Page 40

Bella

"Just one more stroke..." I mutter, brush poised over the canvas. The afternoon light streams through my studio windows, catching the fresh paint in ways that make my artist's soul sing.

"Red." Ares's voice carries that mix of amusement and exasperation I'm learning to recognize. "You've been saying 'one more stroke' for the past hour."

I don't look away from my work, though I can feel him watching me from his perch on my worn leather couch. "Art can't be rushed, Sainty.”

"Neither can dinner with your friends." He rises, and I sense him moving closer. "Which, may I remind you, starts in four hours."

I groan, finally lowering my brush. "Do we have to go?" The words come out more whiny than intended. "I mean, I love them, but I have nothing to wear, and shopping is literally the worst, and—"

"Nothing to wear?" His tone shifts, taking on that dangerous edge that makes my pulse quicken. "Interesting."

"Don't." I point my paint-stained brush at him in warning. "Whatever you're thinking—"

"What I'm thinking," he cuts me off smoothly, plucking the brush from my fingers, "is that my gorgeous girlfriend just admitted she needs new clothes for tonight."

"I didn't say that." But he's already setting my palette aside, his movements careful despite his obvious determination. "Ares, seriously, I hate shopping. Why waste time in stores when I could be painting?"

He turns to me, and the look in his eyes makes my protests die in my throat. "Because," his thumb brushes a spot of paint from my cheek, "you deserve to feel as spectacular as you are. And I happen to know exactly where to take you."

"But—"

"No buts." He's already pulling me to my feet, his smile carrying that hint of Saint mischief that both thrills and terrifies me. "Consider this an investment in your artistic future."

I arch an eyebrow. "How exactly is shopping an investment in my art?"

"Simple." He tugs me closer, his lips brushing my ear. "The sooner we find you something perfect to wear, the sooner we can join your friends. And the sooner we finish dinner..." His teeth graze my earlobe. "The sooner I can bring you home and properly appreciate your artistic talents."

Heat floods my cheeks as his meaning sinks in. "That's playing dirty, Saint."

His laugh vibrates through me. "I never claimed to play fair." He steps back, eyes dancing with that dangerous gleam I'm learning to love. "Now, are you going to let me spoil you, or do I need to get creative with my persuasion techniques?"

The way he says 'creative' sends shivers down my spine. "Fine," I concede, trying to hide my smile. "But I'm not letting you spend a fortune on—"

"You deserve to look spectacular tonight." Ares's voice carries that tone of absolute certainty as we walk down Newbury Street a half hour later. His fingers are intertwined with mine, apparently unbothered by the paint stains that perpetually decorate my skin....

I'm about to protest when he suddenly stops, gesturing to a window display that makes my breath catch. The boutique, Valentina's, screams old-money elegance, but it's the dress centered in the window that holds me captive—a wine-colored silk creation that seems to float on its mannequin.

"That one." The words escape before I can stop them.

Then I spot the price tag and my stomach drops. "Ares, no. That's—"

"Perfect." He's already steering me toward the ornate glass doors, that familiar determined glint in his eye. "Don't even start with the price, Red. Let me do this."

"But—"

"Mr. Saint!" A willowy blonde in a perfectly tailored black dress practically materializes before us. "What an honor to have you in our boutique. I'm Vivian, and I'll be taking care of you personally today."

The way she emphasizes 'personally' makes my teeth clench. Her hand touches his arm as she laughs at something he's says, and I resist the urge to throw a stiletto at her head. I eye the display of designer heels just to my right—that red patent leather pump would make such a satisfying projectile.

"Actually," I clear my throat, drawing her attention, "he's taking care of me today."

Vivian's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise as she takes in my paint-splattered jeans and worn t-shirt. "Oh. How... lovely. Perhaps I could suggest something more... appropriate for Mr. Saint's companion?"

The condescension in her tone makes my blood boil. But before I can respond, Ares's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against him.

"This is Isabella Jenkins," he says, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I love. "A talented artist. We're looking for something worthy of her talent."

I bite back a smirk as Vivian's expression shifts from dismissive to calculating. "Of course!" She hurries away, returning with an armful of dresses.

Twenty minutes later, I'm back in the dressing room, surrounded by silk and chiffon after trying on what feels like every dress in the boutique.

