I shouldn’t have said that.
Crap. Have I ruined the moment?
But when I turn to look at Viktor to gauge his response, he simply smiles.
“Hey, it’s not impossible,” Viktor says. “But it won’t be easy. Nothing in this life is.”
And with that, my Daddy wraps his arm around me and pulls me right up against his body. All I can do is shut my eyes and hope this feeling lasts for as long as it possibly can…
Later, after we've cleaned up and shared a quiet moment in the bathroom, I find myself back in the art room. I’m an artist after all. A little bit of sexy fun isn’t going to totally derail my project. Far from it.
The sun has shifted higher in the sky, pouring through the large windows and turning the whitewashed walls into a canvas of light and shadow. The space feels even more like a real studio now, with my supplies spread out across the plastic sheeting: bags of clay sealed and ready, tools gleaming in their new packaging, the banding wheel centered like a throne. I sit on the floor, cross-legged, and pull out the sketches I made earlier during the life modeling session.
They're rough—quick lines capturing the strength in Viktor's shoulders, the tension in his stance, the way light played over his skin—but they're enough to guide me. He’s actually a perfect model too. Tall, broad, lean but muscular.Pffft. I’d better not spend too much time thinking about it or I’ll get all turned on again.
I wedge a lump of earthenware clay between my hands, the familiar rhythm grounding me as I slap and knead it on the mat. Air bubbles pop under my palms, the cool, pliable earth yielding to pressure. It's meditative, this process, and as I begin to buildthe base form, coiling ropes of clay into the rough shape of two intertwined figures. And as I do this, my mind wanders back to where it all started…
The very first sculpture that got me recognition was an abstract jungle scene I made at community arts college. I was nineteen, fresh out of high school chaos, scraping by on my small savings and odd jobs. The piece was wild—twisted vines, lurking animal shapes emerging from the undergrowth, all sharp angles and hidden threats.
It wasn't pretty. It was chaotic, like my life back then.
But the instructor saw something in it—entered it in a local contest without telling me. When it won third place, complete with a small cash prize and a mention in the community paper, I felt seen for the first time. Like my hands could speak louder than my words ever could.
I've come a long way since then.
From that messy jungle to the polished hares at the gallery—pieces with intent, story, edge. But thinking about the gallery now brings a wistful ache.
My debut show…ruined before it even opened.
Bullet holes in the walls, sculptures shattered or abandoned. Milo probably thinks I'm dead or kidnapped… which, technically, I am.
Agents who were circling?Gone.
The buzz around my name?Silenced.
It might never happen now—that big break, the validation. I pause, fingers pressing into the clay a little too hard, distorting the form.
What if this is it? Trapped here, sculpting in secret, my career a what-if?
I smooth the mistake, stepping back to eye the piece. The two figures are emerging clearer: one tall and protective, the other smaller, reaching up with a mix of defiance and trust. Tension in the lines where they connect, tenderness in the curves.
When I look at it, really look, a new feeling bubbles up—not regret, but possibility.
Maybe my career isn't over… maybe it's just beginning.
Maybe now, with all this chaos swirling around me, my work can have a more dangerous edge.
Rawer. Realer. Like Viktor himself—strong, unyielding, but with hidden depths. Shadows and light intertwined. The thought excites me, my hands moving faster, shaping the clay with renewed purpose.
The door opens behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. Viktor enters, carrying a tray with my phone balanced next to a fresh glass of OJ. He sets it down on a side table, then hands me the phone. "Message your friend at the coffee shop."
I wipe my hands on a rag, taking the phone warily. "Robbie? Why?"
He settles into the chair across the room, watching me steadily. "Tomorrow morning, we're hitting the city. And I think Robbie might be able to help us."
My stomach twists. "Help? With what? I don't want to drag him into... whatever this is. It's dangerous."
Viktor leans forward, elbows on his knees. "He needs to trust me. No.Youneed to trust me. All will be revealed. But message him now. Tell him you're okay, that you'll explain soon."
