She laughs, the sound vibrating through her chest against mine. “I thought Adrian might faint when I started showing the detective pictures of my latest paintings.”
“If he knew what inspired them...” I slide my hand higher, feeling her muscles tense beneath the thin fabric of her dress. The cab driver glances in the rearview mirror, and I meet his eyes with a stare that makes him quickly look away.
Amelia’s teeth graze my earlobe. “I need you,” she whispers, her voice carrying that edge that drives me wild—the perfect blend of demand and submission.
I tighten my grip on her thigh, bringing my other hand to her throat in a gentle reminder of who’s in control. “Two more blocks.”
Her pulse quickens beneath my fingers. Those artist hands—capable of both creating beauty and delivering death—clutch at my jacket with desperate intensity.
The cab finally stops outside my building. I overtip the driver and practically drag Amelia through the lobby, her laughter echoing off marble floors. In the elevator, I pin her against the wall, my body pressing into hers while the numbers climb too slowly.
I will never get enough of my muse.
31
EPILOGUE
AMELIA
The Blue Room glows like a beating heart tonight, pulsing with crimson light that bathes every surface. Valentine’s Day.
I adjust the frame of “Crimson Submission,” my fingers lingering on the corner where I mixed Walsh’s blood into the paint. The piece hangs in the place of honor behind Gabe’s piano, his mummified body hidden just one floor beneath our feet.
“More champagne, Ms. Stone?” A waiter passes with a tray of flutes filled with rosé champagne that matches the room’s blush lighting.
“Thank you.” I take a glass, admiring how the bubbles catch the light like tiny stars.
Gabe crosses the room toward me, navigating through Chicago’s elite who’ve paid five hundred dollars each for tonight’s “exclusive Valentine’s experience.” He’s devastating in his burgundy velvet jacket, the color almost identical to the dried blood I use in my special palette.
“They’re absolutely entranced,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear as his arm slides possessively around mywaist. “Particularly the Cunninghams. They’ve been staring atUrban Predatorfor twenty minutes.”
I smile into my champagne. “If only they knew they were admiring Judge Cunningham’s former colleague.” The painting depicts a shadowy figure dissolving into the Chicago skyline, created with the blood of a corrupt judge who’d dismissed rape cases against wealthy defendants.
Mayor Harrington laughs too loudly near the bar, gesturing at my triptych “Justice Served,” completely unaware that his campaign donor’s blood forms the striking central figure.
“I love watching them admire what they can’t truly understand,” I murmur, leaning into Gabe’s touch as his fingers trace the scar of his initials. “They see beauty while we see justice.”
“Our masterpiece,” Gabe whispers, gesturing to the entire room where art, music, and murder blend seamlessly into celebration. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”
The lights dim as midnight approaches, and an expectant hush settles over The Blue Room. I smooth my hands down the bloodred silk of my gown, feeling the cool fabric against my skin. The dress hugs my curves before flaring dramatically at my knees, dark as arterial blood with black embroidery that resembles thorny vines climbing my body. Beside me, Gabe adjusts his black shirt beneath a tailored jacket in the same deep crimson shade as my dress, our outfits a perfect echo of each other.
“Ready?” His eyes glitter with anticipation as he takes my hand.
I nod, feeling a spark between us as we step onto the stage. My heart beats faster—not from fear but exhilaration. The spotlight finds us, and I feel the weightof every gaze.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gabe announces, “the midnight unveiling you’ve been waiting for.”
With practiced synchronicity, we pull away the black velvet covering the first piece. My masterpiece. The crowd gasps collectively, the sound washing over me like a caress.
The painting depicts Thomas Morrow, a pharmaceutical executive who raised insulin prices until diabetic patients rationed themselves to death. His face contorts in terror and realization—the exact moment he understood what was happening as his blood left his body. I’ve captured every detail: the widened eyes, the parted lips, the shade of desperation. His blood forms the shadows of his face, darkest at the edges where living became dying.
“My God,” someone whispers. “It’s absolutely haunting.”
I scan the audience, drinking in their awe. They don’t know they’re admiring the actual essence of the man who disappeared last month. They simply see what I want them to see—justice rendered beautiful.
Gabe steps forward, microphone in hand, his presence commanding the room. His fingers brush mine as he passes, a secret touch that sends heat through my body.
“Tonight, we celebrate love—of passion, revenge, and the beautiful art that thrives in darkness!” His voice fills the room, smooth and powerful.
