Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Henrik
Tonight is the night I take her world and make it mine.
Larsa’s already here, fluttering around like an idiot and showing off her insipid pieces.
But Mia’s the one I want to see.
It’s already busy and I hate it.
This is all for her.
And she hasn’t even arrived yet.
I shouldn’t have let them all in at once.
Should’ve made them wait outside in the cold until Mia got here, every last one of them.
Some random girl who’s too young to drink spills red wine on herself.
It makes her look interesting for the first time .
Two critics stand like their opinions mean something.
Someone else is livestreaming the whole thing, rambling on about how exclusive it all is.
Not without Mia, it isn’t.
My whole fucking life is leading to this night.
My perfect world for her.
Our world.
The place I finally have her the way I need to.
The gallery is an extension of my head.
A maze she can get lost in.
It’s like being inside me, if she ever wondered what that was like.
After tonight, she won’t have to wonder.
Each part is curated to fuck with her mind.
With everyone’s mind—with mine.
They’re going to call this a new direction for me.
Critics with opinions that mean less than nothing, idiots with too much money to spend and not enough taste.
It’s a new direction, but it’s all for her. I won’t even bother correcting them.
I think about her, about her reaction.
What she’ll say, what she won’t.
This is how it’s going to happen—she’ll walk in and see that the first gallery has more of her work than mine .
She’ll think it’s a mistake.
She’ll think I forgot my own name.
She’ll call Larsa and point it out and wait for me to notice it’s not supposed to be like that.
When I don’t, she’ll pretend it’s what she wanted all along.
She’ll hold a piece of my work, hers and mine, and she’ll know she owns it.
And me.
I’m tired of this space, empty without her.
So I head out the doors.
Mia’s the first thing I see when I get outside.
Her silhouette against the falling snow—my gothic queen.
The alley lights flicker as she gets closer.
White flurries settle in her hair.
They have no chance against the red of it.
There’s a flash of green as she turns her head, searching.
When she finally catches sight of me, I know what she’ll see.
A man so fucked up with wanting her that he’s been standing in the snow to prove it.
She finally sees me and her smile lights the night.
We head inside and it's full of people, full of life and noise.
Just like my mind every time before I see her.
They’re saying my name like it’s going to make them famous, but I barely hear it.
I barely see anything but the girl who’s hand is wrapped around my heart.
She acts surprised, like she didn’t know this was going to be the night.
She does, though. She knows I'll go to the ends of the Earth for her.
Larsa’s on her the second we’re in.
Mia lets her have this one, lets her think she’s the star.
She’s good at that.
At playing the part and keeping her eyes on me while she does it.
The moment we’re standing in front of her charcoal, her breath catches.
She says, "You did this.”
"Yes, I did, and I’d do anything for you."
She wraps her arms around me, and it's chaos.
Her mouth against mine, the whole room dissolving around us.
It's wild and insane and fucking perfect.
Her lips burn, her hair falls over my face, and all I can smell is the smoke embedded in her scars.
The opening is in ten minutes, and the place is crawling with bodies, but right now I don't care about any of it .
Not about the exhibit, not about my art, not even about the collectors who have traveled halfway across the planet.
None of it.
I don't give a single shit about anything except her.
I pull her closer, feel the heat of her, the edge of her body against mine.
She's a storm and I'm drowning, and I've never wanted to die so much.
Her boots knock against my shin, and she digs her nails into my shoulder.
She's all around me, wrapping me in the only kind of madness that makes sense.
I feel her soft whimper vibrate through me like an electric fucking charge.
I catch a glimpse of a woman with glasses staring.
Her eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
I bet the gossip will fly tonight, through every high-society circle in this fucking city.
About how Henrik Lindberg's gone crazy over a girl with a skull necklace and a tattered dress, fishnets that run.
They'll say I've lost it, that I've let this strange red-haired beauty ruin me.
They can say whatever the hell they want.
Mia doesn't pull back.
She doesn't care about any of them.
Her breath is warm against my neck as she finally loosens her grip, giving me space to see the fire in her eyes.
