There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(38)

The half-moon of people around the canvas stand quietly like worshippers.

The painting is lit as all paintings of saints should be: by one, single, brilliant overhead light.

The figure’s face is upturned to that light, her body positioned in a way that is simultaneously elegant and broken, contorted and free.

She is pierced through with knives, arrows, bullets, boards . . . a stone has caved in half her skull. Her pale flesh strains against the leather harness, smooth as alabaster stone.

Yet her expression is ecstatic. Beatific. Grateful, even.

The title reads, The Mercy of Men.

The painting is exactly life-size. It’s hung as if you could step right through the canvas and take her place in the frame.

The new critic for the Siren points at the figure’s face.

A perfect portrait.

My portrait.

“Who the fuck is that?” she says.





17





Cole





My rage upon arriving at Mara’s house and finding her already gone is only surpassed by my disgust at myself for not anticipating this.

I had been counting on her understanding of how advantageous it would be to arrive together. Cameras flashing as we stepped out of the limousine, each oozing the glamour, wealth, and cache I had carefully curated for that moment.

Instead, that obstinate little idiot has run off on foot.

I HATE when she walks.

As much as I’ve tried to conceal my mentorship of Mara, it’s only a matter of time until Alastor sees us together. When he does, there’s no hiding who she is. He’ll recognize her. And for the first time in my life . . . I’m not sure what to do about that.

I don’t want Alastor anywhere near Mara.

I don’t want him to know she’s even alive.

And yet, the only way to hide her from him would be to never interact with her myself, or only in the most mundane ways.

I want her with me constantly.

I want to do every fucking thing I want to do with her.

The conflict between this need and its inevitable consequences infuriates me.

I want her always under my eye. Always under my control. I want cameras in her room, on her fucking body. It’s not enough, watching her at the studio, at work, from the house behind hers . . .

“GET TO THE FUCKING GALLERY!” I bellow at the driver.

The moment we pull up, I shove my way inside, without any of the usual glad-handing.

The only person I greet is Sonia, and only to snarl at her, “WHERE IS SHE?”

“Mara?” Sonia says, eyebrow raised.

She knows damn well I mean Mara. She just wants to make me say it.

“Yes,” I hiss. “Mara.”

Sonia points wordlessly with her pen.

If I hadn’t been so enraged, I could have simply followed the concentration of noise around her. Mara is already surrounded by journalists, critics, and newfound friends.

I shove my way through all of them, seizing her by the arm and snarling into her face, “How fucking dare you not wait for me.”

I feel the dozens of eyes on us, I hear the frantic sudden silence, everyone straining to overhear with all their might.

Mara is just as conscious of these elements as I am. Maybe even more so.

Yet she faces me boldly.

Because she anticipated this. Planned it, even.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” she says.

Then she kisses me on the mouth.





18





Mara





A hundred eyes surround us. Cameras explode in flashes of blinding light. The air is so thick you could slice it.

Cole is so angry that his whole body is a live wire, a thrumming electric line.

Our mouths meet and the entirety of that current passes into me.

I’m jolted awake, my brain opening up like a portal into the universe. I kiss him and I taste his mouth. I taste HIM.

Not the mask, not the pretender.

I taste the fucking animal.

That animal is hungry. It attacks my mouth. It bites my lips. It swallows me whole.

Cole is kissing me like the fucking monster he is, right here, right now, in front of all these people.

He’s eating me alive while they all watch.

When we break apart, my mouth is bleeding. I feel the warmth sliding down my chin.

My blood dots his full lower lip. I can see it in the threads of his teeth.

“Don’t you ever keep me waiting,” he says.

He seizes me by the arm and begins the forceful process of parading me in front of every single influential person in that room. He introduces me to every last one, telling them I’m his student, his protégé. That we’re working on a new series together, and they can see its first example right now, the fucking masterwork of the show.

Whatever I imagined it would be like walking around with Cole Blackwell, the reality is tenfold. He’s a dark star at the center of the universe, pulling everyone in. Everybody wants to see him, speak with him. Even the most conceited and influential players become giddy sycophants in his presence.

Even Jack Brisk—who barely noticed when he dumped his wine all over my dress—acts like an eager schoolboy when Cole spares him a glance.

“Did Sonia tell you my new offer?” he says.