Page 94 of Sin of Love
“The greatest living contemporary painter.”
They worship him and the way he sees the world. And the only one who doesn’t care about his celebrity is Gideon himself.
“So?” I ask.
A slow grin overtakes his face. “So, what?”
“By the smug look on your face, I’m assuming you have good news.”
“Let’s just say we can retire early.”
“Wait—you have a job?”
He groans out a chuckle. “Mon bijou, you wound me.”
I take pity on him, setting my glass on a nearby café table and sliding my arms around his torso. Rubbing my cheek against his warm chest, I breathe him in. The gallery, the noise and people, all fade away. Tree-root cave.
“I’m so proud of you, Gideon. For letting the paintings go, for forgiving your dad, for just being you. I love you. I love our life. Even though it still feels like a dream sometimes.”
“I love you, too,” he says against my hair, “and dreaming with you is my favorite pastime.”
I squeeze him tighter, pouring my love—this miracle—into the space we share. Like I can bind us here. Keep us together and safe, as I’ve always wanted to be and exactly how he makes me feel.
“I have something to tell you,” I say, my heart starting to pound.
This is it.
Gideon goes stiff in my arms, his fingers turning to claws on my shoulders. Confused, I look up, frowning when I see his pale face and wide eyes.
A woman yelps.
Another screams, high and truncated.
“Run, Deirdre,” he whispers, then says clearly, “I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, you can have it. Just don’t do anything drastic, okay? We can work this out.”
I see the gun then, pressed against the back of Gideon’s head, and the face of the man holding it.
Around us, the gallery trembles with growing distress, then erupts with terrified shouts and a stampede out the doors. I hear Nate shouting my name—glimpse Dominic pulling him and London toward the front—Finn fighting the tide of people, trying to get to us—Dominic stopping, grabbing his arm and yanking all of them toward safety.
Thank you, Dominic.
Within a minute, the gallery is empty. Broken champagne flutes and tiny napkins litter the floor.
I drop my head to Gideon’s chest, shaking, my fingernails driving into his sides. I must be hurting him, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Go,” he breathes.
“This isn’t real,” I choke out.
Gideon doesn’t respond, but someone else does.
“Oh, it’s real. Take three steps back, Deirdre. Now.”
A wail of terror and fury ascends my spine. I look up, find myself in Gideon’s eyes and see the growing horror there. He heard the man’s accent, the familiar way he said my name.
“Run,” he mouths. “Please.”
But I can’t.
