Page 54 of Love the Way You Lion (Rise of the Resistance #3)
The Bird Clears The Air
TAURUS
I pop into what I assume is the master bedroom in their house. Looking around, I smile at the touches that I identify as the minx and the décor that has to be her interior designing housemate. It’s elegant yet feminine in that ‘Fifties ingénue’ way.
The only hint of the stoat is the scattered art supplies and shared hair products in the bathroom.
I love the huge, claw-footed tub, giant Jacuzzi in the corner, and the enormous shower stall big enough for an army.
That git must have laid this entire place out to service a herd.
You could have the lot of them in here all at once without even being tight on elbow room.
My problem is that the stoat’s not here, nor was he in the studio when I dropped the note off earlier.
I doubt that he is in one of the guest rooms. I have no idea, though, and I’m not comfortable with the history in this room, so I don’t want to stay here.
I don’t know where to go, and I feel like a git.
“How’s it hanging, Assassin?”
I blink when I see the Designer Duchess in the doorway sipping a dirty martini. There isn’t a single flaw in what she’s wearing—which I expected—but I didn’t expect the grin. Her reputation is for being a dispassionate observer of truth, but she looks more like a fond big sister.
“Where’s the long-haired one? I left him in the studio earlier, because I didn’t think he’d move.”
She snorts, sipping her drink again. “Much like a bad penny, he always re-appears. He’s back in his hidey-hole.
Once all of you crazy people left, Hex cleaned up the mess.
The studio’s usable and fluid-free again.
Xanax save me from the bitching. You people.
” Sniffing delicately, she turns on her heel and says over her shoulder, “Go down the stairs, take a right, and then follow the guest hallway to what used to be the solarium.”
Right. No mention of the women. I guess they took a powder? Fuck.
I leave the minx’s haven without snooping more—my gut clenches when I consider opening a door and seeing what’s inside up there.
Following the directions given, I end up at the enormous set of double doors.
I pause for a moment because not only is this whole situation awkward, but I don’t have the foggiest idea what to do or say.
I have a distinct impression that I fucked something up.
I might have behaved like an ass, which is why I left the note while I was on a brief break.
I knew he wasn’t there when I did, but I hoped I didn’t know why.
Christ, Taurus. Just suck it up and go in—that’s my way, head first, and balls out.
I open the door, smiling to myself when I find him in the overstuffed chair from last night, a sketch board propped on his lap.
There are papers scattered at his feet, headphones in his ears, and a bottle of bourbon on the table next to him.
He has charcoal smudges all over his hands, arms, and chest, and he’s tapping his foot on the chair as he works.
I almost don’t go in because I worry that, much like the minx, he’s damaged.
It’s possible that he’s more damaged than she is, and he’s not told anyone.
I could screw this up and make my primary’s life worse.
Hell, I’ve got my wife, right? No need to make everything worse.
Leaning against the doorframe, I watch, trying to decide what to do.
I can’t make myself leave, though it would be the best plan.
My reticence is strange; I’m not one to give in to sentiment this early on.
He pauses in the drawing, looking up for a moment. “Hello, mate.” His eyes drop to the paper, and he finishes a couple of strokes. Once done, he sits the charcoal on the napkin on the table and pulls the headphones out.
I push off the doorframe, sauntering into the room as if I have the slightest idea what I’m doing, pasting a sardonic grin on my face. “You and yours are too blasted good at sensing. It ruins a bloke’s appreciation time.” He tilts his head, watching me, and I curse internally.
It seems like I’ve already hit a nerve.
“We live in a household where you never know who is behind you or what they’re wielding. It sharpens your reflexes.”
“My household is not like that. Well, except for the time I thought Damien was making a move on my woman or when he annoys me.”
“There are no locks on the doors here, so you never know who the hell is lurking about. The bitch keeps me on my toes, Victor and the droids give each other hell—you might even get caught in a prank war. ”
“I waited a long time to meet Philomena, but I’m not disappointed every time we end up having a chat. When did you move back down here?”
He shrugs, setting the board aside and tucking his knees up. “I went for supplies because the women were in here. When I came back, they’d split and Hex had finished cleaning. With no one around, it seemed safe to hole up in here and work.”
