Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
The paintings can wait? Dr. Lovell would never…and yet he was. And he was looking at me as if I were the crazy one, tilting his head to the side. “You all right, Druella?”
“Yes. Ugh…good night.” I watched him gather all of his papers and head back up the stairs, humming to himself.
It took a second for the elevator to come back, but he didn’t turn to me or the artwork. Happily, and unthinkingly, he got on and went back home.
What in the hell?
Chapter 8
“What did you do to him?” I asked once Dr. Lovell had gone, still a bit stunned.
“Even you must know that we can influence the mortals to our will,” he replied as if I had asked him something ridiculous; maybe I had, but I still didn’t understand.
“Influence?” I shifted my gaze from the elevator door to his perfectly sculpted face. “As in brainwash?”
“As in influence,” he repeated again, lifting one of the paintbrushes off the desk, feeling the bristles. “It works almost all of the time, especially the stronger we are in will and they are not in thought.”
So, brainwashing. “So, the sticky note?”
“That is what you call the small square paper you left with this odd thing?” he questioned, lifting my phone.
“Yes, a cell phone.” I took it back from him, making sure he didn’t break it. “Which was useless, seeing as you just decided to influence your way into my work.”
He frowned as he caught my meaning. “Forgive me, I planned to wait; however, I missed you and was curious.”
There he went saying those things again. Ignoring it, I focused on what had just happened instead. “What happened between Simone and you? You both were acting like you secretly knew each other and didn’t like it.”
He didn’t answer, instead walking to my work station, looking down at what I had spent all of my day on. “You’ve done it justice.”
“If that means you like it, thank you; it is my job, though.”
“Not everyone is good at their work, or enjoys it for that matter.” He reached the ends of the frame. “With our abilities, you could have finished this with great speed, and yet, you took time and even worked with gentleness. You did your best to match my every brushstroke.”
“Again, thank you,” I said, coming up beside him. “But you have not told me what happened with Simone?”
He smirked, his head tipping to me. “Do you not see I am avoiding giving you an answer?”
“Yes, I see that very well. But why?”
“Because there are many things I do not understand of the world I have woken up into, and I do not wish to complicate the life you are trying to live by telling you what I am unsure of.”
I sighed deeply. “Please tell me you are not one of those men who feel as though they must keep secrets from women and expect them to just trust their judgment on how they should live?”
“Would that be wrong?” he frowned.
“Very.” I frowned back. “Would you be okay with me doing the same thing to you?”
“It depends on what the circumstances were.”
“Fine, keep your secrets; I have plenty of work to do,” I muttered and pulled out my chair in front of the desk, sitting down to put on a new pair of gloves. Slowly, I set up all my tools once more and pretended he wasn’t only inches from me.
“Why do you do this sort of work?”
“Why are you still here instead of figuring out why you painted portraits of me?” I questioned back, leaning over the painting before picking up a roll of cotton towels and cutting them into smaller squares.
“Why do you continue to question why I am here when I have told you so?”
I glanced up, gripping the scissors. “Why do you continue to stay when I told you I’m not your mate?”
He leaned on the desk beside me, but I didn’t look up. “Because you have not told me to leave you.”
I didn’t respond.
“So, you answer my questions with questions and my statements with silence.”
Still, I didn’t reply.
Instead, placing my scissors down and picking up the solvent—it was blended with potassium oleate and worked best for oil paintings.
“You do not use CL-84?”
“CL-84? That’s a bit dated and could ruin the underline integrity of the art, especially on works like these. Which you would already know because you created the art, and of course, would know how to clean them.” I drifted off, seeing the corner of his mouth lift. I didn’t even last two minutes before I began to answer his questions. Now I really couldn’t look at him, even though I could feel his eyes on me. It didn’t help that he turned more toward me and leaned in.
“I do not know,” he said. “I have never cared to clean my art myself.”