Page 6 of Thirst
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.