Interesting. I wonder where the women went? I didn’t see them upstairs, so maybe they found another perch. I drop into the opposite chair, looking at the stacks surrounding him. “What are you working on, mate?”
“I’m messing around to keep busy.” He looks down and frowns, as if he does not understand how many things he’d finished in that span of time. “I had no idea how busy I was.” Scratching his chin, he spreads charcoal all over his face, looking every bit the absent-minded artist he is.
Should I tell him? I feel wicked. So, no.
“What’s the subject du jour in the great art caper here?”
He blinks as if no one ever asks him this. Maybe they don’t. I could believe that outside of his family members, none of the exes gave a damn about what he used as an outlet for his emotions.
“Various subjects… I draw from memory—though not always my own. I filch from the woman’s memories, but she’d be mad if she knew.
” He picks up a sketch of Aradia, curled by a fireplace on a Persian rug.
That’s my home with the minx, and I just replaced that rug, so I know he’s being truthful.
He jerks his thumb at the corkboards behind him.
“The left one is my memories and the right one is hers.”
I’m interested because my primary has spun some heady tales of his talent, so I stand and go look, stopping as one catches my eye. It’s my golden goddess dressed as a sexy, badass cop with the mother of all attitudes. That must be from the night they met.
“Impressive.”
I mean that, though he doesn’t know how hard it is to get that kind of praise from someone who steals art as part of his job.
I move to the next board to look and there’s a dreamy watercolor from the night of Beltane, depicting the night sky and the circle, followed by several others that are so accurate that I’d assume he saw them through her eyes.
His depiction of fire, of the Egyptian gods, and of the spirits is astounding. The minx and I look like we’ve been born from the fire. That bugger could sell these—if one of us wouldn’t kill him for it—for no small fortune.
He’s not just talented; he’s a master.
“You’ve got a lot of talent. Then again, talent runs in your family in ways that death runs in mine.” I grin. I don’t know if he realizes how sodding wonderful everything in this room is, even the throwaway sketches at his feet.
“Thanks. It’s been a hobby since I was at the Company. Someone wanted me to learn for a training mission. I started sketching and figured out I was good at it. It stuck with me. Now it’s my thing, I suppose.”
My lips curve at his humility. He has no idea how good he is; he knows he enjoys creating.
Rafe doesn’t want praise—he displays his work in this room no one enters.
Perhaps the reproductions I saw around the house were done by him.
It would explain why I had to look twice to make sure they weren’t authentic.
From the Monet to the Rembrandt to the Van Gogh, they looked authentic enough that I almost checked to make sure the originals were in the last place I saw them .
I walk over and brush the smudge off his chin because I can’t help myself. “When the only things you’re good at are pissing people off, stirring up hornets’ nests, and killing, you grow an appreciation for those with the Renaissance skills.”
“That’s not all you’re good at,” he murmurs.
“Well, I’m a fair hand at pool. I don’t think that’s what you mean, though. If it’s the between the sheets shit, that’s nothing big—that’s genetics and training. You know that.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “I could argue that, but since it’s not the point, I would believe that you have plenty of talents you don’t talk about. There are some that you don’t know about. The Rift works that way. Everyone also knows that.”
I shrug, feeling uncomfortable tooting my horn with him. I love crowing about myself to anyone who’ll listen—the goddess and my wife can attest to that—but this situation is putting me on an uneven keel. People rarely ask about much besides the clothes and the job, and I’m fine with that.
“I sing. Play a tune on a piano or guitar. I’m not bad with a saxophone.”
“Exactly—not everyone can do those things. You prefer to be known for the other stuff because it doesn’t fit with your image.” He watches me as I stalk to the other side of the room, wiping his hands off.
“It’s easier being known for this stuff.”
“It’s a magnificent wall to hide behind.”
“Well, it helps that I enjoy the killing and the pissing off vacuous cows,” I smirk.
“Enjoy your work, or what’s the point?” He rolls to his feet and stretches, all lithe frame and grace. It makes me wonder how he stays so sodding fit, being so stationary all the time. “You want some food? It feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten. Leo will whip something up for us.”