Chessie buzzes to the bathroom and disappears into a half-opened drawer. The wood rattles as he winds his way through the contents and into the next drawer. Only forty-eight more to go.
Jeb grips my arms, fingernails gouging my tender skin through my sleeves, muscles straining as he tries to move me away from the entrance. He’s always been able to lift me as if I weigh nothing, but this time, I imagine the doorknob behind me being a fist and envision its fingers uncurling, just like the doorknob that morphed into an old man’s hand in my Shop of Human Eccentricities memory. Cold metal spikes cinch and curve tight around the waist of my jeans, holding me in place.
Jeb strains harder, frustrated.
Desperate to bring him back, I tug him down and kiss him, gentle and coaxing.
Come back to me, my lips say.
He clamps his mouth shut and keeps struggling to move me aside. There’s a small ripping sound as the metal fingers at my waistband start to lose leverage. I grip Jeb’s bare shoulders, dragging his body close so there’s no space between us. His torso presses mine, and I kiss his throat. Even through my layered shirts, the unnatural heat of his skin scorches me.
He tenses, and I feel the change. It’s not surrender; it’s a redirection. His hands drag up along my rib cage, stopping under my arms. I lose all concentration on the doorknob, and the fingers release me, transforming back into the knob. My feet lift as Jeb pins me to the door.
There’s nothing gentle about his expression. His raging hunger is focused on me now.
More drawers rattle in the bathroom.
“Chessie … hurry.” I can only mumble the plea. Being under the scrutiny of Jeb’s eyes—the brightest green I’ve ever seen them—makes my bones melt to liquid.
Chessie flits from the chest of drawers and sifts like smoke through cracks in the skylights. He must be going out to use my car mirrors. He’ll have to go through the rabbit hole to find some berries.
But I’m not sure I care if he finds any or not. At last, I’m the center of Jeb’s undivided attention, and I like it.
A low rumble escapes his throat as he initiates a kiss this time. Our tongues touch, then wrestle. Enough Tumtum residue remains in his mouth to ignite heat in my abdomen. He tastes of defiance and wildness, of things both wicked and sweet. He’s the flavor of Wonderland interwoven with all things Jeb. I urge him to deepen the kiss. He wraps my legs around his waist, moving on instinct—no romance, no caution, only lust motivated by a potent fairy drug.
I’m lost to sensation. This is the raw passion he only reserves for his paintings. He’s not suppressing his wants or needs to protect me; he’s not worried I’m fragile or breakable. He’s starving, daring me to match his fierceness.
He knots his fingers in my hair and his labret scrapes my chin hard enough to leave welts. His kisses burn heavy like a brand and I brand him right back.
He catches my wrists, smacks them to the wall, and holds them there. He abandons my lips, both of us panting as his mouth glides along my neck, teeth bared against my jugular vein. A painful twinge makes me break a hand free and shove at his face. There’s blood on his lower lip. I touch my stinging neck where he broke my skin, shocked.
Jeb runs his tongue across my blood on his mouth. His face changes. He’s never been rough enough to leave imprints on my skin; hurting me must’ve brought him back to himself. Still holding me against the wall with his body, his hands move to my neck.
I expect comfort or an apology. Instead, he clamps his fingers around my throat, shutting off my air supply. I grapple with his wrists, but he’s too strong. The breath locks in my lungs; I can’t force it out or drag any more in.
I dig my fingernails into his skin and squeeze my legs around his waist, trying to get his attention.
“Paint,” he mumbles, licking the blood on his lip again. The distant look has returned to his eyes, tinged with murderous intent. Cold dread slashes through me.
In his mind, I’m the rabbit.
This is what Mom’s flowers were predicting. My death at his hand. He’ll never forgive himself.
I have to stop him.
I try to force a sound from my throat to shake him out of his trance, but his grip is too tight. His thumbs clamp harder around my windpipe, fingers pressed to my vertebrae. The bones ache under the strain.
I panic … can’t concentrate … can’t evoke my powers… can’t even focus.
Black fuzz creeps across my vision.
“I have to finish what I started,” Jeb says, mechanically. Maniacally. “It’ll be so fast, you won’t feel a thing.”
Jeb’s viselike grip tightens on my neck.
My body goes limp just as a gust of wind rushes by.
“Playtime’s over.” Morpheus’s gruff command snaps my eyes open. My heart kicks my sternum, thumping at the chance to stay alive. I never thought I’d be so happy to hear that cockney accent.