Chapter 2 #2
Baptiste’s face darkened. “But you will pass on my request. Perhaps she will reconsider.”
“Of course, Enforcer.”
He inclined his head and moved away.
Ichika exhaled audibly, then slipped past me with a soft, “Pardon.”
I let out a tiny breath myself. I’d half expected the enforcer to try and compel Ichika to let him meet The Haunt.
But even if I’d agreed, it wouldn’t have done him any good.
As Ichika had said, I didn’t take commissions.
My process didn’t work like that—I couldn’t drag a painting out of myself on command.
It had to rise on its own terms, unforced.
But wow. An enforcer had wanted one of my paintings badly enough to pressure Ichika. I held that fact close, a balm against my father’s cutting dismissal of me and my desire to be an artist.
And on top of that, my paintings were selling. Each of the three I’d checked so far had a little red dot beside it, marking it as sold.
I hid my smile behind my wine glass.
Added to the cash I’d already stashed in an anonymous Swiss account, I should have more than enough to fund my escape—and to stay hidden, where my father could never find me.
He kept me close—paying my bills but denying me anything resembling freedom. I was expected to charm his friends, obey his associates, carry out little “jobs” for him.
I was suffocating under his rules, his demands, his near-constant surveillance. I wanted out. I needed out.
But if I left without his blessing—which he’d never give—he’d cut me off without a cent. And then he’d unleash the wolves to drag me back.
His pride would never allow me to simply walk away.
I shivered and moved toward the next painting.
A man in a bright pink suit sidled up beside me, looking like a flamingo who’d flown off course and crash-landed into a murder of couture-draped ravens.
I smiled at him because hey, this crowd could use a little color.
Together, we studied the painting—an ancient gold mirror, its glass fractured like splintered bone. Each shard reflected a sliver of the dancers and ballroom from the previous piece, glittering fragments.
Pink Suit pursed his lips. “What d’you think?” he asked in French.
“Me?” I said in the same language.
“Yes.”
“I—” I swallowed, unable to come up with something airy, something that might come out of party-girl Nyx’s mouth.
“It’s good—I like it. But there’s room for improvement, right?
I mean—” I stopped before I pointed out all the places the work fell short, technical details that I still hadn’t mastered, and said with a laugh, “I’m not a painter myself, of course. ”
“Mm,” he said.
“And you?” I murmured. “What do you think?”
He lifted a pink-clad shoulder, let it drop. “Not really my style.”
“Ah, bon?” I asked sweetly. “What is? Something that matches your wallpaper, perhaps?”
“You don’t understand. I—these are intense. The colors, the emotion. I wouldn’t change one thing about them. But I can’t see hanging one on my walls, you know?”
“Oh.” He liked my work—it just unsettled him. It was the best compliment he could’ve given me, even if he didn’t realize I was the artist.
“And for the record,” he said in English under cover of the noise of the crowd, “I don’t have any wallpaper to match—in case you’re wondering.”
I stilled, my pulse kicking up. That voice—
I flicked him a glance. Brown hair, olive skin a few shades deeper than mine—nothing like Cain, a blue-eyed blond who I’d never seen in anything but austere black and white.
On the other hand, he could’ve glamoured his face and coloring, and that flamingo pink would be the perfect disguise, although to get past security, he’d need an invite. Still, when had that ever stopped Cain?
Excitement flared low in my belly.
“I wasn’t,” I murmured, moving to the next canvas.
Pink Suit followed. When I looked over my shoulder, his gaze was on my ass.
I lifted a brow. “See something you like?”
He just smiled, lifting his eyes to mine. “I should introduce myself—Théodore Montclair.” Montclair was a collector from the Paris Syndicate.
“How nice to meet you.” I hid my disappointment. It was good that Montclair was here; I wanted him here. If he bought one of my paintings, it would be a serious boost to my reputation.
Pink Suit eased closer, eyeing the canvas along with me. When I glanced his way, a faint smile ghosted across his lips.
I caught a whiff of his scent—wild night air. A familiar scent, one I hadn’t smelled in way too long.
My heart slammed against my rib cage. His head turned, and I knew.
That steady, unreadable look was all Cain.
“You—!” I mouthed.
His low laugh feathered over my skin. “Me.”
I felt a rush of wetness between my thighs. I squeezed them together and jerked my focus back to the painting.
Beside me, he inhaled slowly. He knew about my suddenly damp panties, of course. He was a vampire with a supernatural’s heightened senses.
“Missed me, have you?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw him smirk.
