Page 13 of Unforgiving Sinner (Starukhin Bratva)

Stop,I tell myself.I have a right to be here on my own.

I’m here on my own. My life is under my control, and I’m loving it. But the pang of guilt doesn’t fade, and I make a mental note to call him when I get back to Mercy’s place tonight to let him know I’m okay.

I grab a glass of wine from a nearby table, nearly choking at the way it tastes. Books always say that wine tastes rich, but all I taste is the sting of alcohol against my tongue. Discreetly, I put it down somewhere and continue wandering through the gallery, drawn to an oil painting directly in front of me.

Its subdued palette and ethereal strokes are a stark contrast to the bold statement of the other pieces surrounding it. I approach it slowly, studying the brushstrokes. Why did Kaori create a piece that is so different?

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a deep, familiar voice rumbles beside me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I turn around and my breath catches at the sight of Nikolai Starukhin, his dark hair, and his piercing green eyes. He smirks when he sees me, and I feel my face flushing with equal parts embarrassment and excitement as I stare at him. I should stop gawking and start talking.

“Y-yeah,” I stammer like a fool. “It’s really nice.”

Ugh!I cringe. That is theworstresponse ever. I sound so stupid, like I’ve never read a book on art. Slowly, I look back at the painting and hope for him to walk away. But when I smell a hint of his intoxicating blend of scents, I know he’s still standing next to me and I fidget with my wrists.

“Itisnice,” he replies, still looking at the painting. “It soothes without being boring.”

I nod, choosing my next words carefully. “It’s not like Kaori’s other works,” I reply. “It reminds me of Mark Rothko but with a feminine palette. Sometimes we need to connect with something unexpected to expand our perspective.”

I turn to look at him and see that he’s staring at me hard. A mixture of surprise and impressiveness in those emerald eyes.

“Exactly,” he agrees as he looks at the painting again. “Art should challenge our limited views of the world.”

I stand a little taller as he takes a step closer to me, and I feel my heartbeat quicken at his presence.

“Good to see you again, Eden.” He extends his hand to shake mine.

“You too, Nikolai,” I say, shaking his hand firmly. The warmth of his grip flows into me effortlessly in his strong yet gentle grip. His green eyes hold me in place, and a small shiver runs down my spine.

“I’m glad you accepted my invitation.” Nikolai’s gaze flickers across the room. “I was almost afraid I’d been too subtle.”

“The card in my book was a nice touch,” I reply, doing my best to avoid biting my lip. “But you sure know how to read me.”

“Come.” He looks at me again, a playful smile on his lips while his hands still grip mine. “Let’s look at some more paintings.”

I nod and follow him. His tall frame seems to overshadow my body. Or maybe it’s his confidence? Quickly, I sneak a look at his left hand and feel my breath calm slightly when I don’t see a ring.

“Chrysanthea is certainly an interesting place,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going as we walk. “I’ve always wanted to visit an art gallery like this.”

“Really?” Nikolai asks, genuinely curious. “Is this your first time?”

“I don’t get out much.” Embarrassment sends my cheeks flushing again as I nod. “My father doesn’t appreciate art like me. I love being surrounded by so much expression that it makes me feel creative,” I explain. “It makes me want to start painting.”

“Do you paint?” Nikolai smiles, clearly appreciating my enthusiasm.

I look away from his gaze. “I’d like to …” My voice trails off, not willing to admit to him that I’ve never so much as touched a set of paintbrushes my whole life.

Another painting—the centerpiece of the gallery—catches my eye, isolated on a wall by itself. It’s a beautiful image of a single chrysanthemum suspended above a body of water, the petals seeming to shimmer in the dim light of the gallery. A small crowd stands in front of it, murmuring as they discuss just what it means.

“Whoa,” I murmur, unable to tear my gaze away. “Kaori never paints figuratively.”

“What do you think Kaori is saying?” Nikolai’s gaze follows mine to the painting.

I pause for a moment, collecting my thoughts and falling into the painting as I consider the words.

“To me,” I finally say, “it represents the beauty of isolation. Often, we’re led to believe that being alone is something to fear, but there’s a certain charm to isolation as well. A chance for growth, self-discovery, and finding our own voice in a world full of judgment.”

“Correct,” Nikolai praises me. His eyes meet mine with a newfound interest. “It was a personal commission.”

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