“Something smells amazing.”
I turn to find Amelia leaning against the doorframe, my T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. Her hair is tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep. The sight of her like this—barefoot in my kitchen, wearing my clothes—ignites something primal and possessive in my chest.
“Hungry?”
She nods, padding across the hardwood. When she reaches for a mug from the cabinet, her shirt rides up, revealing the curve of her ass and the bruises my fingers left on her thighs. My cock stiffens instantly at the reminder.
“Stop looking at me like that while you’re holding a spatula,” she smirks, pouring coffee.
“Like what?” I slide the eggs onto plates.
“Like you’re deciding whether to feed me or fuck me on the counter.”
I set the spatula down. “Who says I can’t do both?”
Her eyes darken as she takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. “Breakfast first. I need my strength.”
We eat in silence, the only sounds the clink of forks against ceramic and the occasional sip of coffee. Amelia devours her food with surprising hunger, and I find myself watching her hands—the same hands that create such visceral art now cutting bacon into equal pieces. The bruises on her wrists from our forest encounter have darkened overnight.
When she finishes, I take our plates to the sink and return with my laptop. Something’s been gnawing at me since she first mentioned Walsh’s name—the gallery owner who blacklisted her after she rejected his advances. The way her voice tightened when she spoke of him.
“I want to show you something.” I open a folder labeledGWand turn the screen toward her.
Her brow furrows as she recognizes the subject of thesurveillance photos—Gregory Walsh entering his gallery with young female artists, time stamps indicating late hours. Video clips show him touching them inappropriately, offering champagne, and locking doors.
“You’ve been watching him?” Her voice is barely audible.
I scroll to the documentation of financial records showing how he’s leveraged his position to extort sexual favors for gallery placement. Then, to the testimonial transcripts—six women who described similar patterns of predation but were silenced with threats of industry blacklisting.
“Jesus.” Amelia pushes the laptop away, her face pale. “I knew he was a creep, but this is...” She swallows hard. “When he came onto me at the Winterfest show, I knew there had to be more.”
“It’s systematic,” I explain, clicking through more evidence. “He targets emerging female artists, creates dependency, then exploits them. Those who refuse get blacklisted, like you.”
The color rises in her cheeks as she looks up from the screen. “Why are you showing me this?”
I close the laptop, studying her face. The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us has voiced.
“Why show me this?” Amelia repeats, her voice stronger now.
I rise from the table and cross to a locked cabinet in the corner of the cabin’s main room. The key feels heavy between my fingers as I unlock it, revealing the carefully organized interior.
“Because I want you to understand what I offer theworld.” I step aside, giving her a full view of my collection. “And what I could offer you.”
Her breath hitches as she approaches. Inside are my specialized tools—scalpels with handcrafted handles, preservation chemicals in labeled bottles, and surgical-grade instruments arranged by purpose. Not the theatrical implements we used in bed, but the real tools of my true craft.
“Walsh has hurt seventeen women that I’ve documented. Probably more.” I stand behind her, close enough to feel her heat but not touching. “He’ll continue unless someone stops him.”
Amelia runs her fingertip along the edge of the cabinet, not quite touching the contents. “Are you asking my permission?”
“I’m offering you a choice.”
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection of the small mirror mounted inside the cabinet door.
“What kind of choice?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“You could walk away. Forget what you’ve seen.” I touch her shoulder lightly. “Or you could choose how he faces justice.”
Amelia turns, her face inches from mine. “You mean I decide if he lives or dies?”
