Ashlyn
I surveyed Marco’s bedroom when I stepped out of the bathroom, my hair damp from the shower I’d just taken. The room was a mess, Marco’s belongings still strewn about from my frantic search for a tablet the night before.
I expect this mess to be cleaned up by this time tomorrow. His stern words echoed in my head. I still internally balked at being ordered around like an unruly child, but I didn’t dare test Marco. If he told me to clean up the room, I’d clean it up. Besides, I had been the one to make the mess, and it was his room I’d torn apart.
I wondered why he was even letting me stay in his bedroom, but I decided it didn’t matter. Maybe he liked one of the other bedrooms in the house better. It wasn’t really any of my concern.
What I was concerned with was getting the room tidy before meeting Joseph downstairs for dinner. After spending the afternoon cuddling on the couch and binge watching Stranger Things, he’d told me he needed to take a phone call from his father. I’d decided to take a shower while he talked to his dad, and I hoped Marco wasn’t around when I did go down to meet Joseph for dinner. I really didn’t like being near him, so I hoped he ate his dinner and left before I arrived in the kitchen.
But first, I had to clean up the mess I’d made. Before I’d tossed Marco’s things around the room, it had been neat as a pin, everything organized and in an orderly place. Even his pencils were carefully laid out in a neat row in the top drawer, each one sharpened to a perfect point. Why one person needed so many pencils, I didn’t understand.
It didn’t matter why he had them; all that mattered was that I put them back into their orderly little row. I’d also thrown several books around—mostly biographies. I put them back on the bookshelf where they belonged, even placing them in alphabetical order by author when I realized the pattern of the books that remained on the shelf. I didn’t want Marco to be able to accuse me of doing a bad job at cleaning up. I didn’t want him to have any reason to get all intimidating and in my space again.
When the books were back in order, I returned to the desk. I put some notepads back in place on the polished wood surface before moving to shut the drawers I’d nearly yanked out of the desk altogether in my desperation.
My eyes caught on a large, leather-bound book that had been hidden in one of the drawers. It was soft to the touch, the forest green leather worn from extensive handling. There weren’t any markings on the cover, and it seemed too large to be one of Marco’s numerous non-fiction titles that he stored on the bookshelf.
Curiosity urged me to pick up the book and flip it open.
My heart stuttered.
The leather cover didn’t conceal an obscure biography or novel. This was a sketchbook. And the first sketch was… unsettling.
Perverted.
Dirty.
Wrong.
The lead pencil strokes were light, as soft and elegant as the woman portrayed in the drawing. As a work of art, it was breathtaking. But what really stole my breath was the subject of the drawing. The woman was naked, her back arched and her lips parted on a silent cry. Her expression was one of ecstasy, her eyes closed and the lines of her face drawn with erotic tension. Her breasts were thrust out, her nipples peaked.
But her nudity was the least disturbing part of the drawing. Twisted strands of rope were wrapped around her body, framing her breasts and putting them on lewd display. Her arms were drawn tight behind her, forcing her back to arch toward the artist. She was on her knees, her thighs spread wide to reveal her bare sex.
After several long minutes, I turned the page, trying to replace the image that was burned into my mind. My breath caught. There was another bound woman. She was different—her hair darker, her nose slightly smaller with a gentle slope. Both women were beautiful, but unique. I flipped the page again. Another woman, her body twisted by the rope that bound her. Her mouth was open on a silent scream, and I was unsure if it was one of pleasure or pain.
Transfixed by morbid curiosity, I continued to flip through the book, finding sketch after lewd sketch. I tried to appreciate the artist’s skill, but all I could focus on were the women, their faces contorted in various states of erotic expression. Some were serenely blissful, others shouting out. I couldn’t tell if those women were screaming for more or for mercy, and that unsettled me more than anything.
I was about a third of the way through the book when I gasped. This woman wasn’t bound. She wasn’t naked. It was a close-up portrait of her face. Her dark hair contrasted with her pale skin. Her irises were nearly black, almost swallowed by her dilated pupils. Her eyes were so wide that her long lashes brushed her brows, and her full lips were parted on a gasp that mirrored my own.
It wasn’t just the look of shock, the hint of fear in her eyes, that resembled my current state. I was looking at myself.
“
That’s you, on the night I met you.”
I yelped and nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of Marco’s deep voice. His massive body filled the open doorway, and his black eyes studied me with keen interest.
“I went to that dive bar at Harvard, looking for Joseph so I could bring him home,” he continued. “I found you there. My people who’d tracked him down told me he had a girlfriend. I knew if I confronted you, Joseph would come straight for me.”
He stepped into the room, but I couldn’t move away. I was frozen, locked in place by his dark stare. My breathing came fast and shallow as he approached. He didn’t stop until mere inches separated our bodies. Just like on the night we’d met, he leaned over me, his powerful aura bearing down on me. My heart hammered in my chest, signaling that I should flee.
But I couldn’t move. My feet were rooted to the floor, and my fingers were going numb around the leather binding of the sketchpad.
Marco’s sketchpad. His drawings. His darkness, put down on paper in lurid detail.
One corner of his lips twitched. “You were so pretty, with your big blue eyes all wide. Like a frightened doe. I understood why Joseph had become obsessed with you.” He gestured at the book. “Turn the page, curious little girl. You know you want to.”
“I don’t,” I squeaked. “I didn’t mean to pry. I—”