Chapter 14 #2
My brother. The peacemaker. Sent to stop me from ripping Blake limb from limb in front of half of Los Angeles. But I'm not fucking moving. Not while that bastard's hand is still hovering near Lilith's waist.
"Asher needs you. Bar for the next tableau. Heavy as hell. You're the only one who can move it," he says, clapping my shoulder with a grip that could crush granite.
My pulse hammers in my skull, drowning out everything but the sight of Blake's fingers, five inches from what's mine. I want to tear his arm off and beat him with it.
“Lilith. Now." I seize her hand, and holy shit—lightning strikes my body, a white-hot current searing through me straight to my core. Her skin is impossibly soft against my calloused palm, delicate bones beneath my grip, and that goddamn jasmine scent of hers floods my senses, making my mouth go dry. My thumb brushes over her pulse point, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird. This is the first time I’ve ever touched her, and holy fuck.
The electricity I feel could light up this entire room.
"I—" She glances at Blake, who's practically trembling with relief now that I've released his wrist. Coward. "I should stay—"
The rejection hits like a sledgehammer. My jaw clenches so hard I taste metal.
"Fine," I spit, dropping her hand. "Let's move the goddamn bar, Cam, before I decide to use it as a battering ram."
Cam's arm lands heavy across my shoulders as we head backstage. "Roman," he says, his voice dropping. "What the hell was that with Blake Walsh? You know he's practically royalty in this crowd, right?"
I roll my shoulders, waiting for my pulse to settle. "Yeah, whatever. So am I.” Time to change the subject. “Where's the bar setup?"
"Just there." He points. "Next up is Nighthawks.
They need muscle for that triangular counter—someone bailed last minute.
And since you're built like a brick shit house...
" He gives me a brotherly jab. "These art patrons couldn't lift their wallets without breaking a sweat.
But you? You could probably deadlift that 2,000-pound monster solo. "
My blood's still running hot enough that I almost want to try.
I grab my end of the bar, and together we hoist it onstage.
The performers hover nearby—an older guy in crisp whites with that paper soda-jerk cap; a woman with finger waves and a crimson dress straight out of the '40s; two men in period suits complete with fedoras.
The set materializes around us: storefront backdrop, diner facade, "Phillies" sign overhead, stools precisely arranged.
My mind jumps ahead to the Velázquez tableau—Las Meninas with its royal Spanish family, the intricate arrangement of courtiers, children, a dwarf, those paintings-within-paintings. And a dog.
I catch Cam's eye and laugh, the sound bouncing off the marble floors. "Hey Cam, one burning question about that Velázquez setup—how exactly is Ash planning to make a dog sit still for thirty minutes under these blazing studio lights?"
Cam runs a hand through his dark hair, the same shade all us Kensington brothers share - all but Ansel, who’s hair is dirty blonde.
"Oh right, that painting does feature a dog.
Slipped my mind." His broad shoulders rise in a shrug.
"Well, if Asher can somehow wrangle a fidgety six-year-old to stand still for a half hour in that ridiculous period costume, I guess he's enough of a miracle worker to hypnotize a dog into statue-like obedience.
" His mouth curves into that familiar crooked smile.
"Just kidding. Even Asher's legendary charm has its limits.
He probably commissioned some hyperrealistic canine replica for the tableau.
The alternative—Asher slipping some poor mutt a Xanax—is too disturbing to contemplate. "
I feel the tension in my jaw release as I laugh, grateful for this moment of lightness after the storm cloud that had been hanging over me minutes ago.
"Put nothing past that guy," I say, shaking my head. "But you're right. Even Asher isn't sociopathic enough to sedate a dog just to impress Los Angeles' champagne-swilling elite with his living art installation."
We push through the perfumed throng back to the main exhibition space, where the crowd buzzes with anticipation for the next unveiling. The first two installations had drawn gasps that rippled across the room like waves, followed by thunderous applause that made the crystal chandeliers tremble.
These Los Angeles and Hollywood socialites—draped in designer silks and dripping with diamonds—devour this living tableau concept with the same enthusiasm they reserve for the $300-per-ounce caviar served at my rooftop restaurant.
