Page 70 of Beware of Dog (Lean Dogs Legacy #6)

“No. They would have tried to kill me anyway. But my husband was an Army medic, and he saved my life.” She pushed up on an elbow so she could peer down at his face in the dark, the wet shine of his eyes and the shadows under his cheekbones and jaw.

“And then my husband and my brothers went and killed all those fuckers so they can never threaten anyone ever again.”

He blinked, and even in the dim, ocean-blue glow of night, she could see the way he stared fixedly at her, fascinated.

She said, “The club doesn’t endanger me.

It makes me stronger. Just like my sister does.

I’ve rejected her offers of a clothing line over and over again because I wanted to get where I wanted to be on my own merit.

But if I can use my art skills, and be as creative as I want, why wouldn’t I use my connection to her to make my life easier?

” She stroked his cheek with her thumb, skin catching along the nighttime stubble.

“Why wouldn’t I make my life, and my family, safer by using my art to earn a good living? ”

The shadows that lay softly against his throat jumped when he swallowed. “I dunno. Why not?”

“Why not,” she echoed, and bent down to kiss him.

~*~

When faced with a public that not only knew your identity, but felt strongly about whether you deserved to live peacefully or answer for imaginary crimes, there were really only two ways to approach daily life: hide away, keep your head down, and wear a lot of hats and sunglasses; or hold your head high and strut proudly.

Cass chose the latter.

By July, the crack in her scapula had fully healed, and the entrance and exit wounds below her right clavicle had dulled to silver-pink pucker marks that reminded her of cigarette burns.

It was hot, and so she wore a sleeveless sundress that didn’t completely cover them.

She wasn’t embarrassed by her scars; the tremor in her arm, the lingering nerve damage was what bothered her most, and so her painting had become a slow and laborious process.

She’d finished her pieces for the gallery show, however, and she smiled sunnily at everyone who stopped to admire them, and then shake her hand and compliment her work.

Only a half-dozen people took note of her scars, and Cass kept smiling, and refused to show so much as a shred of embarrassment.

Raven had convinced (read, shouted at until he caved) Shep to wear a sharply pressed black shirt and gator skin belt in lieu of his usual cut and hoodie combo to the show, and so far he’d been skulking around the perimeter of the room, eating the free cocktail weenies and cheese samples, and giving anyone who lingered too long in front of Cass the stink eye.

At the moment, though, he stood in front of her exhibit, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, head tipped back on his neck in an oddly vulnerable pose.

His scowl had faded, the sun lines on his forehead and around his mouth had softened.

The roundness of his eyes suggested quiet wonder, and Cass found herself both squirmy with embarrassment, and deeply pleased that he could admire her work so openly, and with such obvious awe.

“Cassandra.” She jumped a little, but it was only Professor Swift, cheeks rosy from the boxed wine they were serving in little plastic cups, his smile exuberant.

To his great credit, he’d never glanced toward her scars, had made no remark upon the change of her last name, and had in fact offered his assistance, in whatever capacity he was able to provide, when she returned to school in May.

Now, he gestured toward the wall that hosted her work.

“I’ve had five gallery sponsors”—read: very wealthy art lovers who threw gobs of money at various galleries, exhibits, and artists—“approach to ask me specifically about your work! All of them very complimentary. And Gene Rayburn from Marvel Comics left me a business card to pass along to you.” He flicked it out of his back pocket and laughed with delight as he passed it over.

“Oh, wow,” Cass murmured as she took it, stunned.

“He says you ought to email him. Marvel Comics !”

“That’s incredible.” It was. As were the sketches and mockups Raven had been sending her way, blank, chic streetwear ready to be printed with her original artwork.

Professor Swift turned toward her display, gesturing with a twirl of his fingers. “I’m so glad you agreed to do the show. I think it’s wonderful exposure.”

“I’m glad, too.” She watched as Shep sidestepped and then leaned in to peer more closely at one of her pieces, one that bore an original character with a striking resemblance to him . She smiled when he smiled.

And then he turned, pointing at the painting, and them himself. “You ain’t subtle,” he called.

“Or you’re so conceited you see yourself everywhere,” she called back.

He smirked. “Uh-huh, keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

When he turned back to his painting inspection, Professor Swift cleared his throat. In a more subdued, awkward voice, he said, “I take it you know one another?”

“That’s my husband,” she said, proudly, still smiling, and turned to gauge his reaction. “Frank.”

“Oh.” His brows jumped, and then he did a poor job of wiping the surprise off his face. “Your husband…” Then, “Oh, Frank .” He glanced at her, brows lifted once more. “So when you said…”

“ My Frank, yeah.” She chuckled. “Let’s just say my original character is very original, but not so fictional.”