"So shy," Graves murmurs, slowly tracing his fingers along your bare back, caressing around to your front. "You shouldn't be shy—you're beautiful. My masterpiece."

Your fists clench, breath quivering at the skate of touch. "You didn't make me."

"Of course I did," Graves counters, "I've practically written myself across your skin. Here..." His hand moves, brushing over the scar on your hip.

"Here..." The scar on your ribs.

"Here..." The scar on your throat.

"My perfect masterpiece." He hums.