Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(91)

Or, perhaps, in spite of it.

It’s not the original painting—I have about six different versions that I’ve worked on over the last few weeks, each one with a different sheen of brightness and transparency.

Superimposed on this much larger canvas, though, I can’t help noticing how different the hues and use of white space look, as if made for this exact medium.

Someone taps my shoulder, and I glance behind me, expecting to see Jonas; instead, a tall man with inky hair and the coldest, iciest blue eyes I’ve ever seen stands at my side, though he’s staring at the painting.

Mayor Wolfe. Despite how close I’ve gotten with his brother, this is the first I’ve ever seen the man in person. His jaw is clean-shaven and disturbingly sharp, the kind of devastating beauty you see in marble sculptures.

Somehow, he’s even more immobile and intimidating.

He’s wearing a tan suit and an impassive expression, and his finger stays on my shoulder. Almost like he’s forgotten he reached out in the first place.

“How much?” he asks finally. His voice is just as deep and velvety as Jonas’s, though accented differently. Still uniquely British, but with a hint of another dialect blending in, blurring his syllables.

I pull my shoulder back, watching his hand fall. “What do you mean?”

Slowly, his gaze slides to mine. “You’re the artist, right? How much are you selling this for?”

My eyebrows knit together, confusion lacing my insides. “I’m not.”

“You’re not,” he repeats in a flat tone. “Then why in the world did my brother insist on showcasing this piece? Do you have any idea how many dealers and curators I’ve had asking about it?”

“This painting?” I look at the watercolors again. “Why? It’s not… I’m not even professionally trained. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“There’s a beauty in that, sometimes. A… uniqueness often lost with experience.” Mayor Wolfe shrugs, glancing past me. His entire demeanor shifts when he does, his face going totally stiff.

I turn my head, searching for the cause, following his line of sight to a girl standing in front of an abstract marble sculpture. Royal-blue hair spills in waves down her back, exposed through the crisscrossed straps of her hot-pink minidress, but that’s all I can really make out.

She laughs at something someone else says, her shoulders shaking, and it seems to infuriate the mayor.

After an incredibly awkward silence, he finally seems to snap back to reality, clearing his throat. “In any case, I did this as a favor to my brother, but you’ve garnered serious interest.” He pulls several cards out of his pants pocket, holding them out for me to take. “Call any one of those numbers, and you’ll see. Or don’t, I don’t bloody care one way or the other.”

With that, he leaves me standing there. I try not to watch him leave, but my eyes are almost glued to him as he stalks across the gallery floor, pausing at the marble sculpture just beside the girl.

They don’t seem to speak or interact at all. If you weren’t paying attention, you probably wouldn’t notice just how close he is, or the way her shoulders tense at his presence.

A minute later, he turns on his heel and walks away, disappearing into a hallway that leads to a cafeteria, the restrooms, and the offices. I wait, watching the girl for a long time, until finally, she takes off.

In the same direction.

Shaking my head, I try to wrap my brain around the events of the night. We’re only a few hours in, and I’m already exhausted from the mental gymnastics.

Glancing up at the painting, then at the cards in my hand, I frown.

Fake fiancés don’t do this kind of thing, right?

They don’t buy things from a thrift store that you left behind or have lingerie special ordered from expensive shops just because.

They definitely don’t put your paintings up for auction. Even if that’s not technically what this is, the business cards I’m holding beg to differ.

And for some reason, I feel violated. Like he’s stripped away my choice of not putting my personal hobby on display.

But there’s also something innately wholesome about it, I suppose. A belief in me he sees and wants to show the rest of the world, no matter the cost.

When I spin around, I have every intention of finding Jonas and laying into him, but he’s no longer in the corner with Kal and Elena.

Heading in the same direction that Alistair just took off in, I clutch my chest, searching for an outside exit. Air, Lenny. You just need some air.

I turn down a corridor, pausing when I hear hushed voices. Familiar voices.

“…what do you think people are gonna say when they realize how these missing people are connected? They aren’t nobodies. They have families and loved ones who are going to raise suspicion, and it’s not gonna look good for you when they realize what you’ve done.”

Preston.

My eyes roll so hard into the back of my head that a sharp pang shoots across my skull. Of course, he’s here.

Jonas’s voice washes over me like a bucket of ice water. My fingers clutch the archway I’m standing beside, and I strain to hear.

“I don’t bloody care how it looks. Alistair will either excommunicate me or deal with the fallout. Politicians survive scandal all the time, and it’s not like anyone operates under the impression that my brother’s a good guy.”