His gaze fell on his sketchbook, discarded on a chair near the window earlier when he had thought sketching might help him settle down. It hadn’t worked, and the book sat there in a wash of moonlight. Mocking him.
He’d promised he wouldn’t do portraits ever again. Certainly would never think about using his Talent again. He shuddered. He dreaded seeing what was inside a person. But tonight, well, if he saw the worst, wasn’t it better to be prepared?
Climbing from the bed, he walked slowly to the sketchbook, as if it were a wild animal that might attack him. He laughed, a laugh he could hear the bitterness in. It wasn’t the sketchbook that might attack.