I have to hand it to Asher; while the concept echoes Laguna's famous Pageant of the Masters with its breathing recreations of classical art, he's managed to distill that grand spectacle into something intimate yet equally captivating for this marble-floored country club gallery.
I scan the ballroom for Lilith. Every face that isn't hers might as well be a blank canvas. Then Serafina materializes, her fingers digging into my sleeve like talons.
"Roman," she says, crimson lips forming a perfect pout beneath the crystal chandeliers. "You abandoned me."
"We were never together to begin with," I say, shaking her off.
My molars grind against each other as I picture Lilith laughing with that Irish pop star—100 million albums be damned, he's just another drunk with grabby hands.
I could break him in half without breaking a sweat.
Or maybe I should just let Serafina hang on my arm all night, see if that gets Lilith's attention.
Listen to me. Plotting like some lovesick high schooler.
This isn't who I am. I don't pursue—I'm pursued.
Women line up for me, desperate for whatever scraps I'll toss their way.
The gold-diggers want access to my empire.
The shallow ones want this face, this body—which, objectively speaking, is exceptional.
That's just genetics, not ego. And God knows I've got the IQ to match.
Then there are the fixers, convinced they'll be the one to finally "heal" me.
But I've never chased. Not once. Until Lilith.
Now I'd set this whole place ablaze just to make her look my way.
She's turned me into something wild and unfamiliar.
I despise it.
I crave it.
I clasp Serafina's hand as the first notes of a slow song drift across the ballroom.
Sam Smith's voice fills the air with the ballad “Fire on Fire,” and the lyrics hit too close to home—not for the woman whose waist I'm about to hold, but for Lilith.
My eyes find her across the room, already swaying in Blake's arms, her gaze catching mine over his shoulder. Something electric passes between us.
"Excuse me," I mutter to Sera, not waiting for a response before releasing her and cutting across the dance floor.
I tap Blake's shoulder, not bothering with pleasantries.
No asking if I can cut in. When he turns, I simply take Lilith's hand and pull her towards me.
She comes willingly, her body melting against mine as if she belongs there.
Blake might be glaring daggers at my back, but I couldn't care less.
All that matters is Lilith's jasmine scent enveloping me, her warmth against my chest, her fingers intertwined with mine as we move in perfect sync to a song that feels written for us—two broken people (or maybe I’m the only broken one) finding salvation in each other's fire.
As we turn beneath the chandeliers, I know with absolute certainty: this is where she belongs.
Her heart hammers against my chest, a wild rhythm that matches my own.
She trembles in my arms, but those topaz eyes burn into mine with unmistakable hunger—she craves this as desperately as I do.
Does she see it in my eyes? That I would raze cities to ash just to witness her smile?
Each turn beneath these shadowed lights draws her body closer, and Christ, the torture of restraint is unbearable.
I want to tear her clothes off and fuck her, right this second.
This song pulses through us like it was written in our blood.
Her breath catches as she surrenders against me, her head finding sanctuary on my chest while my fingers finally—finally—tangle in that silken hair.
I've been starving for this since the moment I first saw her.
Her body melting into mine, my hands possessing her, our hearts crashing together until I can't tell where mine ends and hers begins.
The heat between us could set this whole goddamn place ablaze.
Just then, somebody—some clumsy bastard in the crowd—accidentally dumps an entire flute of golden Moet & Chandon down the front of Lilith's emerald silk dress.
The champagne darkens the fabric instantly, leaving a glistening stain from her collarbone to her waist. Dammit.
The perfect moment shatters like crystal. But yet...
"Come on," I say, squeezing her hand. "Let's get to the dressing room where the performers are preparing. I'll find you something else to wear."
She nods, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide with disappointment. I guide her through the perfumed crush of bodies to the dressing area tucked behind heavy velvet curtains, where the actors for the next tableau are in their costumes and ready to go.
I scan the cramped backstage area, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
"Uh, I'll find something for you to wear.
" My fingers brush past the Victorian gown from the Renoir tableau—red at the neck, cream lace at the throat, blue bustle.
Beside it hangs another period piece: a blue dress with Belgian lace collar, also from the “Luncheon of the Boating Party” tableau.
Soon the “Nighthawks” actress will arrive with their cherry-red cocktail dress, padded shoulders and all, straight out of 1942.