"God," I say. "You're making a scene."
"Good," she whispers, and it's like the word lights a fuse.
Everyone can see us, all the collectors and critics and assholes who came to judge.
She doesn't care if they see us, if they talk, if they fucking riot, and neither do I.
Her lipstick smears on my collar, deep burgundy against the black.
She's crazy enough to make this happen, crazy enough to burn with me in the middle of all this.
She knows I need it.
She knows she's as necessary to me as air, maybe more.
Her grin is defiant and sharp, and I can't help it, I have to kiss her again.
The whispers are growing louder, but I don't give a damn.
She pushes against me with that wild energy, her mouth relentless, her body pressed close.
It's consuming, like standing too close to the sun.
I might just catch fire, and I don't care.
Let me burn.
Her eyes are green blazes as I pull away .
The noise of the gallery floods back into focus, but I don't want any of it.
I want the silence of her breathing, the sound of her heartbeat against my ribs.
"You're insane," I tell her.
"Perfect for you, then," she says, her lips still inches from mine, her voice a low taunt.
I pull away just far enough to see her face, flushed and beautiful.
Her eyes shine like glass, and the shadows of the room spin around her like they're afraid to touch.
We are insane together, and she knows it.
It's like the fucking art doesn't even matter.
Like she's the only creation I've ever wanted.
This madness, I want it to last forever.
The wild heat of it.
Her eyes catch mine.
She doesn't need an explanation.
When I take her hand and tell her to come with me, she just lets me sweep her away.
I want this moment to stretch on forever.
I want the way she kisses me, feral and unafraid, to be permanent.
But I want something else too, and she sees it in my eyes.
She feels it in the way I grab her hand, in the way we slip like shadows into the unlit corridors beyond the main gallery space.
I guide her through the dim passageways, through whispers and dark corners, taking her deeper into my world.
When the voices of the crowd become a distant hum, Mia squeezes my hand, her grip strong and sure. "You’re not afraid they’ll miss you?" she asks.
"Let them." I smile. "They won’t know what to do without me."
It’s true.
Every second we’re gone will feel like an eternity to them, a gaping absence they can’t explain.
But for us, it’s a stolen moment, a piece of forever.
She looks around, takes in the half-finished walls, the covered lights, the raw edges of a project still in flux.
The edges of a vision not yet fully realized.
"It’s beautiful, Henrik," she says, voice low, almost reverent. "Dark and haunting."
"Not half as haunting as you." I pull her close, kiss the top of her head.
She stands in the center, a red splash against blankness.
Everything and everyone fades next to her.
Her presence swallows the space, becomes a part of it .
Or maybe it becomes a part of her.
She’s here with me, where she belongs, and I don’t know which of us is the art and which is the artist anymore.
"Does this mean I get the first tour?" she asks, her voice soft but carrying.
"It means you get everything."
Mia moves through the space like she’s in one of her own drawings, all sharp contrasts and deep shadows.
I follow, captivated by her, by the vision we’re creating together.
I watch as she touches a blank canvas with her fingertips, like she’s leaving a part of herself behind.
Maybe she is.
She looks back at me, eyes reflecting the starkness of the room, the starkness of us.
"It feels different from your last collection," she says, considering. "More… personal."
"It is," I say.
If I'm being honest, it's more than personal.
It’s her.
Every stroke, every mark, every space between spaces.
All of it hers, whether she knows it or not.
In the center of the room, a single canvas waits.
Black, stark, a silent scream in a world of blankness.
I can see it from a hundred angles, from a thousand yesterdays, but the one I care about is hers.
Does she know it?
Does she remember?
I hold my breath and watch, my eyes tracing her every move, every look.
And then, with a smile like I just gave her the world, she nods.
She recognizes it.
It's the black canvas from the night we had sex in the studio.
The night I painted her.
The night she completely became mine.
I’ve put the universe on hold for this moment, for her recognition.
The world spins around it, around the center that is us, and I feel the slow build of relief and elation and holy-fucking-shit that rises as she opens her mouth to speak.
