by Nikki Sloane
“Yes,” I said.
He stared at the sculpture. “It would be exactly as you intended it.”
My heart raced, hyperaware at the clinical tone in his voice. “Yes. It’d be perfect.”
Time slowed as he stalked toward the sculpture and hooked a hand around the stem. Before he was about to do it, I sensed it. I felt it in the marrow of my bones. Luke’s gaze trapped mine.
“No,” I pleaded.
He ignored me. His bicep flexed as he yanked the stem forward, pulling the sculpture down. I stood dumbfounded as the yellow orchid pitched through the air and whooshed toward the hardwood. Like a fool, I tried to stop it, but I wasn’t close or fast enough.
The yellow petals were the first to impact the ground and exploded into a thousand pieces with a loud skittering of ceramic sliding across polished wood. The force thundered up the stem and it broke in three places, followed by a significant portion of the base. My spine cracked along with it, and I sank to my knees.
The moss I had painstakingly recreated was reduced to broken lumps of painted stone, and it exposed the chicken wire mesh beneath it. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes wouldn’t blink. A guttural wail of anguish reverberated from my chest.
Luke glanced at the destruction between us with indifferent eyes. He didn’t care that he’d just fucked me and destroyed me on the floor of his studio. I stared up at him, one hand clutched to the hole in my chest where he’d ripped out my heart.
“You said”—I forced it out between painful breaths—“you weren’t going to destroy it.”
His shoulders lifted as he took in a deep breath, and his feet crunched on the carnage as he strolled to me. He stared at me with confusion. “And I haven’t. You and I are going to make it even better.”
I shook my head in utter disbelief. “Are you insane?” I put my palms on the floor, gathering a handful of broken pieces. They clinked in my trembling hands. There was no way to fix what he’d done.
“Sometimes,” he said, “damaged things come out stronger in the end. This sculpture lacked restraint. What we’ll build together will be so much more. It’ll be perfect.”
My vision faded to black for a moment with rage. “I’m not working with—”
“Oh, yes, you are.” His palm cupped my cheek, but I jerked away. “I own you, Nikita Petrov. You already agreed to the work. Go back on that, and I’ll tell the cops that”—he swung his arm out, gesturing to the disaster—“this was all you. Whose word do you think they’ll believe?”
They’d believe his, absolutely.
I was a murderer. Destroying a piece of art would sound like a simple job for someone like me, and Maritza would side with Luke. I was trapped. Caged by this enigma of a man who had brought me pleasure and pain like no one else. I felt physically ill. Had he intended to destroy my art all along? Had he slept with me just to toy with my emotions? Damage me so I could come out stronger on the other end?
I glared up at him, feeling beaten. “You’re a monster.”
“Oh, Nikita.” His grin was cruel, and my blood turned to slush. “That’s too small a word to use for me.”
-8-
I had a complete breakdown and for the first time in my life, I wept. It didn’t matter that Luke was watching.
Nothing mattered anymore.
He stood stoically by as I sobbed at the death of my art like a mother grieving the loss of her only child. I had nowhere to put my emotions and they poured from me, littering the floor along with the broken shards of the yellow petals.
I crawled along the hardwood, gathering them up noisily into a pile. I sensed he was moving and heard the slide of a drawer, but I didn’t pay any attention to him. If I could pull the broken pieces of my sculpture together, perhaps I wouldn’t be so fractured. Maybe I’d have enough strength to get up off the floor and escape the brutal villain looming over me.
My nose was running, and I used the back of my hand to wipe it away before tucking a lock of hair behind my ear and focus in on my task. But my vision was blurred with tears, and I jolted backward as something dropped abruptly before me on the ground with a thud.
It was a gray tube with a black cap and it took me a moment to recognize the brand of industrial glue that could bond to almost any surface. I’d used it for repair a few times in the past. Was this some kind of sick joke? Another twist of the knife he’d stabbed me with? Luke had to know both my sculpture and I were too far gone to be salvaged.
“It’s going to be all right.” His voice was gentle, and I despised it. “I know this is hard, so take all the time you need.”
His attempt at comfort only made me hate him more. More than I had hated Sidor and more than myself.
Luke bent at his knees, dropping down to meet me at my level, and his expression was sincere. “When you’re ready, we’ll start.”
For the second time since I’d arrived at his studio, my gaze flicked to the crowbar on the workbench and violent thoughts rushed loudly through my mind. I could pick up the heavy metal bar and try to destroy him as he’d done to me. I’d find a new place to store my emotions when I bashed his head in.
I had nothing left to lose. I’d learned to live with killing a man and was fairly sure I could do it again.
Except . . .
Every choice I’d ever made when it mattered had been the wrong one. I’d come out of each bad situation even worse on the other side, and that thought was what froze the tears in my eyes. My time in prison had taught me no matter how bad things had become, they could always get worse.
I sat back on my heels, drew in a deep breath, and glared at him, wordlessly demanding his direction.
His eyes lit up with power and dark satisfaction.
