There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(2)

“I love a college co-ed,” he says, his voice low and guttural.

He wets his lips, his features dissolving into lust at the memory of what he did.

I take a slow breath to dispel my distaste.

Alastor’s need disgusts me.

He’s such a cliché of himself. College co-eds, for fuck’s sake.

“You and Bundy,” I murmur, my lips barely moving.

Shaw’s eyes narrow.

“Oh, you’re above that, are you?” he sneers. “You don’t feel a certain urge when you see something like that?”

He jerks his head toward a stunning blonde bent over to examine the details of a floor-level installation, her tight red dress clinging to the curves of her ass.

“Or what about that?” Shaw says, inclining his head in the direction of a slim Asian girl, whose nipples are clearly visible through the gauzy material of her top.

I don’t kill women, typically.

This is not out of any petty moral constraint.

It’s just too fucking easy.

I could overpower either of those women like they were small children. Where’s the challenge? The sense of accomplishment?

“I’m not a hedonist,” I say to Alastor, coldly.

His face darkens and he opens his mouth to retort, but at that moment, the girl comes striding back into the gallery, chin upraised, dark hair streaming behind her.

I had thought she was going to the bathroom to attempt the impossible task of washing those stains out of her dress.

Quite the opposite: she’s tie-dyed the entire thing.

She’s used merlot to make a textile of deep burgundy, magenta, and mulberry in delicate watercolor layers. I’m staring at the dress because it surprises me—not only in the concept but in the execution. It’s really quite beautiful. Nothing I would have expected to emerge from a bathroom after eight minutes’ work.

Alastor follows my gaze. He sees my interest while completely missing the reason behind it.

“Her?” he says softly. “You surprise me, Cole. I’ve never seen you take a stroll in the gutter before.”

I turn away from the girl, irritation swelling inside of me.

“You think I’d be attracted to some filthy little scrabbler with bitten fingernails and raggedy shoelaces?” I sneer.

Everything about that girl repulses me, from her unwashed hair to the dark circles under her eyes. She radiates neglect.

But Shaw is certain he’s made a discovery. He thinks he caught me in some unguarded moment.

“Maybe I’ll go talk to her,” he says, testing me.

“I wish you would,” I reply. “Anything to end this conversation.”

With that, I stride off toward the open bar.

The hours pass slowly from eight o’clock to ten.

I slip in and out of conversations, soaking in the ready praise for my piece.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Betsy says, her pale blue eyes peering up at me through the rims of her expensive designer glasses. “How on earth did you think of using spider silk? And how did you acquire it?”

She’s giving me the same look of dazzled admiration she gave to Shaw, but she doesn’t dare rest her hand on my forearm like she did to him.

Everyone says the prize is as good as mine—or at least, everyone with taste.

I can see Alastor sulking over by the canapés. He’s received a hefty helping of accolades, but he’s noted the difference in tenor as well as I have. Compliments for him, raves for me.

I want the prize because I deserve it.

I couldn’t give a shit about the money—ten thousand dollars means nothing to me. I’ll make ten times that amount when I sell the sculpture.

Still, a cold foreboding steals over me when Betsy calls the crowd to order, saying, “Thank you all for coming tonight! I’m sure you’re anxious to hear what our judges have decided.”

I already know what she’s about to say even before she casts me a guilty look.

“After much debate, we’ve decided to award tonight’s prize to Alastor Shaw!”

The applause that breaks out has a nervy tension. Alastor is popular, but half the crowd is casting glances in my direction to see how I’ll react.

I keep my face as smooth as still water and my hands tucked in my pockets. I don’t applaud along with them because I don’t care about looking gracious.

“So the rivalry continues!” Brisk says to me, his face florid with drink.

“The Lakers and the Clippers aren’t rivals just because they both play basketball,” I say, loud enough for Shaw to hear.

The sports metaphor is for Alastor’s benefit, digging under his skin like a barb.

While Brisk chortles, a flush rises up Shaw’s neck. His thick fingers clench around the delicate stem of his champagne flute until I can almost hear the glass cracking.

“Congratulations,” I say to Shaw, not bothering to hide my disdain. “It doesn’t surprise me that Danvers was impressed by your work—he struggles when the message is open to interpretation.”

“Not every piece of art has to be a riddle,” Alastor snarls.

“Cole!” Betsy says, pushing her way toward me. “I hope you’re not too disappointed—I liked your piece better.”

“So does Shaw,” I reply. “He just won’t admit it.”