Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(39)

“I had to tell her, Nina. She would have kept grilling you, so I told her to make her understand.”



“To understand what?”

“Why you are with that man. I . . . I told her what I did, and that you married him because they would have killed me otherwise. I explained that you have to pretend.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not pretending, Dad. I haven’t been for quite some time,” I sigh. “I am in love with him.”

“Nina! He is a killer. Are you crazy?”

“Maybe I am, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you will go and explain that to Mother.

And if that doesn’t sit well with you two, I don’t want to see either of you tonight.”

I press the end button, throw the phone in my purse, and get back to my makeup.




I get closer to the painting and lean back, regarding it. The lights are muted throughout the gallery, leaving only a single wide spotlight above each painting to illuminate the space. It works well, considering the dark vibe of Nina’s art. I had a look at most of the pieces while they were still at my place, but having them showcased in this way gives them a much more disturbing feel.

The painting in front of me shows a mirror reflection of a pale-skinned woman with long dark hair, holding a length of material clutched to her chest. In the space behind her, several faceless tall figures loom, their hands extended. Everything is done in shades of gray and black, except for the dress the woman is holding, which is bright green.

Before I move to the next piece, I throw a look toward the opposite corner of the room, where Nina is standing next to a short young man with a receding hairline. Mark, the “pimp”. They are discussing something, and I pay attention to their body language for a few moments. Nina looks up and, noticing me regarding her, smiles. She says something to Mark and heads toward me. I ogle her cat-like body dressed in leather pants as she sways on sky-high heels. For someone who said they don’t like wearing heels, she’s managing quite well. Those things are outrageous—at least five inches high, probably more.

“So, what do you think?” she asks and nods to the painting.

I take her hand, raise it to my lips and place a kiss at the top of her fingers. “They are amazing, malysh.”

She smirks and leans toward me. “You are only saying that to drag me into your bed.”

“You usually come into my bed of your own accord. But if you insist, I can drag you there myself tonight.”

“I insist.” She looks at me through hooded eyes and bites her lip—my little seductress.

“If you keep looking at me like that,”—I take her chin between my fingers and pull her head

toward me—“you will be missing your own exhibition, Nina.”

“That doesn’t sound bad at all, Pakhan.”

I grab her around the waist and pull her onto my lap. Nina laughs, wraps her arms around my neck and buries her fingers in my hair.

“I am taking you to say your goodbyes, and we are going home,” I say and crush my mouth to hers.

“Can’t,” she whispers into my lips, “you haven’t seen the big guy yet.”

I growl at her.

“Seriously, Roman?” She kisses me again. “Animal sounds now? What will people think?”

“People can go fuck themselves.”

In the corner of my vision, I see Samuel Grey approaching us, warily, with his wife on his arm.

“Your parents are here.”

Nina looks up but doesn’t make a move to get off my lap. Instead, she keeps playing with my hair while she watches them coming.

“Mr. Petrov,” her father says when they approach. Her mother just nods, her eyes focused on

Nina’s hand which is still buried in my hair.

“Just Roman, please,” I say and turn my gaze to Nina’s mother. “So, what do you think about

Nina’s newest work, Zara?”

She blinks, visibly tense, then offers me a smile so fake it might have been plastered on Barbie.

“It’s . . . nice,” she says and looks at Nina. “We wanted to buy one of your paintings.”

Nina stares blankly at her.

“Maybe something without dead chickens. If possible,” her mother adds.

“You don’t have to buy any,” Nina says, still looking at her mother with slight confusion on her face. “Just pick the one you want and tell Sally. She’s the woman in a red skirt over there at the entrance. Everything except the big one in the next room is for sale.”

“We already asked when we came in,” Samuel throws in. “She said all the paintings have already been sold.”

“That can’t be true, we just opened ten minutes ago,” Nina mumbles and looks at me. “I have to see what’s going on.”

She climbs off my lap and hurries toward the woman on the other side of the room.

I turn to her mother. “Pick the one you like, and just tell Sally I okayed it.”

Zara Grey regards me with a surprise. “You bought them?”

“Of course, I did.” I nod and look over at where Nina is standing with the curator. “Does your wife know, Samuel?”

He inhales sharply, and then lets out a strangled, “Yes.”