“Don’t worry about it. It’s a good look for you.” As he blinked, wondering what the hell she meant, she asked, “Is it okay if I come in?”
Unable to find his voice, Wick nodded.
Weighed down by the walking cast, she limped over the threshold. He frowned as his gaze slid over her. Favoring her right side, she kept her elbow tucked against her rib cage as though one wrong move would send pain spiraling. He bit down on a growl and, tapping into her bio-energy, read her vital signs. Fucking hell. She was still hurting. Not a lot, but enough for him to want to kick his own ass.
He should’ve known one go-around with him wouldn’t be enough. Not after the injuries she’d sustained. So time to jump back on the energy train. She needed another infusion, and compulsion dictated he feed her again. Provide what her body needed to heal up nice and tight.
“Jamison,” he said, hearing the anticipation in his voice. He couldn’t help it. The thought of touching her did something odd to him. Instead of reacting with revulsion, the prospect excited the hell out of him. “Come here.”
“In a minute.”
Wick’s brows collided. What the hell did she mean in a minute? “You need more healing energy. I can help if—”
“I know,” she said, closing the door behind her. The click sounded loud in the silence, cranking him tighter as she made her way past the fireplace and over to the custom bookcases. Jammed full of hardcovers, the floor-to-ceiling built-ins occupied one corner of his room. With a hum of pleasure, she ran her fingertips over a colorful spine. “Tania explained all the Meridian stuff.”
“She did?”
“Uh-huh,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. Her attention bounced from him to the unmade bed.
Shoved up against the wall, the king-size mattress and box spring sat on the floor. No bed frame. No silk sheets or froufrou pillows. Nothing fancy. Just a tangle of sheets twisted up in the middle of Serta’s finest. Wick grimaced. Not his finest hour. Half-dressed. Messy bed. Trashed workstation. Maybe he should’ve tidied up a bit. Made a good impression and dazzled her with neatness, but…
Well, it was too late for that.
His slob-like tendencies were out of the bag. So was his habit of tossing damp towels into the corner beside the door. A fact she’d already noticed (goddamn it). Daimler usually took care of that, but with preparations for the mating ceremony in full swing, the Numbai had been too busy to make the rounds. Add that catastrophe to all the canvases stacked against the far wall and… yeah. He wouldn’t be getting the award for Tidiest Male of the Year anytime soon.
Stepping around his easel, he scooped the duvet off the floor, folded it into quarters, then set it on the end of his bed. As he relinquished the load, Jamison slipped the book she held back into its spot. Her focus narrowed on the canvases leaning against the wall by the window. Nervous tension got the better of him. Not sure what to say, he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and waited—for inspiration to strike, for her to break the silence first, for the moment she gave him the green light to touch her again.
Pain or not, the decision was hers. Which meant he’d better start praying ’cause… shit. It wasn’t looking good so far.
“Wow,” she said, stopping in front of a stack of paintings. Fingering the white edges of the canvas frames, she ran her hand over the top of the first group, then moved on to the next. At least forty pieces strong, the collection represented the work he’d done over the last eighteen months. “Did you paint all of these?”
“Yeah.”
Her gaze skimming the artwork, she smiled, and his heart flip-flopped, somersaulting inside his chest. Did she like what she saw? The artist in him wanted to know… to be appreciated for his efforts. The more practical side of him scoffed. He didn’t paint for anyone but himself. The pastime helped him relax, giving him an outlet after a hard night of fighting. End of story. No need to court anyone’s praise. But as he watched her flip through painting after painting, Wick craved a good word. Anything that would tell him what she thought about his work.
Which was so much bullshit. And the entire reason he never showed anyone his art.
Not even Venom.
Other than Daimler—and now Jamison—no one knew he painted. All right, so all his brothers-in-arms knew about his love for art. They would have to be blind not to notice. The evidence hung the length of the corridor outside his room… all over the lair for that matter. But he never talked about it, and none of the other Nightfuries knew the extent of his obsession. Or rather… passion.
Given half a chance, Wick preferred to keep it that way.
He’d involved Daimler out of necessity. At first, he’d disliked depending on another. Over time, however, the Numbai had proven to be a true partner, keeping him well stocked with painting supplies, helping him hunt down and purchase precious works of art from all over the world while sneaking every bit of it past the other warriors. All without complaining or sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
Awesome didn’t begin to describe the male.
“Holy moly, Wick.” Pure, unadulterated awe on her face, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “These are gorgeous. How long have you been painting?”
“A while,” he murmured, his gaze on hers. The wonder he spied in her eyes sent him sideways. Pride surfaced, filling him so full he struggled to contain it. Jesus. He got off on her admiration. But more than that, Wick loved the way she looked at him. Interest tinged by a sharp sense of longing rode her expression, making him feel valued. Worthy. Like an upstanding male deserving of her attention. “Almost twenty years.”
“You need to hang these. They belong in a gallery.”
He shrugged, hiding his pleasure. “I’m not the gallery type.”
“No, I don’t imagine you are…” She paused, and turning toward him, crossed the room on a slow shuffle. “You’re too modest for that.”
Wick stifled a snort. Totally laughable. He was about as modest as a peacock in full preen. He just preferred to fly below the radar before he showed his true colors, that was all.
Limp more pronounced than before, she skirted the end of the bed. Giving him a wide berth, she walked behind him. His skin tingled as her aura flared, ringing her body, making her glow from the inside out. Wick inhaled deep and exhaled smooth. She stopped at his workstation and, reaching out, fingered his brushes, then turned her attention to the assortment of tubes littering the tabletop. She touched each one, bypassing blue, green, and red to pick up ochre yellow.
Wick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. As his bare feet brushed over the wood floor, he flexed his hands, telling himself to be patient, but… Jesus. Less than five feet away. She stood so close, yet still too fucking far away.
His dragon half urged him to move, close the distance and walk up behind her. Instinct warned him to wait. Attuned to her mood, he felt her tension as clearly as his own. She was stalling for a reason. Maybe for time. Maybe for space. Maybe for a bit of both. Whatever the case, Wick refused to rush her. If she needed him to back off and—
“All right,” she whispered, the strain in her voice palpable as she turned to face him. Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze head-on. “I’m ready now.”
Concern washed through him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” The rough edge of his voice made her flinch. “I want your honesty. Every bit of it, Jamison.”
“All right. I guess I owe you that much,” she said, looking so unsure he bled for her. “Being alone with you makes me nervous. I know it’s stupid. I mean, you’ve touched me before and everything, but right now I’m…”