“What bothers me is that Walsh is still breathing.” She reaches for my sketchbook, flipping to a clean page. Her movements are artistic as she begins sketching. “We’ll tell him I’ve created a new series. Something radical. Something exclusive.”
I watch her work—quick, decisive strokes forming a gallery layout.
“We’ll hang three pieces here,” she continues, marking specific places. “Designed to draw him deeper into the space. The last one will be positioned before your hidden door.”
“And I’ll be waiting inside,” I finish, already visualizing the moment.
Amelia looks up, her eyes meeting mine. “No. We’ll be waiting.”
The correction sends a thrill through me. I lean across the table and kiss her hard.
“You understand what this means?” I ask against her lips. “If you’re there when it happens, you’re crossing a line you can’t uncross.”
“I crossed that line the moment I decided not to turn you in.” Amelia’s hand finds mine. “Besides, I want to see his face when he realizes who’s taking everything from him.”
I nod, squeezing her fingers. “Then let’s make this perfect.”
“He’ll need to suffer the way his victims did,” Amelia says, her eyes gleaming. “Powerless. Humiliated.”
I move behind her, sliding my hands over her shoulders to feel the heat of her skin. “And how did he make you feel?”
“Small.” Her voice hardens. “Like I was nothing. Just another desperate artist who should be grateful for his attention.”
“Then that’s what we’ll make him feel.” I press my lips to her neck, inhaling her scent—paint and something sweetly intoxicating that’s uniquely her. “We’ll strip him of everything.”
Amelia leans back against my chest. “I want him to beg. Not just for his life—for his reputation.”
“Oh? Tell me more.” This creative darkness pouring from her ignites something primal in me.
“We record it all. His pleading. His confessions.” Her breathing quickens. “Then after he’s gone, we send carefully edited clips to every gallery owner in Chicago.”
“Destroying him even after death.” I smile against her skin. “You’re more vicious than I expected.”
“I’m learning from the best.” She turns in my arms, eyes glittering with dark purpose. “What if we use his blood for something? The way Adrian uses it in chocolate?”
The suggestion—coming from her—sends heat coursing through my veins. “What did you have in mind?”
“I could mix it into paint. Create something beautiful from something rotten.” Her fingers trace my jawline. “Art made from the man who tried to control my art.”
“Perfect fucking poetry.” I capture her mouth with mine, tasting her excitement.
When we break apart, Amelia’s cheeks are flushed. “What if we make him watch while we create the mixture? Before we use it?”
“Christ,” I groan, arousal spiking through me. “You’re a natural at this.”
“It feels right,” she whispers. “Like taking out the trash. Removing something toxic from the world.”
I press her against the table, blueprints crinkling beneath her. “Every idea you have makes me want you more.”
I press her against the table hard enough that the edge must dig into her back. Her breath catches as I grab her ass, lifting her onto the scattered blueprints.
“Planning murder makes you wet, doesn’t it?” I growl, shoving her skirt up around her waist to find she’s not wearing underwear. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
“I knew we’d end up like this,” she admits, her pupils blown wide.
I drop to my knees on the kitchen floor, dragging her to the edge of the table. “Get down here.”
She slides off the table, her knees hitting the hardwood as I pull her into a bruising kiss. My cock strains against my pants, demanding attention. I break away, my breathing ragged.
