His studio was in shambles. Again. Torn, busted canvases lay scattered about. Easels tottered on broken legs. Jars of paint burst and spilled where they hadn’t simply shattered against the walls and the floor and the thick-paned windows. Sticky and wet and gleaming like so many mixed streams of gore, the whole place had the

There was a faraway look in her eyes. Sesshoumaru had seen it before, this silvery, enigmatic misting of her gaze. It was not a look of sleepy detachment, but of active thought removed elsewhere. Why it transfixed him now, and not before, he couldn’t say—except that his desperation to pin her down had led him

Though her rejection of him was a foregone conclusion, Sesshoumaru was gutted by it just the same. At first, he sent her a long series of texts, which she ignored. He hazarded calling her, only to find that her phone was turned off. He debated attempting to seek her out in person—then realized at last

It amazed him, how easily Kagome assimilated into his daily life. He had never gotten on well in close quarters with anyone—not even his parents, and especially not his obnoxious little brother. His creative space had always been a prized commodity; his privacy, a jealously-guarded thing. But now Sesshoumaru wondered how he had ever lived