“No.”
Yes. So much yes.
“Liar.” He let his gaze drag down my body, slow enough that I felt every inch of it, then flicked his eyes back up like he’d caught me out.
Every nerve in my body lit up like a Christmas tree. I dug my fingernails into my palms and focused on the painting, when what I wanted to do was grab him by the satin lapels and fuse my mouth to his. Rub myself up against his sinewy frame. Make him burn for me like I burned for him.
“Back off,” I said out of the side of my mouth. “Didn’t you see Jerome? It doesn’t matter if he thinks you’re from the Paris Syndicate. If he hears we were flirting like this, he’ll still gut you.”
Jerome might not be allowed inside, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t find a way to check up on me.
“You’re worried about me?” Cain’s voice was edged with amusement, like he’d enjoy taking on Jerome. He’d probably win, too. He was young for a vampire but he oozed dominance. He’d never have climbed to syndicate lieutenant otherwise.
It was me who had everything to lose if he got into a fight with one of my father’s men.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I muttered, and to my relief, he moved back a few, socially acceptable centimeters.
I finished my wine and handed my glass to a passing server, then continued to the canvas at the end of the platform, the largest of the seven and the only item marked NFS because that painting was mine. A new painting, so recent it still smelled of pigment and linseed oil.
A large white tiger prowled across the canvas through a misty forest, its mouth slick with blood, its black stripes stark against its fur.
Deep in the trees, a blond vampire in a wool peacoat glowered out of the canvas, his fangs also blood-tinged, a wicked silver dagger in his hand.
Something about his stance suggested he was moments from erupting into motion.
On a nearby cliff, a fire raged, its flames tearing at the night sky.
It was wild and emotional—and the one work I’d never intended Cain to see.
I tensed, my nerves still lit with adrenalin. But this time it wasn’t from excitement—it was something colder, sharper. If I were human, I’d have broken out in an icy sweat.
I glanced sidelong at him to find he was studying me out of the corner of his eyes.
Maybe he wouldn’t put it together. And if he did, there were dozens of islands off the coast of Nova Scotia. He couldn’t possibly know for sure that I’d painted that island.
Except…yeah, right. Who was I kidding? I’d practically handed him the proof on a silver platter.
I had to distract him, and now. I edged closer, letting the back of my hand graze his.
“The washroom,” I said under my breath. “Ten minutes.”
Too late. He frowned at the painting, did a doubletake.
His gaze snapped to me. “What the—?”
I eased sideways. “I—”
“Stop,” he bit out.
I exhaled hard but stopped moving.
He turned back to the canvas. “The Haunt,” he said in an undertone. “You’re—”
“Not here,” I begged. “Please.”
He rocked back on his heels, like he hadn’t really believed it. Before I could say anything else, a trio of Spanish vampires sauntered over, and we exchanged greetings.
Cain waited until we were alone again to speak—soft, menacing velvet. “If you’re her, then you were there that night. Because that’s me in the pine trees. I was wearing a peacoat just like that.”
My heart kicked against my ribcage. It was him, of course—his lean, tough body, his tightly coiled energy, although I’d darkened his white-blond hair and blurred his face. Even the ghost-cat was Cain, its irises the same ice-blue.
I opened my mouth to lie. But somehow, I couldn’t. “Yes. It’s you.”
A tense silence. Then, “Look at me.”
My skin prickled. “Not here,” I repeated.
“Fine. The washroom, then. Ten minutes.” His tone made it clear I’d better comply.
He waited for my nod, then moved to the next painting, taking a blood-whiskey from a server and greeting a Paris soldier by name.
My heart was still pounding. Why had I been so stupid as to make that damn painting anyway?
But I’d had to. The need to process what had happened that night, to paint Cain and the fire and my shock at how fast things had gone south, had surged up in me, fierce and unignorable, like trying to choke back a scream.
Of course, I could’ve left the painting in Canada. I’d known Cain might find out I’d be here tonight. Hell, I’d hoped he would. So why ship the canvas to Paris in the first place?
But I knew the answer. It was my best work yet, and I’d wanted the world to see it—just once—before I hid it away in my studio at my father’s lair.
And maybe I’d wanted Cain to see it, too.
“Wine, Madame?” A bare-chested male server offered me another blood-wine.
I stared at it for a second, then grabbed the glass and drained it. “Merci.” I handed the glass back to the man.
When I looked around again, Cain had disappeared into the crowd and there was no sign of Jerome—or any QCS men, for that matter.
I started for the washroom.