Chapter 8: Artistic License
The scratch of charcoal on primed canvas was the only sound for a long time. It was a dry, rhythmic whisper, syncopated by the distant hum of city traffic fourteen floors below and the occasional drip of a tap in the kitchen sink.
Lilah had settled into the ache of staying still. The oversized armchair was deep and forgiving, but her muscles, trained for constant motion, protested. She held the pose Jace had asked for: curled slightly into herself, one hand lost in the sleeve of Nathan’s sweater, her face turned toward the bleached-white sky beyond the windows. She wasn’t looking at anything in particular. She was letting her mind drift into the neutral zone she accessed during long ambulance rides, where the world outside became a blur and her own thoughts quieted to a background hum.
Jace worked in focused, intense bursts, then stepped back, head tilted, his gaze flicking between her and the emerging sketch on the large canvas. He was quieter than she’d expected. The playful energy was there, banked, transformed into a different kind of intensity.
“You’re thinking about him,” Jace said, his voice breaking the long silence. It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation.
Lilah’s eyes refocused, finding his. He had a smudge of charcoal on his cheekbone. “A little.”
“Good.” He made a swift, broad stroke on the canvas. “It’s in the shoulders. The way you’re holding them. Like you’re waiting for a weight to come back.”
“Maybe I am,” she admitted, the words surprising her. She usually armored herself against such admissions.
Jace just nodded, as if she’d confirmed a color theory. “He’ll call. Probably from the tarmac. He’s predictable like that.” He swapped the charcoal for a thin brush dipped in a watery gray, starting to block in shadows. “He hates flying. Makes him feel out of control.”
The intimacy of the detail—Nathan’s private fear—sent a small shock through her. It was a piece of him, handed to her casually. “And you?” she asked. “What do you hate?”
“Empty spaces,” he said without looking up. “Silence that lasts too long.” He glanced at her, a quick, bright flash. “Overthinking. Which you’re doing right now. Stop it. Just be.”
She took a breath, letting her shoulders drop, releasing the conscious thought of Nathan, of Danny, of everything. She stared out at a single seagull riding a thermal, a white scrap against the gray. Time lost its shape, measured only in the soft tap of Jace’s brush against the glass palette, the creak of the floorboard under his shifting weight.
Her lips were dry. Without thinking, she ran her tongue over them, then caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at a flake of skin.
The sound stopped.
She felt the change in the air before she saw it. The focused quiet of the studio tightened, coiling into something else. She turned her head.
Jace had frozen, the brush held loosely in his hand, dripping a single pearl of Payne’s gray onto the floor. He was staring at her mouth, his earlier artistic scrutiny gone, replaced by a raw, naked hunger that stripped away all the playful pretense. The easel was forgotten.
“Fuck being patient,” he said, the words a low growl in the quiet room.
He dropped the brush. It clattered against the leg of the easel. Three long strides and he was across the space, his movement all fluid, sudden purpose. Before she could process it, his hands were on the arms of the chair, caging her in. The scent of turpentine and clean sweat enveloped her.
“Jace—” His name was half-question, half-warning, but it died in her throat as he leaned down.
He didn’t kiss her. He stopped a breath away, his eyes searching hers. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Tell me this is just a painting, and I’ll go back over there and be a good boy.”
She could feel the heat radiating from him. She could see the golden stubble along his jaw, the fleck of paint on his neck. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. This was too fast. This was reckless. This was everything she’d sworn off.
She didn’t tell him to stop.
A sound escaped him, part frustration, part triumph. His hands slid from the chair arms, under the bulk of Nathan’s sweater, finding the bare skin of her waist. His fingers were warm, calloused from his work, possessive. He hauled her up out of the chair and into him in one smooth motion.
The kiss was nothing like Nathan’s. It wasn’t slow or measured. It was all heat and demand, an open flame to Nathan’s smoldering coal. Jace kissed like he lived—spontaneous, consuming, without apology. One hand fisted in the back of the sweater, the other cupped the nape of her neck, holding her exactly where he wanted her.
