Page 36 of The Sculptor

The corner of his lips twitch. “No?” He stands, circling the pedestal like a predator. “First, you call my brother. Then, you block my calls.” He rounds my back, pulling something from his pocket. “And now, you deny me what’s mine.”

I swallow as he steps onto the pedestal with me. His eyes are fire and brimstone when he meets my gaze in the mirror, his hand settling on my hip, pulling me flush against him.

“What did I tell you, Ray?”

My skin is on fire as a scalpel appears at my shoulder, its blade shimmering in the lights. “You’re here on business, Dr. Potter,” I remind him, my gaze traveling down my wedding dress—the one I plan to marry another man in.

Duke smirks, and it’s anything but friendly as the blade disappears behind my back. “You are my business, Ray. But it’s not me who needs the reminder.”

With the precision of a surgeon, Duke drags the blade down the back of my dress, severing the dress at the seams as the buttons scatter onto the floor around us.

“Duke!”

I grab the parting material, keeping a handful at my chest as he tosses the knife to the floor, his angry voice in my ear. “I’ll ask you again, Ray. Where’s my heart?”

You know what? Fuck it.

If he wants to see his heart, I’ll show him.

Releasing the fabric clutched to my chest, I let the dress fall to my waist, exposing the painted white heart on the swell of my breast.

For a moment, everything goes silent.

I don’t dare breathe, and neither does Duke.

He’s a silent, immovable force behind me.

But then his hand tightens around my hip.

My eyes flash to the reflection in the mirror, but I don’t find Duke staring at my breast. Instead, his gaze is locked onto my shoulder where—

I grab the fabric at my hips, but his hand clamps down on mine. “Don’t even think about trying to hide this from me.”

His voice is not to be fucked with. I’ve heard it before, and even as a teenager, it was scary. For all of Duke’s charm and sarcasm, there’s a territorial side of him that you don’t cross.

“I fell,” I lie, remembering Langston finding me rummaging through his desk drawers.

Duke scoffs. “You fell, and what,” his fingers prod the bruises gently, “landed on five fingers?”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

It is what it looks like, but I’m so close to getting the information we need.

I’m so close.

“I just need you to let this go—for me.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks, and I swear I can hear him grinding down on his molars. I can already tell he’s going to say no. So, I beg. “Please, Duke. I’ve never asked you for much, but I’m begging you, please let me go.”

His eyes close, and I know it’s killing him from the inside.

This is not who he is.

Duke is a savior.

He helps people.

He’s the one in the dark while you sob at rock bottom.

---