I pull out some papers and a few pens from my bag, handing one over to Ilian, who stares down at me in confusion.

“Don’t you ever just draw?”

“Not really, unless you count all the ink I do for people.”

“You never sketch out your ideas on paper first?”

“No. If a client comes to me like you, the piece is inspired in the moment, from Aisyth. Otherwise, I work with what clients give me to use, such as their own drawings or pictures.

In fact, I was certain you would use your piece that you entered for the contest as your tat—I was a little disappointed that you didn’t.”

His comment takes me aback. “What—why?”

“Because it was nearly the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I would’ve been honored to ink your art.”

“What’s the most beautiful ink you’ve ever seen then?”

“I said ‘thing’—not ink.”

I quirk a brow. “Alright, what’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Your smile.”

Through our bond, I sense his sincerity. “Ilian, you can’t say things like that to me, and then expect me to keep my hands to myself.”

“You’re right. Apologies, soyam. It’s hard to not cross the line where you’re concerned, but I promise I’m not trying to make anything more difficult for you.”

But he is, whether he wants it or not.

With every passing hour, the bond cinches down upon me, a chokehold that won’t release until I go to the source of the air I need to breathe.

If Ilian feels a fraction of what I do, then the man is a damned saint. The Ithaqua will barely look me in the eye.

Then again, guilt is a powerful emotion that can snuff out the light inside of a person. We need to find a way to fix this problem before it consumes Ilian.

“So sketching,” he prompts, no doubt sensing the swirl of anxiety that rips through me like a tornado.

“Right. I love to draw. I doodle on nearly everything. It’s a good stress reliever and helps distract me from my thoughts.”

“And what do you draw?”

“Whatever comes to mind, really.”

“Interesting. When you did the piece for the Inked contest, what ‘came to your mind’?”

Uh oh.

“Erm…”

Ilian stares at me, his bright gaze intensifying. “You’re panicking again.”

“Trying to make a decision.”

“About what?”

“Whether to tell you the truth.”

Ilian leans back, assessing me. Through our bond, I know I’ve offended him as the Ithaqua values honesty.

“I would prefer that you do.”

“It’s not what you think—I wasn’t going to lie to you by any means, but rather, it’s a bit embarrassing for me. The truth, that is.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, soyam. Why would you be embarrassed to tell me what you were thinking when you drew your contest piece? Are you ashamed of death?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Death?”

“Is that not what your piece is about?”

At this, I laugh. “Not at all…it’s about you.”

The man gapes like I’ve coshed him upside the skull. “Me? But why?”

I squirm, not really wanting to tell him the rest, but I also sense that he won’t let this go. “I’ve been fantasizing about you for months. The piece is about death, but ‘la petite mort’—you know, the ones I have thinking about you.”

Ilian growls, the low rumble making me jump.

“Get out!”

The words shock me, and all I can do is blink at Ilian. He’s practically vibrating in his seat, his light gray fur standing on end.

“Wh-what’s wrong?”

“Hurry, soyam, before I lose control!”

Something feral slashes across his features, a dark hungry look that boils my blood and sends heat straight to my core.

“No. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ilian glares, but I refuse to budge because even though this bond isn’t my choosing, I can’t help but need this man with every fiber of my being.

And I want him to lose control.

CHAPTER TEN

Ilian