Elena
My fingers trembled around the brush handle, the sable strands drifting inches from the canvas where a woman’s face waited to emerge from shadow.
“Your grip.” Julian’s voice came from behind me. “You’re holding it like it might bite.”
My throat tightened. “How else do you expect me to hold it?”
His hand found mine before I could finish the sentence. Calloused fingers curled around my knuckles, rough, warm. The brush dipped, touched canvas, and a line of burnt umber followed the curve of a jaw I hadn’t known was there.
“Like this,” he said. His voice was low and dark. “You don't need to hold it like you two are fighting.”
My skin prickled where he had touched me. His chest pressed against my back through my clothes; it was solid and warm. I could feel the shape of him…lean and c
