Page 35 of Born into Sin

He sighs and surprises the hell out of me by pulling me closer and kissing my forehead. “Forgive me, principessa. I’m not used to watching over anyone.”

He carries me up the stairs and down a long hall. I glance around, not even trying to hide my curiosity, and when he brings me into the last room at the end and opens the door, I’m expecting a sparse guest room, but instead he steps into a room that’s obviously being lived in. The king-size bed doesn’t even begin to fill the massive room. The walls are painted a masculine blue, making the white trim stand out even more, and when I see the large picture that’s framed on the wall, I can’t look away. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a picture of a sculpture, a woman who’s being held by a man, actively trying to get away from him, but he has a tight hold on her, fingers digging into her thigh and hip, holding her in place no matter how much she fights him. The work is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, the way his fingers show indentions on her marbled thigh, the expression of terror on her face, and the way the three-headed dog is snapping at her heels, making it clear that there’s no escape for this woman—I’m drawn to it in a way that I don’t fully understand.

When he walks me into the connecting bathroom and the picture disappears from view, I turn my head to try and get another glimpse.

“What was that?”

“The picture?”

“Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He sets me down on the counter and slips out of his suit jacket, tossing it down next to me. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing the tatted-up forearms that I haven’t once stopped thinking about.

“Do you like it?”

I’m so focused on his tanned, colorful forearms that I forget all about the picture he’s talking about and instead reach a finger out to trace the octopus tattoo that stretches down his inner arm. The talent behind the art is stunning. It looks like it’s alive, like it’s about to stretch one tentacled arm out and touch me.

“I love it,” I whisper, grazing my finger over the vein in his arm that appears to be a part of the sea creature. It’s not a tattoo I would’ve expected to see on him, and I love that he always surprises me. The rest of his arms are covered in images of skulls, black roses with blood dripping from them, a raven with his hungry mouth open and waiting, and an hourglass that’s empty and shattered—all of them molded into an intricate design that’s mesmerizing and a little scary. It’s a sharp contrast to the octopus, and I wish I knew its significance. I want to know everything about this man.

When I hear his soft laugh, I look up at him. “What?”

“I was talking about the picture in my room. Do you like it?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I know I’m beet red when I say, “Oh, yeah, I like it a lot.” I think about the way the man had been holding the woman and of how desperate she was to get away from him. “I probably shouldn’t, I guess, because it’s kind of grim, but I also couldn’t look away and already want to see it again. It’s violent, but it’s also beautiful.”

His eyes soften at my answer. “What makes it beautiful to you?”

I shrug. “The talent behind it is beautiful, the way it’s a marble statue, but you can see the indents on her thighs from how hard he’s gripping her. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to create something like that. It’s also beautiful because it made me feel so many different things at once. It’s the kind of art you could get lost in.”

Embarrassed by my rambling, I let out a soft laugh and look away. “I don’t know. I really don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t know much about art. I’m probably way off.”

He hooks a finger under my chin and pulls my face back, so I’m facing him again. “I like hearing your honest thoughts about things. If I’d wanted a professional art critic's opinion, I could’ve Googled it.”

The corner of my mouth lifts up at his tone. He keeps his finger under my chin for a few more seconds before stepping back with an audible sigh. Squatting down, he grabs onto one of my feet, lifting it so he can see the damage.

“The statue is called The Rape of Proserpina, although abduction is a better translation, and it’s by an Italian sculptor named Gian Lorenzo Bernini. It was made in the 1600s, and when I saw it for the first time in Rome, I did exactly what you just said. I stood there and stared at it for hours. I was completely lost in it—the beauty and violence and craftsmanship. I couldn’t look away.”

“What is it about?”

He runs his thumb over the bottom of my foot, checking for cuts, and I bite my bottom lip to hold back the groan that’s threatening to rise up.

“You’re probably more familiar with her name from Greek mythology—Persephone. Bernini is showing Pluto, or Hades, taking her to the Underworld.”

“He kidnapped her?”

He gives my foot one more caress before gently letting it go and reaching for my other one. His brown eyes lift to mine. “He saw her and he wanted her, so he took her.”

My heart races at his words and the intent way he’s staring at me.

Finally, he looks away and says, “It was a myth to explain the seasons. When Persephone is in the Underworld, it’s winter. When she’s returned to her mother, it’s spring.”

I suck in a quick breath when he hits a tender part of my foot. “Did she fall in love with him?”

He lifts a dark brow. “With the man who kidnapped her?”

“Yes. Did she?”

He gives a small grin. “Depends on which myth you believe.” Looking down to see my foot better, he asks, “Do you think she was capable of falling in love with a monster?”

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