Page 21 of Love the Way You Lion (Rise of the Resistance #3)
The Blade and The Artist Contemplate The Party
RAFE
I lie back and let her pace, drinking in the sight of her like it’s my last meal, and she’s the feast. She’s completely naked, spinning a blade in one hand like it’s an extension of her mood—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
Every step she takes radiates heat and tension, both of which I soak up like the warm summer sun.
Talia is so full of vibrant, violent emotions when we’re alone; it’s hard to reconcile with the cool, intelligent predator she portrays in public sometimes.
But this is one of the moments I live for: her, raw and real, stalking the room like a restless predator, while I sketch her with the lazy precision of someone who knows he’ll never quite capture the lightning he loves.
She’s trying to figure out what claiming me means, and what it looks like walking into a party knowing you might be on the menu if it comes out. No one else knows besides our families—it’s not public, not official. The truth is just between us, and that gnaws at her because it creates a weak spot .
“We claimed one another, but no one knows,” she mutters, and I feel the ache in it. The way it lands like a weight between us. “I’d prefer they did so it won’t be a thing , but I also know why we can't tell them yet.”
“I know, pet,” I reply, voice low and steady. “And I appreciate you allowing that time after the blogger’s death for things to settle down in the community.”
Flicking my wrist, I let the pencil do its thing. She comes to life on the page: the precise angle of her spine as she twists, the controlled chaos of her hair, the flicker of metal as she spins that blade with practiced ease. She’s fury incarnate in bare skin and muscle and grit.
“The party is for me and we can’t cancel it,” I say, as if that explains anything. “Bad timing all around, but no one else seems to care about that. You’re invited,” I add around the second pencil I’ve stuck between my teeth. I say it like it’s a joke, but it’s not.
It’s a social powder keg, and apparently, I’m the only one holding a match and shouting ‘don’t’.
“Taurus will go with Deli. I’ll look stupid.”
A blade whistles through the air and embeds into the bedpost, not an inch from my ear. The old me would’ve flinched. Hell, the old me might’ve screamed. But that was before her. Now, it barely earns a raised eyebrow.
“I doubt that,” I murmur, still sketching. “You can hang out with me; I might need a bodyguard.”
She snorts. “I have a small socialization problem.”
I pause, lift my head just enough to catch her eye, and deadpan, “I can’t imagine why you think so. ”
She eyes the embedded blade, then starts twirling another, almost absentmindedly. Nervous energy coils around her like a storm cloud. I love that about her—the way she funnels discomfort into movement, the way her fingers speak even when her mouth doesn’t. “Don’t be an ass.”
A new image blooms in my mind, vivid and ridiculous: me, lounging like a well-fed cat in velvet; her, in full death gear, glaring down anyone who so much as looks our way. The contrast is delicious. I send it to her without a word.
Her lips twitch. “So you want me to hang out with you? I don’t want to assume. I mean, I don’t look like the others at this damn thing in that pic.”
The honesty in her voice pulls me upright. I set the pad down, my fingers smudged in charcoal, and meet her gaze. “You’re a perfect contrast to me, love. Nothing wrong with that picture, except maybe you’re standing way too far away from me.”
She smiles—just a little, but it’s the kind of smile that makes me feel like I’ve won something rare. She sends the second blade flying—it hits the first with a musical ring, like twin tuning forks vibrating with tension. “If you want me to, I’ll go.”
My mind snaps back to the vision, only now she’s sprawled across my lap, the same glare in her eyes, but possessive, defiant, even. It shows that I’m hers. I push it towards her and grin. “That’s much better,” I say, reaching for a fresh sheet. “I’ll let you help paint me into the latex.”
She makes a face. “Is that what I’m supposed to wear? Hell, I don’t even know what one wears to that kind of party.”
“Leather, feathers, latex, fishnet—anything can be a fetish, baby.”
“Since that covers most of my daily wardrobe, I think I’m good. ”
I grin. “The cat’s wearing the better part of two jars of liquid latex, some leather, and not much else, I think.”
She groans. “Christ, the bird will have his feathers all over her.”
I shrug because that doesn't bother me. “I’ve seen the picture. We won’t see them much, I think.”
Her gaze darkens, and she saunters closer, all sin and shadows, flashing a grin that promises danger and delight. “Baby, if I do it right, you wouldn’t notice them if they were sitting on your lap.”
Gods, I love her.
“I like the sound of that.”
“I’ll think of something, and it won’t be subtle. You have trouble with that. Maybe blood body paint?”
I make a show of looking scandalized. “That would only draw drooling hordes and cramp your body guarding gig.”
“Hordes?” She arches an eyebrow, intrigued for half a second, then shrugs. “Eh. Not if it interferes with my job, alas.”
“Hell, yes, hordes. I would get lost in a sea of chits trying to remove my pants with their sodding teeth.”
Okay, so maybe a dramatic exaggeration. But the way her eyes slit and her smile curves—yeah, she’s picturing it.
She sends the image right back: blood-drenched females, rabid-eyed, crawling toward me like I’m dessert.
I bark out a laugh. Only Talia would think that’s the appropriate reaction at a social event.
“That’s not the besssst idea for their health.”
“There are two chits I want to keep a distance from, so it’s good you’re going to be there,” I add, serious now.
She stops, narrowing her eyes. “Who? I need them on my list. ”
“Heather. Tamara. Amanda. All of them hit on every clone and droid that moves, and my girl kept me away from them in groups. But Amanda’s the worst, given her connection to Constantine.”
She slides into my space, her skin brushing mine, warmth grounding me. “Deli hooking up with him puts you in Amanda’s sights?”
“Think so. Amanda was kind of… involved with Alistair too, maybe. She got hurt—not like us, but still. I think she’s trying to fill a void.”
“And now she sees you as a replacement for something she lost.” Her voice is steel under silk.
I nod. “Probably. But what I told you before was true—I never move fast. I’m not in the market to be anyone’s emotional bandage.”
Her legs straddle mine now, her hands on my shoulders, grounding both of us. “Why me?” she asks, voice low and thoughtful. “Why did you move fast with me?”
I stare up at her, and everything that ever made sense slips into place. “Because I trusted you,” I say simply. “You weren’t looking to use me to patch a hole. You didn’t want a distraction. You wanted me. For me. That’s… never happened before—not really.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing. I love this about her—how she doesn’t rush the answer, doesn’t pretend she already knows everything. She listens. She thinks. “I’m not large on conquests or headboard notches, no,” she finally murmurs.
“That’s why you intrigued me. Strong chits always do. But you—there’s fire under your scars. You know your own sharp edges and don’t apologize for them. ”
Her eyes glint. “I love you, and I’ll keep you away from uncomfortable situations, even if it ends bloody. Not just at this shindig, either.”
That nearly undoes me.
“That, my love, is bloody perfect.”
She leans forward, kissing me like she means it—like she’s sealing a vow with her mouth. Her warmth floods into me, and for a second, the world disappears. Just her lips, her breath, her skin, and me, anchoring in it.
Eventually, I grin against her mouth. “How about we get some clothes on and find something to eat? I think the outfit picking is going to take it out of us. I have these binders, you see...”
She laughs, a real, full laugh, and it vibrates through me.
This is what home feels like, I think. Not a place, but a person. A blade-spinning, chaos-making, kiss-stealing person who owns me without trying.
The pencils roll from my lap and clatter to the floor. I don’t reach for them. Not yet.
She kisses me again, deeper this time, and I let myself fall forward into her heat, her chaos, her gravity. The storm is already here, and I’m not trying to outrun it. I’ve already found the eye.
It’s her.
And gods help anyone who tries to pull me out of it.