Page 55 of Love the Way You Lion (Rise of the Resistance #3)

I blink. How in hell’s name does he not know when he ate last? “Sure, Sampson. I’ll get a bottle if you find something in the kitchen. My knowledge of this place extends from the bedroom to here—which I learned today.”

He nods, padding off to find one of the many members of his house I’ve never met.

I apparate a bottle of my eighteen-year-old Macallan scotch because I figure we’re due a conversation that might require alcohol.

I wander around his studio for a bit, looking at all the drawings, paintings, and sculptures tacked or shelved on the walls.

He’s beyond prolific, and I see a few cabinets on the far wall that hold more works.

There are plenty of pieces featuring my minx in various costumes, portraits, and situations.

I see the love he feels for her radiating off the page.

There are quite a few of the other members of his household, too, but it’s not all light—there’s darkness, too.

I figure that he’s taken anything that represents the old family members and stored it because there’s not a trace of them.

As much as he’s done of my wife and my primary, I can’t believe he didn’t use them as subjects.

My guess would be the only cabinet that has a padlock on it is where they live.

I see their influence, though, as the displays seem to flow chronologically, and if you look closely, you see an ebb and flow of happiness to pain in the artwork.

There’s him and my wife in the middle of her circle, drenched in the moonlight and holding one another.

The pain radiates off the page. Another piece looks almost like the cat is sporting bruises and dents; she’s curled up in a closet and surrounded by spider webs tying her to a wall, beast face on as she struggles against an unseen captor.

That might be the most interesting one so far—or so I think until I come to one that feels the angriest in style.

The subjects are small, yet intricate, and curled up in a corner as the looming darkness creeps towards them.

It’s very abstract, and I don’t know what all the pieces around them mean, but I can only assume they’re symbolic.

A ribbon, a bottle, a tooth, a jester hat, a crown, and a match are in various places in the room.

There are roots extending from the figures, going deep into the ground, and planting them in place.

It’s not the subtlest of symbols, that one.

Again, it feels like they've buried more than I realized. That painting alone, sitting next to the spider webs on one side and flanked by one of the Minx in extreme closeup, tells a tale. She has a tear of blood and a look of anguish so deep that it hurts my heart to look at it. It tells me they’ve gotten hurt far worse than I knew.

There’s a space next to the tear sketch, and I can only wonder what piece he took down and put away that follows that timeline.

Whatever it is, I doubt either of them is ready to share it. He must have taken the more controversial pieces down after my primary started visiting here.

“I brought the food, mate,” he says, and I turn on my heel, pretending to be interested in a shelf full of gorgeous ceramics. “The glasses are on the bar unless we’re drinking from the bottle.”

“Mate, you don’t drink eighteen-year-old Macallan from the bottle. It’s not done,” I scoff, striding over to the bar and picking up two glasses. I pause by where he’s plopped down on the bed. “Do you prefer rocks?”

“Neat, please. Don’t worry; they don’t leak. I’m skilled at glassblowing. The git at the place I go to says I could work for the crystal barons,” he grins a bit, chomping on something that I’ll admit smells fucking fantastic.

Looking at the glasses with their raised, etched designs, I concur.

Is there any art form he’s not fucking fantastic at?

Padding over to the bed, I pick up one of the deep-fried something or other.

I give it an offhand glance, considering before I chomp it down.

Holy hell, that git that cooks for them is goddamn amazing.

The lounger was gone for ten bloody minutes.

Deciding to get comfortable, I walk back to the couch for a moment.

I shrug out of my duster and then grab my glass, perching at the end of the bed.

“Bloody good scotch. I’m glad you brought it,” he says, still munching from the plate of unidentified deliciousness.

“I almost didn’t. The last time I shared a finger of this with someone other than my wife, it didn’t go well.

” I sip, remembering what ensued when I did.

Clearing my throat, I push that away as that twat will not monopolize my thoughts.

I have more important things to attend to tonight.

“Then again, it’s always a good time for good taste. ”

I see the shadows pass over his features at the mention of that night, but he rights the ship very well. His face changes as he tucks his emotions away. He is skilled in that. “That is the truth.” He sips again, closing his eyes.

