I head for the seat across from him.
Or I mean to.
His hand catches my wrist before I can even pull the chair out. Not rough. Just firm. Present. The kind of hold that doesn’t need to hurt to remind me he’s there.
I should resist. Should yank my arm free, shove the chair back, put the whole damn table between us like I’ve told myself I would a hundred times.
Instead, I sit.
The second my thighs touch the seat, his presses against mine. Heat bleeds through the fabric right away, searing intomy skin like it’s been waiting for this. I feel it everywhere, thigh to thigh, the slow burn spreading up my leg, pooling low in my stomach before I can stop it.
I shift away, but his hand lands on my knee, holding me in place.
“Let go.”
He doesn’t. His thumb strokes across my kneecap through the thin fabric of a dress I wore today. Slow. Possessive.
“Stop fighting it,tesoro.”
“Fighting what?” I try to sound bored. Dismissive. Like his touch isn’t sending sparks skittering up my thigh. “Your delusions?”
His laugh is soft. Dark. “You moaned my name in your sleep last night.”
The world tilts.
“Twice,” he adds, like he’s discussing the weather.
Blood rushes to my face so fast I feel dizzy. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” His hand slides higher on my thigh. Just an inch. Testing. “Your body knows what it wants, Violet. Even if you won’t admit it.”
I shove his hand away. Stand so fast the chair scrapes against stone.
“You’re an asshole.”
He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t stand. Just leans back in his chair and looks up at me with that infuriating calm. The corner of his mouth lifts. Predatory. Knowing.
“You can run,” he says. “But you’ll come back. We both know it.”
I leave.
Storm through the glass doors and into the corridor beyond, past guards who pretend not to notice, past doorways I’ve memorized, and others I haven’t.
He’s right.
I hate him for being right.
I hate that my body responded to his hand on my thigh. Hate that he heard me moan his name in my sleep. Hate that I had that dream in the first place, that I can’t stop thinking about it, and that some sick, twisted part of me wanted him to slide his hand higher.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Violet?
I don’t have an answer.
Or maybe I do, and that’s worse. Maybe nothing’s wrong. Maybe this is just what wanting feels like when you’re not supposed to want it.
The gallery isquiet when I find it. Soft lamplight pooling on the floor, gilt frames catching just enough gold to gleam. The faint scent of wood polish hangs in the air, mixed with something older, deeper, like old books and candle smoke and time itself.
And the Madonna.
