Page 72 of The Vipers and Their Venom

It’s me! It’s undeniably me. And I’m completely naked.

Conflicting emotions jostle within me for supremacy. I should be angry with him for painting me in the nude without my permission, but I’m also stunned at how absolutely gorgeous his work is. I mean, that can’t possibly be what I look like. He painted me like I should be hung in an art gallery somewhere. Yes, I’m naked, but not in a pornographic way. I’m reclined on a couch, but I’m not looking directly out of the portrait, and instead am gazing dreamily into the distance. I’m surrounded by flowers, and my long, dark curls fall over my shoulders and breasts in waves. My skin is peachy, and I suddenly realize hehasn’t painted any of my tattoos. My skin is as clear as the day I was born.

His work is absolutely breathtaking.

I know I can’t just turn around and walk away. I’m no art critic, but this is serious talent. I want to talk to him about this. His work should be selling for huge sums and admired by millions. What’s he doing, wasting his way in a mafia college? He should be in a leading art school with his talent.

“Saint?”

With his ear buds still in, he doesn’t hear me. He’s so focused on his work. My heart patters, and I’m nervous about disturbing him.

I move closer, hoping to get into his eyeline. “Saint?” I try again.

Still nothing.

I reach out and tap his shoulder.

He’s on his feet in an instant, spinning around, dropping his brush and knocking over the water pot he’s been using to clean his brushes that was sitting at his feet. A split second later, his hand is around my throat, and he’s pushing me backward.

“It’s me!” I squeak, yanking at his wrist. “Saint, it’s just me.”

He drops his hold on my throat. “Nom de Dieu, Venom! Don’t go sneaking up on people like that.”

“Sorry.” I can still feel the imprint of his fingers on my skin. “I didn’t mean to. I called your name a couple of times, but you didn’t hear me. You were too engrossed in your work.” I gesture at the picture, and he blinks back at it, as though he’s already forgotten what he was doing.

“Bah oui.” He rubs the nape of his neck sheepishly. “You discovered my secret.”

“Not intentionally. I came out for some fresh air and stumbled across you.” I give an awkward smile. “You didn’t like my tattoos?”

“Sorry?” His dark eyebrows pull together.

I gesture back at his work. “You didn’t paint them.”

His tongue flicks over his lower lip and he glances back at the picture. “I couldn’t remember them all. I could picture some of them, like the skull, here.” He takes my hand to pull my arm out straight, and then uses his finger to trace the outline of the tattooed skull. “And the roses here.” He does the same with the flowers, and my skin reacts to his touch, goosebumps rising across it. I find my breath shortening, and my nipples tighten beneath my dress. “And of course I remembered the snake, but since I wanted to paint your tits, that particular piece of ink is on the wrong side of your body.”

A flash of mischief lights up his blue eyes.

“Oh, I see.” My throat has run dry at his words and the hunger in his gaze as he admires me.

“I didn’t want to just make them up, so I decided to leave them out altogether.”

“You’re really talented, you know. I had no idea…”

He shrugs and glances at the ground. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Saint look bashful before, or even be modest. I discover I like this side to him.

“You’re probably mad I didn’t ask before I painted you.”

I think about it for a minute. “Well, if you were a terrible painter, and made me look like an ugly troglodyte, then yeah, maybe I’d have been mad. But honestly, how can I possibly be angry when you’ve created something so beautiful?”

Crazily, I find myself choked up. I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the lump that’s suddenly crowding it.

“I didn’t create something beautiful,” he replies. “I simply recreated something—someone—who is already beautiful.”

He lifts his gaze to mine and holds it. I feel like I can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t even blink. The rest of the world has shrunk away, and it’s just the two of us, in this bubble. HaveI misread Saint? Sure, he has a dirty mouth, and he loves to degrade me, but right now it feels like he’s putting me on such a high pedestal, I’m scared I’ll fall.

“Saint—” I say his name on an exhale.

He steps into me, takes my chin between his fingers, and kisses me. My body reacts of its own accord, closing the rest of the space between us, so I can press myself against him. I remember how I made him face the wall while I was fucking his twin brother, and shame coils darkly within me. Does he have a right to call me those names? Am I exactly what he says?

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