Savoring my drink, I take a private moment to admire the long-haired fiend in front of me.

I gaze at the muscles, skin, and form of the man who flipped a switch I didn’t know I had, wondering what draws me.

He’s packaged right nicely—as are we all—but he’s different.

Taking another sip, I school my thoughts before he opens his eyes .

When he does, he gestures at the space. “Get comfortable. I can turn it up.”

I blink, looking over to see a TV on the wall playing a martial arts flick. I feel stupid when I realize I didn’t even notice it was on. There’s no sound, so that explains the headphones he was sporting when I came in.

“Sure, turn the volume on. I planned on seeing this one with the goddess one night, but got paged to Bucharest for a job and never got back to it.” Having it on takes a bit of the silence pressure off, and I look around, wondering about the comfortable.

After a moment or two of internal debate, I settle on unbuttoning my shirt and tossing it on the couch with my duster, then lowering myself onto the mattress and sprawling out.

It makes me smile a bit when I catch him looking me over as he digs for a remote and turns the sound on. “I’ve been meaning to for a while myself. The boys filled up the queue again the other day, and I was pleased to find some things I’d missed. This guy’s always good for a laugh.”

“I have to respect a bloke who’s not like us and does his own stunts.

” I turn to look at him, giving him a grin.

“I could pose and let you look if you want to admire. Maybe flex a bit? We could stop dancing around the fact that we shagged like we were feral, and I loved every bloody second of it. Or we could watch a movie, whichever sounds good.” I shrug, deciding to slide back into casual disinterest because I don’t have a clue what he’s thinking.

He snorts, looking both surprised and amused. “I don’t think you need to pose; you look good enough without it for sure. Dancing wasn’t my plan, but the scotch was a pleasant bonus. What would you rather do instead?”

I didn’t prepare for that question. “I don’t know.

These are deep, unfamiliar waters, and I’m not sure of sharks or rip currents.

I’m not sure of anything besides knowing you were the first, and you know it.

I’m not sure what the next step is. It’s not in my nature to let it lie, though, as nothing gets solved that way. ”

Tilting his head, he sighs. “No, it doesn’t.

I knew I was when we did it. It means something.

I didn’t think about then, and well, it was novel to me.

I’ve never been that to someone before.” Pausing, he licks his lips, setting the plate aside.

“The next step is more about what you want. It was good, and I would do it again if I could.”

I snarl, giving him a dark look. “I’m not the writer. I’m not sure why I want you or what I feel for you, but I’m not the writer.”

“Thank Christ for that.”

The vehemence behind that statement is interesting, but I don’t have time to examine it. I sit up, moving closer to him with a defiant look. “What do you want me to be?”

His expression changes, eyes blinking a bit of the gold as he looks me over again from head to toe. Moving closer but not touching me, he growls low. “What I want is for you to be mine.”

Everything in me tenses in surprise, but I rein it in, not showing the shock at his words.

I didn’t expect that for a second, but I move closer, laying my palms on his abs and flexing my fingers.

“Fuck, why? You and I, mate, we’re fire and water.

I’d give you no respite, no calm, no peace.

It’s not in me to do so. You are everything I’m not, except fucking gorgeous, because you are that.

This want I have for you? This craving is a deep hunger.

I hunger for your blood—having it pour over my tongue, explode over my senses—and for your body.

” I notice the navel ring and flick it, amused by the body mods I see I missed in our frenzy the day before.

“I want you; I do. I don’t know what to do. Help me. ”

“Perhaps because you are opposite, because you’re strong and passionate, it draws me.

Believe me; I’ve got plenty of calm on my own.

I’m hungry for you like—fuck, I can’t even describe how, but it’s more than I’ve felt for another man before.

You hit a primal place; you make me burn, and I like it.

I want you to be mine. I want to drown in you like yesterday, but more and whenever I can. Your looking at me is making me crazy.”

The primal inside is raging, demanding an answer. Springing forward, I tackle him, cutting his shoulder with a fang and licking off the tiniest bit. “Fine. You want me? You take me.”

“Fine by me,” he growls, lunging forward.

The conversation’s over for now.