’s a deeper bond, born of friendship and hard-won trust: a summoning beneath the skin, as if my spirit calls to him.
I sip slivers of air with each movement of his brush . . . afraid to breathe too loud, afraid to move. Afraid if I disturb the atmosphere in any way, I’ll break the spell he’s under. Maybe I can bring him back, help him remember the good parts of his human life. Maybe, if I can get him to reach out and hold me, it will remind him of everything we meant to each other.
His hand starts to shake the moment he finishes painting my left breast.
“Jeb.” I venture a whispered plea. “All those weeks I was in the asylum, I gave in to my madness, faced those fears. But I never forgot you. Or us. Please, show me you remember, too.”
His gaze intensifies on mine. My body aches with longing, familiar with that look from the past.
The palette and brush clatter at my feet as he grabs my face, careful not to smear the paint on my chest. His thumb traces the trails my tears made on my cheek and then nudges the dimple in my chin. His breath cloaks my face, warm and sweetened by the honeycomb-flower he ate earlier.
I run my palm across his chest and lower, seeking his scars through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Seeking the Jeb I’ve grown up with. My solid rock in spite of his own brokenness.
He groans. His fingers thread through the hair bunched at the base of my neck. I clutch his shirt, tip my face to kiss the labret at the edge of his lower lip.
With a surprised sound, he breaks my hold and jerks back. Red light reflects off his face. We look down at my neck simultaneously. The diary’s pages are glowing.
“What is that thing?” His voice is thick with emotion. The red light flickers in his eyes like candles’ flames. His expression changes from curious to mesmerized. He uses his pinky to lift the two strings grazing my collarbone, managing not to touch the dip between my breasts.
“Are those real pages?” he asks.
I push my heartbeat from my throat with a gulp. “It’s nothing.” I lift the tiny book along with the key over my head and hide them in my fist.
Don’t slip away again . . . Please, stay with me . . . Hold me, hold me, hold me.
My silent mantra shatters as he catches and flips my wrist to drop the necklaces onto his waiting palm. The moment they make contact, he curses and flings them across the room. Eyes widened in shock, he opens his fingers.
The diary left an imprint—a red, fiery brand—in the center of his hand.
Jeb pries his palm away as I try to assess the severity of his wound. His mood shifts to accusatory in the blink of an eye. “What do you have inside that book? Why did it burn me?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter, as much to myself as anyone.
The diary has protected me at least twice while I’ve been inside this mountain. Does it think Jeb is a danger to me, too?
Is he?
“It’s just words,” I add. “Magical words. Nothing to do with you.” I can’t be any more specific, or he’ll figure out that I’m planning to search for Red while he and Dad are gone.
Jeb narrows his eyes, as if he doesn’t buy it. I’m bewildered, wondering once more where all this animosity and suspicion is coming from.
Dad chooses that instant to step back into the room. He notices my half-painted state and quickly looks away. “Everything okay with you two?”
“Never better,” Jeb says.