There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(39)

“You know she did. And you know what I replied.”

“I could make it an even three million—”

Cole cuts him off. “Not interested.”

When Brisk has stalked off, offended, I ask, “What was that about?”

“I only own a few things I actually give a shit about,” he says. “I’m not selling any of them to Brisk.”

“What do you give a shit about?”

I’m genuinely curious. Though everything Cole owns is expensive—his car, his watch, his clothes—he doesn’t seem attached to any of it. Even his fancy suits are dark and simple, worn like a uniform every day.

I don’t expect him to answer.

But Cole will do anything to shock me.

“I have a garden,” he says. “At my house. Self-contained. Self-perpetuating.”

“A mini eco-system?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

“Not mini,” he says.

I have a hundred more questions on this topic, but we’re immediately interrupted by Erin and Frank. While all my roommates have shown up to support me, it’s those two who shoulder their way through the crowd so they can demand an introduction to Cole.

They’re both doing their damndest to hit on him, Frank by asking probing questions about Cole’s latest sculpture, and Erin by making innuendos and trying to touch him on the forearm.

Cole is remarkably patient with this, though I can tell he’s itching to show me off to more important people.

Not wanting to piss him off any more than I already have, I shoo Frank and Erin away and wave to Joanna on the opposite side of the room. Joanna grins, raising her champagne glass in my direction in a silent toast.

She brought her boyfriend Paul along, and his roommate Logan. Logan is a tattoo artist—in fact, he did the quote on my ribs.

“Who’s that?” Cole snaps, following my gaze.

“My roommate Joanna.”

“I know that,” he says testily. “I meant the other two.”

Before I can respond, we’re interrupted by Sonia bringing over another round of brokers and curators who want to talk to Cole, and by extension, to me as well.

At the beginning of the evening, I noticed a strange tension in Cole—separate from his anger at me. He was scanning the room. Looking for someone.

But that person never materialized.

And as the night wears on, as the time passes that anyone important would have come, I see him relax.

I can read Cole. When he wants me to . . . and also when he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want me to know he was watching. Which instantly makes it the most intriguing aspect of the evening.

Who the fuck is he waiting for?

The accolades pour down on my shoulders. Not because of Cole or his influence. I saw it for myself before he ever arrived—the work is GOOD.

The feeling of achievement, of true divine creation, eclipses everything else that happens that night, and all that will happen in the next few days. Profiles, posts, re-posts, and an online viral spread of the painting are all coming. I see that laid out before me.

But in this moment, I don’t care.

The only thing I think is this:

I fucking did it.

I made art.





In the elation at the end of the night, I turn to Cole. I’m glowing with happiness. It illuminates everything around me, giving every single person their own private interior glow. Making them beautiful to me.

In that moment I think of all the criticism Cole gave me. All the advice. I think of the studio space itself, which I only have because of him.

And I look at his face. That beautiful fucking face.

I feel grateful to him, genuinely grateful.

Below that . . . the deeper, darker emotion that always lurks beneath the surface. It’s been there from the moment I laid eyes on him, even in my most extreme and awful circumstance. When I viewed him as the angel of death.

I wanted death.

I wanted HIM.

Every moment of our kiss is seared in my brain. His taste, his scent, those full, strong lips, and the teeth beneath . . .

The flavor of my own blood in my mouth.

I want more.

I drag him into the empty offices next to the gallery. My mouth is all over him, my hands too. I shove him up against a desk and I drop to my knees before him, opening the buckle of his belt.

At that moment, someone across the room clears their throat.

“As much as I’d like to keep observing in secret, that awful conscience of mine just won’t let me keep quiet.”

It’s Simon Grundy. Cole introduced me to him earlier in the evening. He’s a buyer for the Jolie and Voss—a sardonic, bearded man of about forty-eight, smelling faintly of cigars.

He grins at me now, kneeling before my teacher in precisely the position he would have expected to find me if he ever came to visit our studio.

My face burns.

I want to tell him I’ve never done this before, never even considered doing it. I’ve never sucked cock for a favor. The idea was abhorrent to me.

But in this case . . . the gratitude was great. As was my impulse to suck Cole’s cock.

“No need for embarrassment,” Cole says. His dark eyes flit between me and Simon. “Mara was just about to express her thanks for everything I’ve done for her. And since she’s so extremely . . . grateful . . . I’m sure she’d be happy to include you.”