Through the partially open door—which I definitely didn't leave cracked on purpose to keep an eye on Miss Perfect out there—I can still hear Blondie's tinkling laugh.

"Your girlfriend is... interesting," she says, voice dripping honey. "Though I wouldn't have expected someone like you to be drawn to the... artistic type."

I peek through the opening again, telling myself I'm just checking the fit of this dress in the mirror, not watching Vivian practically purr at Ares. Her manicured hand touches his arm with practiced familiarity, and something hot and territorial flares in my chest.

This is not jealousy. I don't get jealous.

"The artistic type?" Ares asks, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. The fact that he's letting her continue makes my blood simmer.

"Well, you know..." She leans closer, all perfect makeup and practiced seduction. "Someone so... unconventional. Surely a man like you needs someone more... polished."

My hands clench into fists. Oh, that's it.

I smooth the wine-colored silk over my hips one last time, checking my reflection.

The dress stops just at my knees, the fabric clinging like a second skin in all the right places.

The deep burgundy makes my skin glow, brings out the fire in my hair and the green in my eyes.

If Miss Barbie wants polished, I'll show her polished.

I step out of the dressing room, making sure every movement is deliberate, calculated. The silk flows around me like liquid sin, and I channel every ounce of that primal feminine power that makes men forget their own names. "Unconventional enough for you?"

Ares's reaction is instant. His eyes darken to obsidian, jaw clenching as his gaze rakes over me with such intensity I can practically feel it like a physical touch. Vivian's smile freezes, then crumbles as she watches him practically devour me with his eyes.

His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my skin tingle. "Turn around."

I comply, but slowly. So slowly. Each movement is choreographed to torture, letting the silk whisper against my skin as I pivot. When I glance over my shoulder, his pupils are blown wide with desire, and there's something almost feral in his expression.

"Perfect," he growls, the word more threat than praise.

"Miss Vivian?" Another sales associate appears. "There's an important call for you at the front desk."

The moment she clears the doorway, Ares moves. One heartbeat he's across the room, the next he's stalking toward me with that lethal Saint grace that makes my pulse race.

"Playing with fire, Red?"

"Me?" I widen my eyes, the picture of innocence. "I'm just trying on dresses."

His hands find my hips, yanking me back against his chest. "The way you moved just now?" His breath is hot against my ear. "That wasn't just trying on dresses. That was a declaration of war."

"Maybe I didn't like watching her throw herself at you." The words come out sharper than intended, betraying more than I meant to reveal.

His chuckle vibrates through me, dark and knowing. "Jealous, Red?"

"Please." But my voice catches as his lips brush my neck. "I don't get jealous."

"No?" His teeth graze my pulse point, and my knees nearly buckle. "Then you won't mind if I go ask her opinion on how this dress fits? She seems very... knowledgeable about fashion."

I spin in his arms and let my fingers fist in his shirt. "Don't. You. Dare."

His grin is pure sin. "That's what I thought." His thumb traces my bottom lip, his eyes following the movement. "You're magnificent when you're marking your territory, Red. But you should know by now..."

He backs me against the wall, one hand splayed possessively across my hip. "I've been yours since we were sixteen. No perfectly polished sales princess could ever compare to my fierce little artist."

His words make my heart stutter, but I'm not ready to let him off the hook just yet. "Didn't seem to mind her attention," I challenge, even as his proximity makes it hard to think straight.

His fingers trace up my side, leaving fire in their wake. "I was too busy watching you peeking past the door. The way your eyes flashed every time she touched me. How your jaw clenched when she laughed." His lips brush my ear. "You have no idea how sexy you are when you're jealous."

"I'm not—" My protest dies as his teeth graze my earlobe.

"You are." His voice drops lower, rougher. "And I love it. Love knowing you want me enough to stake your claim." His hand slides up my ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the silk. "Love watching you remind everyone who I belong to."

Heat pools low in my belly. "Ares..."

"You look fucking edible, Red." His eyes are almost black now, hungry and dangerous. "Get the dress and get out of here before I do something that'll get us both arrested for public indecency."

I shouldn't push. We're in public, in a high-end boutique where discretion is everything. But the way he's looking at me, like he wants to devour me whole, makes me reckless. I take a step toward the dressing room, pausing at the doorway to glance over my shoulder.