"It’s the black canvas," she says. "From that night in the studio." She hesitates, searching for words. For courage. "The night you painted me."
Her voice is breathless, filled with that old, familiar wonder, and I swear my heart stops.
She remembers.
She remembers everything .
It’s like an explosion, like a sudden rush of blood in my veins.
I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve needed it like I need air and art and her.
I nod, maybe too fast, maybe too desperate. "The very same. I kept it for this."
My voice sounds different, ragged, almost raw.
I don’t know if I recognize it anymore.
The memory of that night fills the room, charging the air between us.
The rough wood of the floor, the scent of paint and skin and sweat.
The way she looked at me when I pushed her down on the canvases, when we tangled ourselves up in something that was never supposed to happen but did, gloriously and without restraint.
She’s the axis.
She’s the art.
She’s my world.
Every plan, every obsession, every single moment of these last months, they all come down to this.
To her standing here, seeing my world, knowing she’s at the center of it.
That she’s always been at the center of it.
She asks what the title means, and I tell her it means 'My World' .
Because it does.
Because she is.
Her eyes widen like she’s trying to take in more than she can hold.
More than she ever expected.
It’s exactly what I wanted, the surprise and the recognition, the knowledge that it’s hers.
That it’s always been hers.
I wait, and the seconds stretch out.
They go on forever, go on for a fucking lifetime, like they did in the studio that night.
A stretch of moments I never wanted to end.
I watch her, barely breathing, barely thinking, just needing.
Needing her to get it, needing her to know.
Her lips part, but no words come out.
I see the emotions flicker and gather behind her eyes.
Shock, confusion, and then something bigger.
Something I can’t quite believe, but maybe I’ve been hoping for.
"You," she starts, and her voice is raw, a tangled mess of disbelief and joy. "You mean…"
"Yes." I cut her off because I know what she’s going to ask, and I don’t want the hesitation, the pause where doubt could creep in. "It’s a good thing, Nattblomma ."
Her face.
God, her face .
I could spend an eternity painting the expression she has right now.
The glassy eyes, the trembling lips, the way her whole being says everything I’ve ever wanted to see, to feel.
Everything I’ve ever needed.
I close the distance between us, pull her to me, wrap my arms around her like a man possessed.
Because I am.
I am fucking possessed.
The space around us falls away, and all that’s left is this, is us.
Is the truth we’re drowning in.
“You really meant it…”
"I did," I tell her. "I do. You’re my world, Mia. You always were."
She blinks up at me, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, so fucking exquisite.
I’m consumed by it, by her, and I don’t want to be saved.
I tell her I'm done.
I'm done with the waiting and the distance and the endless nights without her.
I'm done with all of it.
She's moving in with me, where she belongs.
She looks up, startled by the force of my voice, the ferocity of my hold.
Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised.
Maybe she should know by now that I don’t do anything halfway.
Not when it comes to her.
"I mean it," I say, not letting her go. Not letting her out of my sight. "I’m tired of you being at that apartment. I’m tired of having you anywhere but close."
Her laughter fills the space around us, echoes off the unfinished walls.
It’s not the reaction I expect, but it’s perfect anyway.
"You think I’m joking?" I ask, lifting one eyebrow, keeping my tone light, but only barely.
"I think you’re serious as hell," she replies, threading her fingers through mine, pulling me into her gravity.
“You’ve had it your way.”
She tilts her head, considers, like she’s seeing me all over again, like she’s seeing us. "And now we’re doing it your way," she says, amused but not denying it.
"It’s the only way," I say, leaving no room for argument, no room for escape.
She presses her lips together, a line of thoughtfulness broken by a smile. "Then I guess we’d better make room for my sketch pads."
"Guess we’d better," I echo, unable to keep the relief out of my voice, unable to keep the fucking joy out of anything .
Her hands find their way around my neck, pulling me down to her level, pulling me into her orbit.
She kisses me, not quite gentle, not quite wild.
"You’re sure you won’t change your mind?" she asks against my lips.
