I should’ve told him to move. I didn’t. “I didn’t know it was private. I’m sorry.”

Magnus drooped slightly, as if he’d expected a different reaction out of me. “What do you think of my drawings?”

I thought they were excellent. But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “You draw a lot of hands.”

“I draw things I care about.”

All of the drawings of Kelela appeared in my mind to taunt me, and I winced. “Does Kelela know how often you draw her?”

“I only draw her when she asks, so yes.”

“What about that scandalous one of you two kissing? Does she know about that one?”

He smirked. “Is that Kelela? You can’t see her face. It could be anyone, really, if you use your imagination.”

My pulse raced, and for a moment I allowed myself to imagine that maybe he hadn’t drawn Kelela. That maybe he had drawn … me. But reality won out. “I don’t think she’d appreciate you drawing her that way.”

“I think you’re cross,” he said, leaning closer, “because you want to be the one I’m kissing.”

I slapped him across the face, so hard I turned his head. I held my breath for an instant, as if my mind had just rejoined my body. It was as if … he had heard my thoughts.

“Retrospectively…” Magnus shifted his jaw a few times to check its balance, removing his hand from his sketchbook to rub his face. “I deserved that.”

It was all instinct, I should’ve said. I was used to having to protect myself. But he didn’t deserve an explanation, let alone an apology.

I put the sketchbook on the table and tried to rise from the chair, but Magnus didn’t back away to accommodate me. I scowled up at him. “You’re in my space.”

“Your space? That’s my chair you’re sitting in.”

“Let me up, Magnus.”

He smiled, teasing me. “What’s the magic word? You know that one you keep telling me to use…?”

I knew what Jember would do. Knife to Magnus’s throat, his magic word would simply be “Move.” Maybe even with an ornamental swear. And then Magnus would have three seconds to obey before Jember dug out his esophagus.

But all I could manage was to release a heavy breath, like my body was swearing without the aid of words. Because he was right about one thing—I wanted nothing more than to drag his warm body into this chair, to see if his lips tasted like the honey and nutmeg he kept near his coffee.

But I wasn’t allowed to want that, was I? He was my employer.

Besides, he was infuriating.

It was strange to make eye contact with our faces so close, but I forced a firm glare to show him I was serious. “You can’t bully me.”