Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
I finally caught my breath enough to speak the genuine words to Luke. “Why? This is as much yours as it is mine. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
His smile was pleased and soft. “It wasn’t my story to tell, and all you needed was a nudge. I’d tell you I’m sorry it was painful, but . . . I’m not. That pain was unfortunately necessary.” He leaned in, as if the din of the crowd was too loud and he needed to whisper into my ear, and set his fingertips against the bare skin of my back. He was always touching me these days, like he couldn’t get enough of me. “Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”
His lips brushed against the spot where my pulse pounded in my neck, sending electricity zipping through my body. My knees softened.
“The way the roots wrap around his neck,” the woman said, her focus back on the sculpture. On my sculpture. “They look like fingers.”
A smile hinted at my lips. It was macabre, and not subtle about it.
She turned and gestured to the rest of the gallery. “I also like the piece in the corner, the red one.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That one was Luke and I together.” Which I meant literally and figuratively.
“Ah. I’m Gloria Fischer,” she said, extending a hand for a handshake, which I took, and then she moved on to shake Luke’s. “My design firm is handling the renovation of the Becker Hotel. I’m looking for a statement piece to put in the lobby. Something modern and edgy, but also grand.” She reached into her clutch and produced a business card. “I like what I see here. Are you interested in submitting a concept proposal? It’s a luxury hotel, and we expect the artwork to be one of the draws to our clients.”
My heart fluttered, but outwardly I was sure my expression didn’t change. None of my excitement showed. As I took the card, Luke’s hand curled around my other wrist, and I could feel how thrilled he was through our connection. It seeped into my skin.
“We’d love to,” he said.
“Excellent. Shoot me an email, and I’ll send you the project details.” Her gaze drifted away from us and back to Rebirth. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”
❃ ❃ ❃
I swiped a towelette of makeup remover over my eyes, scrubbing away the mascara, and then peered into the mirror to make sure it was all gone. Satisfied, I placed my hands on the sink counter and let out a deep breath.
The show tonight had been a perfect success. I expected people would talk about it for months to come. I was back. Nikita Petrov would once again have top billing, and the estimated worth of my pieces had doubled. We’d sold two out of the five sculptures we’d shown tonight.
My mother’s voice flitted in my mind. “It’s never enough. There’s no pleasing you, Nikita.”
Yes, I was trapped.
And I’d become a hostage.
But my mother was wrong. For the first time in my life, I had enough. I was . . . happy.
Luke’s cold fingertips touched my skin covering the bones at the top of my spine, making me shiver. He cupped the back of my neck, gently resting his palm there, but I felt his possession all over. My gaze found his through the mirror. He’d taken off his suit jacket and tie, and undone the top buttons of his dress shirt.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” he said in his deep voice.
I spoke quietly. “Thank you.”
I’d hated him once, and now I hated how I loved him even more. We had two more works in progress which I felt confident would exceed everything we’d created thus far.
At first, he’d held me captive with threats of ruin and prison. I’d fought him. I’d broken down in his studio on more than one occasion. Now he held me captive with my own creativity. I produced my best work when he was at my side. I couldn’t leave him, and I didn’t want to.
At least, I thought I didn’t want to.
Our relationship was complex.
He’d been right, too. Monster wasn’t the word to define him. Like me, he put art above everything else, and his attitude was downright ruthless. As an artist, he was a difficult man to hate or love. His process was painful to go through, but the end result was so much greater than what I could produce on my own. We had a true partnership, in and out of the bedroom.
Like me, he’d be full of emotion one moment, insert it into his art, and then cold and distant the next.
His cage around me was so perfectly constructed, he could leave the door wide open and I’d never escape.
His fingers coursed down my shoulder, hooked under the lace-covered strap of my dress, and pulled it off. The slinky fabric slipped away, and my bare breast tumbled free. I watched in the mirror as he moved behind me and his hand curled under my arm, palming my breast. His mouth ghosted kisses on my neck. I sighed into him, pressing my back against his chest and tipped my head so it could rest against his collarbone.