Page 12 of Ruthless Desire

Her nostrils flare, eyes narrowing as she processes the jab. But I'm not done. "But I guess calories are the least of your worries," I continue, lips twitching. "With those personal videos from the yacht party making the rounds online. Tell me, was that battery-soldered look intentional, or just the result of cheap collagen and too much degrading sex?"

A red flush climbs her neck as my words hit home. For a moment, she looks like she wants to attack, but the watching crowd holds her back. Her need for their approval outweighs her anger.

Cold sweat trickles down my back. Sienna watches me with a narrowed, reptilian gaze.

"Look at you," she sneers. "Spacing out like a true junkie, as always. Is this what passes for professionalism in your world? No wonder your paintings are all the rage—they drip with the psychosis of their maker."

Every bit of pride shrivels. She’s right. I am psychotic, a broken creature clawing for validation through my art. Paintings born from my own chaos, fit only for the scrutiny of equally damaged souls.

Sienna’s grin widens as she sees my despair. "That's right, you little freak. I see it in your eyes, that realization. You don’t belong here. You’re just a strung-out has-been getting a last encore before the final curtain."

Her words batter me like physical blows. I step back, trying to retreat where her venom can't reach.

"Enough."

The voice cuts through the noise, sharp and commanding. I know that voice. I’ve felt its pull since I first saw its owner across the gallery. He moves through the crowd like a predator, calm and confident. His dark eyes lock on me, stripping away everything until only my raw need remains.

Sienna tries to speak, but he silences her with a look. The crowd parts, leaving just the two of us. His sandalwood scent wraps around me, mixing with the spice of danger.

"You're upset," he says softly, his words a caress against my neck. It's not a question. Of course, I'm upset, shattered by Sienna’s attack. Just like always, beneath my thin layer of confidence.

Because she’s right. I don’t belong here, no matter how many velvet ropes or bottomless bank accounts let me in. Not with the chaos raging beneath my skin, in every brushstroke.

His hand cups my chin, lifting my face to his. His gaze is intense, consuming. "Don’t listen to the petty jackals, beloved. Their jealousy and hate mean nothing."

His fingers trace my jaw, his touch both soothing and burning. "You are an artist. Transcendent. They can’t comprehend your work, let alone aspire to it."

I stare into his eyes and understand. He sees me, my whole fractured self. Not just the paintings that got me here, but the pain behind them. The darkness in my soul that needs destruction and rebirth more than anything.

For a moment, I'm lost in his gaze, drowning in the promise of understanding, of acceptance. His touch ignites something within me, a hunger I've never dared to acknowledge.

But then his fingers tighten on my jaw, just shy of painful. A glint of something feral flashes in his eyes, a hint of the predator beneath the sensual veneer.

And just like that, the spell is broken.

What am I doing? This man is dangerous, a stranger who's already wormed his way under my skin with a few honeyed words. I can't let him pull me in, can't surrender to the dark temptation he represents.

Panic rises in my throat, cold and sobering. I twist out of his grip, stumbling back a step.

"I...I can't," I rasp, my voice trembling. "I don't even know you. I'm not...this isn't..."

I turn on my heel and flee, my heart pounding and my skin burning with the memory of his touch. I can feel his eyes on me as I go, heavy with promise and threat.

But I don't look back. I can't. If I do, I'm afraid I'll be lost forever.

I run, pushing through the crowd, my heels clicking on the marble floors. The air feels thick with judgment and curiosity, every whisper and side-eye a stab in my already raw nerves. I need to escape this place, this suffocating pit of artifice and pretense.

I burst through the doors and into the cool night air. It feels like a slap, sharp and bracing, but not enough to clear the fog in my head. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I stumble down the steps, desperate for distance, for space to think.

But he’s there, relentless. His footsteps are steady, unhurried, echoing behind me. No matter how fast I run, I can’t outrun him. His presence is a shadow, a force of nature I can’t escape.

“Natalie,” he calls, his voice a dark whisper in the night.

I spin around, my back against a cold stone wall, nowhere left to go. He’s closer now, close enough that I can see the intensity in his eyes, the hunger. It’s terrifying and intoxicating all at once.

“Why are you running?” he asks, his voice soft but commanding.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “I don’t know,” I admit. The truth feels like a confession, raw and vulnerable. “Maybe because I’m scared.”

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