Chapter 17

Tab numbly sank back into the sketchpad, and flipped to a new page absently. His throat felt dry, and—as he always had when something had ruffled his feathers—he put pen to paper. Tab typically drew in pen, and now, rather than the tidy little edges of cartoons or comics, he drew the long, hard dashes of a physique. The sharp angles of bone. The harsh grate of stubble on scalp and jaw.

He drew Nick. He drew Nick through Tab’s eyes, the feral beauty and unattainable charge in him—and it ached.

* * * *

The first Tab knew of anything—of course—was when the glass door to the training room slammed back and Uncle Eddie barged into the foyer, his assistant instructor Marcus at his elbow, both holding up a couple of staggering students. The red was blood this time, and Tab scrambled out of his seat for the first-aid kit.