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Fuck. For one insane second, I want to smash the phone into the nearest painting and lock her back in the penthouse and never let her step into sunlight again.
But I don’t.
I exhale slowly, slide the phone back into my jacket. Allow the single tremor to have its day moving through me before I shut that shit down.
She notices. Her body tenses, sharp and instinctive. “Problem?” she asks.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I lie.
Because if she truly knows the Vespers are close,who they are, she’ll run. Or worse. She’llfight. She’s her mother’s daughter, after all. Flying blind and fearless into battle.
And I’m not ready to let her go.
Not yet.
Not when I still need her.
Not when I’m starting towanther.
And especially not when it feels like every day I don’t fuck her senseless and break this need wide open is a day I lose another part of my deranged soul.
Dahlia
The gallery is beautiful,in that high-end, sharp-cornered way that screams curated wealth. The kind of place Dante fits into too perfectly. The kind of place that makes me feel like the performance version of myself.
He walks beside me, a looming presence. Possessive. Not gentle. Just... there. Reminding me.
We move from painting to painting—rich oils, tortured brushstrokes, abstract chaos for people who pretend they see meaning in madness.
I pretend too. But I’m not thinking about art. I’m thinking about him.
That “nothing you need to worry about” was clearly bullshit.
And he hasn’t touched me since. It’s stupid because that was less than five minutes ago, but my body seems to be counting the milliseconds. Counting and missing him.
I sneak a glance up at him as we pause in front of a painting calledAscension. White oil streaked with red. Too much red.
His eyes are focused, but not on the art. He’s somewhere else entirely. “You like it?” I ask softly.
His gaze slides back to mine. “It’s messy. But honest.”
“Like me?” I tease, because I need to pull him back.
His lips curve faintly, but humor doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re not messy. You’re dangerous.”
“And you like dangerous.”
His hand trails down my spine, subtle and slow. “I like control.”
I feel my pulse stutter, soar, elated because he’s touching me again. “Is that why we’re doing this today? Because you think you’re losing it?”
That gets me a flicker of something. Not quite amusement. Not quite warning. “I’m never out of control.”
Bullshit. I don’t believe him. Because this moment—it doesn’t feel like before. The edges have changed. I glance at the pocket he slid his phone into. Deliberately.
His eyes turn colder, giving me the answer I need.
I’m not even surprised when he abandons the grand tour or whatever this is. An exhibit?