LATER
The poured concrete floors were gray with dark tones swirled in them. As was usual with most galleries, the space was neutral so it wouldn’t compete with the art. People milled about, sipping their glasses of wine, perusing the sculptures that rose above the crowd.
I stood in an alcove off to the side, an untouched glass of champagne cold in my hand, trying to get a read on people’s faces as they looked at the displays. I wanted them to love each intricate detail and every exaggerated, blown-out aspect. I needed them to.
“Why are you hiding back here?”
I turned and swallowed a breath as I gazed at Luke. He wore a gray suit with a black tie, and the California surfer I’d come to know had vanished. This man was refined and elegant, and so attractive I wanted to curse at him. There had been many days when we were locked in his studio where I did just that.
“I’m not hiding,” I whispered.
His gaze started at my lips and flowed downward, caressing every inch of bare skin my low-cut dress exposed. Heat flared in his eyes, and the muscle of his jaw ticked. “Wow, that dress . . .”
I frowned. “It’s too much.”
The scarlet silk wrapped around my body and clung to my curves. The neckline carved all the way to my hip and was trimmed with black lace on one shoulder, leading the eye toward the back where I was completely exposed. Like the art Luke and I had created together, the dress was sexy, sinful, and a little over-the-top.
We’d talked at length about how we wanted to present tonight. There was no point fighting it any longer—we were both villains. He wanted to lean in and embrace it, and I’d acquiesced. My red dress was as much a statement as the other pieces were in this showing.
“No,” he said. “It’s perfect and you look stunning. I’m tempted to find Maritza and tell her we have a last-minute addition.”
He wanted to display me like I was art. Perhaps he wasn’t wrong, because I’d been molded and reshaped by him beginning with the night he’d destroyed my sculpture so many months ago.
“Come on,” he said softly. He set his fingers on my elbow and guided me out into the room.
The gallery was a converted warehouse, and voices carried loudly in the enormous space. A woman nearby lau
ghed, deep in conversation with two other people, and I winced. The art in here didn’t deserve joy or light. It was immoral and corrupt, feeding off evil.
It reflected its makers perfectly.
Luke led me to the focal point of the gallery space, where people had gathered in a circle to sip their drinks and scrutinize the sculpture there. The yellow orchid had once been my finest work, but Rebirth was a masterpiece.
The top half of the sculpture was similar to the original, although the yellow petals were fractured and splintered, held together by glue that looked like it would never harden or dry. The texture was gorgeous.
The new base, however, was starkly different.
“You weren’t born from a series of things,” Luke had said, “but a singular event.”
Gone was the garbage I believed told the story of my previous life. Instead, I’d created a hospital bed and a man writhing in agony on it, all in white. The only color was my yellow orchid growing out of Sidor’s throat. I’d played with scale, so the orchid was almost as big as the rest of it, and I enjoyed how it loomed large over my dying husband.
The sculpture was breathtaking, both physically and emotionally. I’d seen people subconsciously touch their throats while gazing at it and wondered if they were holding their breath as I’d done the violent night I’d pulled the power cord from the wall.
“This is hauntingly beautiful,” a woman standing next to me said. “I can’t stop looking at it.” Her gaze bounced between Luke and me. “Which one of you is the artist?”
“Both,” I said.
“Her,” Luke answered at the same time.
A wrinkle creased in my forehead. We’d worked on it together. Yes, I had created the original foundation piece, and had handled the majority of the crafting, but it had been his concept. At times I felt like I was merely executing his vision, and I was all right with that. I struggled to understand him, but his artistic talent was undeniable. I respected it enough to put my ego aside and accept his guidance.
He wasn’t easy to work with, and I didn’t blame his former partners for abandoning him, but we’d found a process that worked for us. The four other sculptures we’d created together were more traditional collaboration, but I saw Rebirth as equally ours.
I glanced at the placard on the pedestal and saw only my name listed. He’d given credit only to me and it left me speechless. I stared at him, my eyes wide and my lips parted, unable to do anything but exist beside him as he gave me this tremendous gift.
The woman, however, was oblivious to the intensity swirling between the two artists she was speaking with. She didn’t notice how Luke’s hand slipped from my elbow and he used the tips of his fingers to trace a line down the inside of my forearm.
This touch may have looked innocent, but it was erogenous, and I couldn’t hold back the shiver of pleasure he gave me. Seven months we’d worked together, and the spark hadn’t faded. If anything, it grew more focused. I hungered for him.
The spectrum between love and hate wasn’t a line—it was a circle. I couldn’t hate him even when I wanted to. We were the only two of a rare species, unable to be with anyone else. Our towering, twisted sculpture in the corner spoke to that.
I finally caught my breath enough to speak the genuine words to Luke. “Why? This is as much yours as it is mine. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
His smile was pleased and soft. “It wasn’t my story to tell, and all you needed was a nudge. I’d tell you I’m sorry it was painful, but . . . I’m not. That pain was unfortunately necessary.” He leaned in, as if the din of the crowd was too loud and he needed to whisper into my ear, and set his fingertips against the bare skin of my back. He was always touching me these days, like he couldn’t get enough of me. “Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”
His lips brushed against the spot where my pulse pounded in my neck, sending electricity zipping through my body. My knees softened.
