Lucas frowned. “That’s not—”
Megan stared at the notebook. A cold dread pooled in her stomach. “Why do you care?”
The voice was low, amused. She turned to find Lucas Vane leaning against the doorframe. Lucas was the kind of handsome that made people use words like “chiseled” and “brooding.” He was also captain of the swim team, which meant he had no business in the art room. megan inky
Lucas’s phone buzzed. He looked down. Megan smiled, tired but genuine.
Megan Inky wasn’t her real name. Her real name was Megan O’Connor, but she’d earned the nickname in fourth grade when she accidentally uncapped six permanent markers in her backpack during silent reading. The resulting explosion of blue, black, and red left her hands, face, and the entire inside of her desk looking like a Jackson Pollock painting. From that day on, she was Megan Inky. Lucas frowned
“My great-grandfather saw it once, in a dream,” Lucas said quietly. “He spent forty years trying to bring it here. He believed it could grant a wish to whoever woke it. One wish. Anything.”
Now, at seventeen, Megan had embraced the moniker. She wore ink-stained jeans like a badge of honor, and her favorite hoodie—once gray, now a constellation of faded blotches—was her uniform. But the ink wasn’t just a cosmetic issue anymore. Megan had a secret. “Why do you care
Today, however, Megan’s secret was about to become the least of her problems.
“Lucas?” She instinctively covered her drawing with a sketchbook. “What are you doing here?”
Megan had nearly screamed in the middle of Mr. Henderson’s lecture on the Treaty of Versailles.