I snort, half laughter, half disbelief. "Never."
I feel the blood rush to my skin, to my cock, to everywhere she wants it to rush.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, knows exactly how to make me feel wild and fucking reckless.
I thought I was the one pushing her, but here she is, turning the tables.
Flipping them like she always does.
I can’t hide my reaction.
I don’t even try.
She sees how hard I am, how fucking ready I am, and it’s exactly what she wanted.
I crush my mouth against hers, devouring her.
"God, I want you," I murmur, the admission hot and raw against her lips.
She bites down, sharp and unexpected, sending a jolt through me, sending me spiraling.
"I know," she breathes, the words like a spark, like a fucking match.
I pull back just enough to see her face, to see the way she looks at me, the way she owns me. "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" I ask, my voice barely controlled.
"Maybe," she teases, a glint of something dangerous in her eyes. "Maybe I just like watching you come undone."
"You do this to me," I tell her, and it’s not just an accusation, it’s a confession.
It’s everything I am, wrapped up in five words.
"And you love it," she says again, laughing softly.
Her hand slides down my chest, down my stomach, down to the place she knows will make me crazy.
Her touch is light, barely there, but I feel the weight of it like a fucking anchor.
She grabs my cock, firm and possessive, like she’s claiming something that already belongs to her.
I’m a slave to the feel of her hand, to the goddamn mastery she has over me.
"Best to wait," she murmurs, voice sweet, mocking, a perfect contrast to the chaos she’s creating inside me.
"Mia," I say, but it comes out strangled, half breath, half plea.
She squeezes, and I swear the whole world blurs at the edges.
"Look at you," she whispers. "What am I going to do with you?"
Everything .
Do everything to me .
But she pulls back, leaves me on the brink, teetering, wrecked.
It’s a kind of torture, this waiting.
This maddening, delicious game we keep playing.
She knows I want her now, right now, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
More than I’ve ever wanted her.
But the wait—it kills me, it saves me, it’s fucking beautiful.
It’s us.
She steps back, just enough to let me breathe, just enough to remind me that she’s in control.
For now. The student has become the teacher.
"Christ," I say, raking a hand through my hair, trying to steady the chaos she’s left in her wake. "This is going to kill me."
Every time we do this, it feels new.
Every time we stretch the limits of desire, it feels like we’ve discovered something no one else ever has.
I want to live here, in this endless wanting, in this delirium we’ve made ours.
"Better to wait," I say softly, not wanting to, but knowing we should.
Her eyes flash, a brilliant, searing green. "Much better if we do.”
I feel like I’m tearing at the seams, like I’m coming undone.
But that’s her specialty, isn’t it?
Undoing me.
Unraveling me.
Leaving me exposed and raw and wanting.
I need her.
I need her so bad I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t fucking function.
She’s now on the other side of the room, but I feel her like she’s wrapped around me.
Like she’s got a grip on my heart, my body, my goddamn soul.
Every second without her is an eternity, a stretch of time I can’t bear.
The knock is a jolt, a sudden break in the tension. "It’ll be time to open the doors soon, Mr. Lindberg," calls a voice from the other side, and it takes me a second to realize there’s a world beyond her.
Beyond us.
The words linger, foreign and unwanted.
They remind me of the opening, the event, the chaos I should care about but don’t.
They remind me that life continues outside of this room, outside of her.
But it doesn’t, not really.
We stand on opposite ends of the room, still caught in the electric storm we’ve created, and I wonder if she hears the interruption the way I do .
I wonder if she feels it, gnawing and insistent.
"Thank you," I manage to say, though my mind’s not with the gallery worker or the opening or anything beyond this. "We’ll be right there.”
"Looks like we’re out of time," Mia says, her voice cutting through the heavy silence.
Her smile is small but genuine, and it pulls me right back, drags me under.
I snort. "Let them wait. They’re good at it."
But she just smiles.
Silent.
Deadly.
We step into the hallway, into the expectation, into the noise that grows with every step.
We step out together, and that’s all that matters.
I’ve got my world beside me, and I’m never letting go.