“The way the roots wrap around his neck,” the woman said, her focus back on the sculpture. On my sculpture. “They look like fingers.”
A smile hinted at my lips. It was macabre, and not subtle about it.
She turned and gestured to the rest of the gallery. “I also like the piece in the corner, the red one.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That one was Luke and I together.” Which I meant literally and figuratively.
“Ah. I’m Gloria Fischer,” she said, extending a hand for a handshake, which I took, and then she moved on to shake Luke’s. “My design firm is handling the renovation of the Becker Hotel. I’m looking for a statement piece to put in the lobby. Something modern and edgy, but also grand.” She reached into her clutch and produced a business card. “I like what I see here. Are you interested in submitting a concept proposal? It’s a luxury hotel, and we expect the artwork to be one of the draws to our clients.”
My heart fluttered, but outwardly I was sure my expression didn’t change. None of my excitement showed. As I took the card, Luke’s hand curled around my other wrist, and I could feel how thrilled he was through our connection. It seeped into my skin.
“We’d love to,” he said.
“Excellent. Shoot me an email, and I’ll send you the project details.” Her gaze drifted away from us and back to Rebirth. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”
❃ ❃ ❃
I swiped a towelette of makeup remover over my eyes, scrubbing away the mascara, and then peered into the mirror to make sure it was all gone. Satisfied, I placed my hands on the sink counter and let out a deep breath.
The show tonight had been a perfect success. I expected people would talk about it for months to come. I was back. Nikita Petrov would once again have top billing, and the estimated worth of my pieces had doubled. We’d sold two out of the five sculptures we’d shown tonight.
My mother’s voice flitted in my mind. “It’s never enough. There’s no pleasing you, Nikita.”
Yes, I was trapped.
And I’d become a hostage.
But my mother was wrong. For the first time in my life, I had enough. I was . . . happy.
Luke’s cold fingertips touched my skin covering the bones at the top of my spine, making me shiver. He cupped the back of my neck, gently resting his palm there, but I felt his possession all over. My gaze found his through the mirror. He’d taken off his suit jacket and tie, and undone the top buttons of his dress shirt.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” he said in his deep voice.
I spoke quietly. “Thank you.”
I’d hated him once, and now I hated how I loved him even more. We had two more works in progress which I felt confident would exceed everything we’d created thus far.
At first, he’d held me captive with threats of ruin and prison. I’d fought him. I’d broken down in his studio on more than one occasion. Now he held me captive with my own creativity. I produced my best work when he was at my side. I couldn’t leave him, and I didn’t want to.
At least, I thought I didn’t want to.
Our relationship was complex.
He’d been right, too. Monster wasn’t the word to define him. Like me, he put art above everything else, and his attitude was downright ruthless. As an artist, he was a difficult man to hate or love. His process was painful to go through, but the end result was so much greater than what I could produce on my own. We had a true partnership, in and out of the bedroom.
Like me, he’d be full of emotion one moment, insert it into his art, and then cold and distant the next.
His cage around me was so perfectly constructed, he could leave the door wide open and I’d never escape.
His fingers coursed down my shoulder, hooked under the lace-covered strap of my dress, and pulled it off. The slinky fabric slipped away, and my bare breast tumbled free. I watched in the mirror as he moved behind me and his hand curled under my arm, palming my breast. His mouth ghosted kisses on my neck. I sighed in
to him, pressing my back against his chest and tipped my head so it could rest against his collarbone.
He was going to make love to me, right here in his bathroom. I saw the hungry look in his eyes, and my body responded eagerly to it. I’d enjoy the sex, too, as I always did. We had similar needs in art and sex. I gripped the sides of my long skirt in my hands and began to furl the fabric upward, granting him access beneath.
The night we’d met, he’d destroyed me just as badly as the sculpture. My work had come out better after that dark event, shaped and crafted under Luke’s watchful eye. He pushed my artistic boundaries and yet had patience to let me find my way with a piece. He wasn’t dominating, but I understood who my master was.
Luke fumbled with his pants as he prepared to claim me. It’d be intense and passionate as we celebrated our success, and I suspected my hands would smear on the mirror glass, reflecting blurry images back at us. I’d moan and scream and come, and afterward I tell him how much I loved him.
He was a villain, but so was I.
I’d had two glasses of champagne at the showing, and my inhibitions were lowered. I wanted to know the answer to the question I was always too nervous to ask, worried I wouldn’t get the answer I hoped for. Tonight, I finally had the courage.
“Of everything you’ve done over the years,” I said, catching my breath when his hands were on my hips, “which piece are you the proudest of?”
“Hmm?” The tip of him rubbed against me, seeking entrance.
He’d heard me, I was sure. He wanted me to ask it again. My voice faltered. “What’s your greatest creation?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” He pushed inside, taking me in a deep thrust which made my toes curl. “It’s you, Nikita.”
I smiled darkly.
* * *
Thank you so much for reading DESTROY. Want to see more of the Markovics? Check out THE SORDID DUET!
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