Cassian
Elvie looked at me blinking in confusion. Dammit! Why the hell did I just stop her? I should have let her run back to her room. That would have been the smart thing to do. The safe thing. But watching her hurry away from me with those wide, frightened eyes made something uncomfortably tight coil in my chest.
Now I needed an excuse. A cover-up for why I stopped her.
Glancing around the room, my eyes landed on a fresh, unused canvas resting against the side of an easel. I walked over, picked it up, and walked back to her.
"You said you wanted to paint the other day," I said, keeping my voice as even and controlled as possible. "You can use this." Elvie’s gaze darted from the canvas up to my face,
"O-okay... um... thank you." She stammered, her hands hovering nervously before she took it from me.
I gave her a firm nod. "Do you have paints?"
"Yeah," she murmured softly, looking down at the canvas in her hands. "I used to have some, but they finished, and I haven’t bought any new ones yet."
A dark thought crossed my mind. Did Norman even take care of her properly?
I still hadn’t found the time to look into why she had walked out of Norman’s house in the first place, or why my own brother didn’t even realize I was back in town yet. Granted, word of my return would spread fast enough now that I was officially back as a guest professor at the university.
That thought made a knot of irritation tighten in my gut. What kind of environment had she been living in?
"Hold on,"
I turned around, walked over to my supply cabinet, and pulled open one of the lower drawers. I grabbed several fresh tubes of professional-grade oil paint and a set of high-quality brushes.
Walking back over, I stretched my hand out again to hand them to her. As she reached up to take them, her warm, soft fingers brushed against mine.
Goddammit. A sudden, fierce surge of heat shot straight down to my core, making the front of my trousers uncomfortably tight. I clenched my jaw, fighting the immediate physical reaction.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why did every single point of contact with this girl make my body react like a starving man?
Earlier today, when I saw that girl grabbing Elvie’s arm in the hallway, an overwhelming wave of absolute rage had blinded me.
I hadn’t even processed what I was doing before I grabbed the girl’s wrist and shut her down. But then I had turned right around and barked at Elvie, speaking to her with that same cold, clinical detachment.
I needed to get a grip. I needed to learn how to speak to her properly—maybe even try saying something nice for once. She was already not free around me and my constant shifting between protective and harsh was only making her more uncomfortable around me.
"Thank you, sir," she whispered, clutching the paints against her chest.
I looked up, narrowing my eyes slightly. "What did I tell you about calling me sir?"
A crimson blush instantly crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. She bit her lower lip nervously. "Um... Cassian."
Satisfied, I gave her a curt nod. "Good. Carry on then."
She turned around toward the open doorway, taking a slow step out. But right at the threshold, she paused.
"Um... by the way... you have really good paintings. I didn’t know that you paint. Or that you play the piano."
Before my mind could filter the impulse, and rebuild the wall between us, the words slipped right past my lips. "Do you want to hear me play?"
She froze, her eyes widening in sheer disbelief.
Fuck, Cassian.
I cleared my throat, quickly pulling my composure back into place. "If you’re tired, you can retire to bed," I added smoothly, masking the slip with my usual distant tone. "Perhaps another—"
"I’m not feeling sleepy," she blurted out.
A slow, dark smirk curved the corner of my lips. The phrase translated into something far more dangerous in my head, a wickedly suggestive thought flashing through my mind before I forced it down.
"Come in, then," I said, turning back toward the center of the room.
I walked over to the grand piano and pulled out the wide, double bench. Behind me, the soft sound of her bare feet against the hardwood signaled that she was following. But instead of taking a seat, she stopped right beside the piano, hovering a few feet away with the fresh canvas and paints still clutched tightly against her chest.
Having her stand right there was doing nothing for my focus. If she stayed in my peripheral vision, I knew damn well I’d spend the entire time stealing glances at her. Watching the way the warm lamplight hit the curve of her neck, or tracing the soft rise and fall of her chest and how they will fit if she was under me instead of standing in front of me.
Cassian stop it!
"Are you going to keep standing?" I asked, raising a single eyebrow. "How else are you going to learn how to play?"
Elvie blinked, her jaw dropping slightly. "Huh?"
I gestured to the empty leather cushion beside me. "Sit down, Elvie," I said, my voice dropping an octave.
She swallowed hard, her eyes darting between my face and the small space available on the bench. For a second, I thought she might bolt after all. But then she took a timid step forward, carefully placing the heavy canvas, brushes, and tubes of paint onto the small side table nearby.
Slowly, almost as if she were approaching a wild predator, she lowered herself onto the bench.
She kept a strict, agonizing inch of space between us, sitting so rigidly. The soft, clean scent of vanilla and fresh soap drifted off her skin, instantly filling the narrow gap. It hit me, clouding my mind with images of her wrapped in nothing but a towel.