by Sky, Lana
But sometimes he needed to fall. Only then, in the aftermath of the chaos, could he reassemble from the broken pieces the parts of himself that had been lost in the façade. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t a monolith of wisdom, integrity, or stellar judgment.
He was human.
And it took my father nearly a grueling month of intensive recovery to realize that. His smile isn’t smug as he faces a throng of reporters waiting beyond the hospital’s main doors. He looks tired and older than ever.
But in his exhausted, haggard expression, I see hints of the man who rescued me all those years ago. My old childhood hero.
“Should we face the cavalry?” he wonders as Diane and I flank him on either side, each of us holding a papery hand of his. His security team surrounds us at a respectful distance, but as we step from the shelter of the building, they provide no cover from the avalanche of questions.
“Mr. Thorne! Do you regret withdrawing from public office?”
“Is it true that you plan to publicly renounce your judgment in the Borgetta murder case?”
“Ms. Thorne! Are you still involved with Damien Villa?”
As we finally climb into the waiting limo, the metal frame mutes the noise enough for me to hear my father ask, “You’re still coming to dinner, sweet pea?”
“Yes,” I rasp. “I just have something to take care of. That’s all.”
Something that requires that the driver drops me off at the private residential entrance of the Lariat. Leaning toward him, I kiss my father on the cheek. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
Questions burn in his gaze even as he physically bites them back. “Of course, sweet pea.”
I enter the hotel and cross the lobby. My hand slips into the pocket of my coat, withdrawing a slip of paper I’d crumpled and thrown away—only to salvage later—so many times that the font has worn away in places. An invitation to a private gallery held in a more secluded ballroom of the Lariat.
A part of me knows better than to attend. I should have been packing my things, preparing to move in with my parents at their newly purchased family compound on the outskirts of the city. I should have been helping my father prepare his public address on his role in the injustice against Mathias Villa.
Anything but inching down a deserted hallway and entering a closed room.
This showing lacks the pomp and grandeur of Sampson’s first splashy outing. Only a few paintings are on display: each one portraying the same woman in excruciating detail.
I move, drawn forward to a painting hanging at the back of the space. It’s beautiful, even if grotesquely raw in a way. Pale limbs were on shameless display. Scars. Curves. Pimples.
But her eyes are the most striking—almost impossibly so. Tears brim in them. And anger. And rage. A pain so raw that it takes my breath away.
“My finest work, I think,” a man announces, his voice low near my ear. “What are your thoughts?”
My breath catches, and I reach out, unconcerned as my fingers brush the canvas directly. Whirls and divots in the layers of paint reveal a painstaking level of artistry. Devotion to capturing every single strand of hair. Every flaw that could be discerned through touch.
Everything about me in stroke after stroke.
“I’m afraid that you keep straining the theory that you are truly blind, Mr. Villa,” I rasp.
“Not blind…” Fingers like silk caress the flesh of my shoulder bared by the neckline of my sweater. I flinch, but something won’t let me pull away. “No man could risk being so vulnerable around you. He must employ all of his senses, sí—an arsenal of senses to decipher you. Smell. Touch. Taste.”
I shiver as his breath warms the back of my throat, creeping like wildfire.
“I’m sure even this painting portrays only a fraction.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” I admit, blinking. “I should be…”
Furious. Hateful. Bitter.
“I know,” he says. “You have no reason to forgive me, and I don’t have the right to demand it.”
“So why all this?” I gesture to the surrounding space. To the other paintings hanging just beyond my line of sight. “I could still hate you.”
“I know,” he says. “You have every right to.”
“Didn’t you get what you wanted? My father is going to publicly renounce his own judgment. Your brother will be vindicated. Though I’m sure you’ve already gotten your revenge.”
According to the news reports issued earlier this morning, Kyle Harrison has vanished from his expensive penthouse home, presumably on the run given new evidence brought to light. I know the truth, however, and Damien grits his teeth, confirming it.
“So why contact me?” I ask.
“Stupidity. Insanity, perhaps,” he says. “For a man with my resources, I’m not used to begging for what I want.”
My heart lurches, ramming against my rib cage. “And what do you want?”
“To start over,” he says simply. “I want to introduce myself to the beautiful woman who visited my exhibition and expressed interest in my work like no one else. I want her to know that I am willing to earn her trust through any means available to me. I want her to know…”
“What?” I croak when he falls silent.
“I want her to know that I will never abandon her. Whether she can forgive me or not.”
Tears spill from my eyes, painting my cheeks. “I’m hungry,” I blurt.
Another deliberate step brings him closer still. “Oh?”
“Yes. I’m in the mood for pizza.” Turning on my heel, I move for the hall, calling back, “You have five minutes before I change my mind.”
His laugh brings fluttering butterflies to life in my stomach. “As you wish, Ms. Thorne. I am yours to command.”
Hey there!
Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the story, please leave a review and recommend the book to any friend you think would love this twisted world. You’d have my eternal gratitude. Even a short sentence goes a long way!
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Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and legless cats. She writes mostly paranormal romance, in between watching reruns of Ab Fab and drinking iced tea. Only iced tea.
Other Novels:
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The Ellie Gray Chronicles
Drain Me
Chain Me
Beautiful Monsters
Crescendo
Refrain
Mezzo
Allegro
Rockstar Rebels
Dirty Lyrics
Moth
Dragonfly
Moth
XXX
Maxim: Submit
Maxim: Obey
Maxim: Surrender
Savage Fall Duet
King’s Men
King’s Horses
The War of Roses
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VII: (Seven)
I: (One)
Painted Sin
A Touch of Dark
A Taste like Sin
Standalones
Pretty Perfect
Crossed Lines