Destroy (Sordid 2.5)

“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 laughed, 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.