Page 33 of Shatter Me

13

DMITRI

Iscan the room, cataloging every detail while appearing completely at ease. The champagne flows freely as donors mingle beneath crystal chandeliers. Still, my attention focuses on one scene that makes me see red.

Gregory Matthews hovers over Tash like a vulture, his meaty hand resting on her bare arm. She's wearing a black cocktail dress with just enough skin to be provocative while remaining professional.

"Fascinating perspective on the new Kandinsky acquisition," Matthews drawls, leaning closer to her than necessary. "I'd love to hear more about your plans for the modern wing over dinner."

Tash's laugh carries across the room, practiced and polite. Her eyes flick to mine for a fraction of a second before returning to Matthews. "The board's vision for the collection is ambitious."

I take a measured sip of scotch, watching as Matthews' hand slides down to the small of her back. My grip tightens on the crystal tumbler.

"Speaking of collections..." Matthews continues, "I recently acquired several pieces that would complement your Russian exhibit beautifully. Perhaps we could discuss a potential loan agreement?"

"How generous." Tash's smile doesn't reach her eyes. She glances my way again, this time letting her gaze linger. "Though any major acquisitions would need board approval, of course."

I recognize her game. The subtle looks, the way she angles her body toward Matthews while ensuring I have a clear view. She's trying to provoke a reaction.

Matthews leans in to whisper something in her ear. Her shoulders stiffen slightly, but she forces another laugh, touching his arm in return.

The scotch burns my throat as I drain the glass. I've spent the past week respecting her space after our argument but watching this buffoon paw at her tests the limits of my control.

When she meets my eyes again, I don't mask my expression. Let her see exactly what I think of her little performance. Her breath catches, visible even from across the room.

Matthews remains oblivious, droning on about his art collection while his hand wanders.

I signal the bartender for another scotch, my eyes never leaving the spectacle across the room. Matthews has grown bolder with each passing minute, his fingers trailing patterns on Tash's arm.

The crystal tumbler appears before me. I don't acknowledge the server.

Tash laughs at something Matthews says, placing her hand on his chest. The gesture sets my teeth on edge. She's playing her role perfectly—the attentive curator entertaining a wealthy potential donor—too perfectly.

"Your dress is exquisite," Matthews says, loud enough to carry. "Is it vintage?"

"Good eye." Tash turns in a slow circle, allowing his hand to brush her waist. "1950s Dior."

Ice clinks against crystal as I take another drink. She knows exactly what she's doing and knows I'm watching her little performance. Each casual touch, each coy smile, is designed to push me closer to the edge.

Matthews steps closer, emboldened by her receptiveness. His fingers trace the neckline of her dress, lingering longer than propriety allows. "The craftsmanship is remarkable. These details..."

I catch the way her smile tightens for a fraction of a second. But she doesn't step back. Doesn't remove his hand. Instead, she tilts her head, exposing the curve of her neck as she examines the sleeve he's now touching.

The scotch burns but does nothing to dull the darkness spreading through my chest. She's taking this game too far, letting that oaf's hands wander where they don't belong. My fingers flex around the tumbler, imagining how satisfying it would feel to wrap them around Matthews' throat instead.

Tash's eyes find mine again. A challenge burns in their depths as she allows Matthews to guide her toward the bar, his hand still possessively placed on her lower back.

I watch Tash excuse herself, her heels clicking against marble as she heads for the corridor. Matthews' eyes follow her retreat with predatory interest. He waits a few seconds, then sets down his drink and follows.

My jaw clenches. The crystal tumbler threatens to shatter in my grip. I set it down, my hands itching to wrap around Matthews' throat instead.

I trail behind him, maintaining enough distance to avoid detection. The corridor stretches long and empty ahead, soft sconces casting shadows on the walls. Matthews' footsteps echo as he increases his pace.

Tash emerges from the ladies' room, freezing, when she spots Matthews lounging against the wall. He straightens, blocking her path.

"Leaving so soon?" His voice carries down the hallway. "I was hoping we could continue our discussion somewhere more private."

"Mr. Matthews, I should return to the party." Tash's tone remains professional, but I catch the edge of tension.

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