I suppress any reaction to the tickling sensations.

“Funny,” Jeb continues, “how I thought something so insignificant could put a dent in what that drunk bastard did.” He laughs. Not the heartwarming laugh he used to have. It’s deep, brittle, and mirthless. “Now . . . now I can paint a piercing anywhere on my body, or a tattoo, and they become real. Alive. Powerful.” He sweeps the cool, creamy liquid across my back, creating a cropped T-shirt. “Anything I make will fight for me. My labret could be as deadly as a samurai sword. All I have to do is paint it and command it. If I’d had that in our world, I could’ve stopped him from hurting Mom and Jen. I could’ve made their lives better. I can do that here.” He pauses. “I have, you know. Those scenes play out as they should’ve. Every time, my old man is the one beaten to a pulp. And Jen and Mom are untouched and happy.”

I shiver, terrified at how detached he’s become from reality. “Jeb, that’s not your sister and mom. These are all just paintings. You know that, right?”

His brush resumes its journey across my back, but he says nothing.

“You have to let go of the guilt,” I say. “You were only a kid. If you let it fester, it will kill everything good inside you. You’re not like him. Even when he hurt you, you weren’t violent. That’s what made you a better person. Not the power to hurt him back, but the power to rise above and help your sister and mom have a good life in spite of it. You found a way to do that peacefully, through your art.”

“I’ve found an even better way now.” The danger edging his voice makes the hair along my neck stand up.

Tears singe my eyes. A few slip free and run down my face. They hang at my jawline before dripping down and spattering on my chest.

Jeb finishes the back of my shirt—leaving slits at my shoulder blades for wings—and moves to my front. He studies my face. “You’re going to have to stop crying. You’ll smear the paint.”

“Jeb, please.”

“It’s not worth the tears,” he assures me, though a tremor shakes his voice as he notices the wetness on my chest. He drags a horizontal strip of paint along the bottom of my rib cage and above my navel to form the shirt’s front hem. “You’re looking at this all wrong. To be able to create your own scenes and landscapes. That means you get to reign over them. Hell, I’ve given myself wings with my shadow. I can fly with you. Together, we could rule this world and build our own happy endings. I have everything to offer you that Morpheus has.” He juts out his chin in thought. “Had,” he corrects with a smug smile.

My lungs ache, as if he’s knocked the breath from me. “I don’t want those things from you. I love your faults and imperfections. Your kind heart. The scars that match mine, and the struggles to find ourselves. I want your humanness. Nothing else.”

He frowns. What I wouldn’t give to witness his lips break into a genuine smile. The one with those dimples I love. My throat hurts, clogged with emotions I’m afraid to unleash.

“I would’ve followed you anywhere,” he mumbles, his voice raw with agony. “All I ever wanted was to spend forever with my best friend. With the girl who gave life to my paintings. But I’m not the one who inspired your mosaics, am I? It was always Wonderland. That’s why you chose him.”

“Chose him? It was a kiss, that’s all—”

“It’s not the kiss. Sometimes words are louder than actions.”

“Words . . . ? What words?”

“The promise you gave him that you couldn’t give me.”

I growl to keep from crying again. “You’re not making sense. Please, tell me what you mean.” Maybe Morpheus told him about my vow. If he’s been taunting Jeb this whole time about our day together, that would explain some of this animosity. But not all of it.

“No more talking. I need to concentrate.” Jeb fills in the lower half of my shirt. He layers paint along the skin beneath my bust line, avoiding where my necklaces hang. I should take them off . . . get them out of his way, but I can’t move because the brush is riding the curve of my right breast, coating it so no bandage peeks through.

Jeb’s breath catches at the same time as mine. I know his body language, how the muscles work in his jaw when he’s struggling to stay in control.

The brush becomes an extension of his hand. It doesn’t matter that bristles and a handle stand between us. Even through the bandages, I can feel our connection. There’s no heat, or warmth, or pressure. It’s a deeper bond, born of friendship and hard-won trust: a summoning beneath the skin, as if my spirit calls to him.

I sip slivers of air with each movement of his brush . . . afraid to breathe too loud, afraid to move. Afraid if I disturb the atmosphere in any way, I’ll break the spell he’s under. Maybe I can bring him back, help him remember the good parts of his human life. Maybe, if I can get him to reach out and hold me, it will remind him of everything we meant to each other.

His hand starts to shake the moment he finishes painting my left breast.

“Jeb.” I venture a whispered plea. “All those weeks I was in the asylum, I gave in to my madness, faced those fears. But I never forgot you. Or us. Please, show me you remember, too.”

His gaze intensifies on mine. My body aches with longing, familiar with that look from the past.

The palette and brush clatter at my feet as he grabs my face, careful not to smear the paint on my chest. His thumb traces the trails my tears made on my cheek and then nudges the dimple in my chin. His breath cloaks my face, warm and sweetened by the honeycomb-flower he ate earlier.

I run my palm across his chest and lower, seeking his scars through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Seeking the Jeb I’ve grown up with. My solid rock in spite of his own brokenness.

He groans. His fingers thread through the hair bunched at the base of my neck. I clutch his shirt, tip my face to kiss the labret at the edge of his lower lip.

With a surprised sound, he breaks my hold and jerks back. Red light reflects off his face. We look down at my neck simultaneously. The diary’s pages are glowing.

“What is that thing?” His voice is thick with emotion. The red light flickers in his eyes like candles’ flames. His expression changes from curious to mesmerized. He uses his pinky to lift the two strings grazing my collarbone, managing not to touch the dip between my breasts.