“You’ve done more than enough. May the Gods bless you, child.”
With this, she ambles away, and I stand there for a moment, forgetting I was on my way to use the restroom.
Why would a Jewish woman invoke more than one God?
“Is everything alright?”
I’m not even seated across from Ilian when he asks, concern etched into his features.
“Yes, I’m just overthinking things—not about us.” I add this last bit in a rush lest Ilian adds more guilt to the already heaping pile he’s built.
He eyes me skeptically, but I ignore him, shivering a bit as I dig out another sweater. The Ithaqua cocks his massive skull.
“Cold?”
“Freezing! I don’t get it. I’m usually never really bothered by the chill, but every day, it seems to grow worse. I can’t figure it out since the weather is actually a bit warmer today.”
Ilian frowns, and I marvel at how expressive his face is given that it’s literally carved from bone.
“It’s the bond,” he finally grumbles after a moment. I just raise a brow, waiting for him to continue. “It’s trying to find new ways to throw us together since…”
“Since what?”
“Since I resolved not to touch you anymore.”
A scowl crimps my lips—I suspected as much. “Well, clearly, the bond is going to go out of its way to keep us together, maybe we should give it what it wants in small doses to appease it.”
Ilian looks skeptical. “I doubt small doses would appease either of us.”
Fair.
“Then we need something to distract ourselves.”
“What do you propose?”
“We could…I dunno…oh, we could draw!”
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.”