Lilah’s hands came up, gripping the front of his paint-stained t-shirt for balance. The rational part of her brain, the part that catalogued risks and consequences, flickered and went dark. Here was no brooding intensity to navigate, no heavy silence to interpret. Just want, simple and direct, and her own answering need, a wildflower pushing through cracked concrete.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. “You have no idea,” he rasped, “how long I’ve been thinking about this. All morning. Watching you sit there, wrapped in his shit, looking so…” He trailed off, biting lightly at her jawline, then her throat. “Mine.”
The word sparked a reaction. She pushed against his chest, not to get away, but to create an inch of space. “I’m not,” she breathed.
“Right now you are.” His hands slid down to her hips, pulling her flush against him so she could feel exactly how much he meant it. “He’s not here. I am.” He kissed her again, softer this time, a persuasive slide of his tongue against hers. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
She couldn’t. The evidence was pressing against her, and the liquid heat pooling low in her own belly was a traitorous confession. She kissed him back, her fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. It was an answer.
With a grunt, he walked her backwards, until her shoulder blades met the cool, textured surface of the studio wall. Canvases rattled in their stacks nearby. He peeled the heavy sweater off her shoulders, letting it puddle on the floor, a dark heap at their feet. The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands were everywhere, warming her.
His mouth was on her collarbone, his teeth scraping, while his thumbs swept over the peaks of her breasts through the thin cotton of her tank top. “You’re so fucking strong,” he muttered against her skin, his voice full of awe. “And so fucking soft.”
The juxtaposition, his own artistic term thrown back in the heat of the moment, almost made her laugh. Instead, a gasp tore from her as he hooked a finger under the strap of her tank top and dragged it down, following the path with his mouth. Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud. Her eyes closed.
The world narrowed to sensation: the rough texture of the wall against her bare back, the bite of his stubble on her sensitive skin, the solid, unyielding pressure of his body keeping her pinned. It was overwhelming. It was perfect. It was a fire that burned away every memory of sterile break rooms and lonely apartments and the hollow echo of a flatline.
Her pager, clipped to the discarded sweater on the floor, erupted in a series of shrill, urgent beeps.
The sound was a bucket of ice water.
Jace froze, his lips still pressed to the slope of her breast. A ragged curse vibrated against her skin.
Lilah’s eyes flew open. The studio snapped back into focus—the paintings, the smell, the sunlight. The beeping was relentless, the specific tone for a high-priority response. “Shit,” she whispered, the professional part of her brain slamming back online with brutal efficiency.
She pushed at Jace’s shoulders. “I have to go. That’s a major trauma call.”
He leaned his forehead against the wall beside her head, his breath coming in hard gusts. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” She ducked under his arm, her body already shifting gears, adrenaline replacing desire. She scooped up the pager, silencing it, and scanned the code. Multi-vehicle collision on the I-5 bridge. Four-plus patients. “Fuck. I have to roll.”
Jace watched her, his chest heaving, his expression a complex mix of frustration, understanding, and residual heat. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a faint gray streak from the charcoal. “Right. Of course.” He sounded dazed.
She grabbed her scrubs top from the back of the chair, her movements clinical and fast. As she pulled it on, she looked at him, standing there against the paint-splattered wall, looking beautifully, utterly wrecked. A pang of something sharp and sweet hit her. “Jace…”
He held up a hand, a wry smile touching his lips. “Go. Save lives. Be a hero.” He gestured vaguely at the canvas, where her ghostly, half-formed image stared back. “She’ll keep.”
She finished buttoning her top, scooped up her keys and shoes. At the loft door, she paused, her hand on the cool metal. He was still watching her, his eyes dark.
“Use the key,” he said, echoing Nathan’s words but with his own inflection. “Later. Come back. The door’ll be open.”
She nodded once, a quick, sharp movement, then was gone, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, leaving behind the silence, the smell of turpentine, and the vivid, unfinished promise on the wall.