Page 85 of The Cursed Chalice
“Bye.” Nisa hustles through the door, leaving Ares and me alone.
“I have to leave for work. Want to come with?” Aric asks, holding my waist and rocking me slowly.
“No. Deimos told me he has a package coming in, and he would like me to examine it.”
Aric looks confused. “A package?”
“It’s a painting. He wants me to restore it for him. Either way, I will be in my favorite place doing work, surrounded by art.”
Aric bends and kisses my lips softly. “We are upset, by the way.”
“Let me talk to Ares, please.”
Aric closes his eyes and shifts his head from side to side. Since the marriage, the move from Ares to Aric looks smooth. Not as much stretching or movement as before.
Ares’s grip tightens as he pulls me closer. His lips crash against mine. “How much time do we have?”
“You tell me. I’m working from home.”
He lifts me onto the kitchen counter; his hands are firm on my waist.
“I like when you say the word ‘home,’” Ares murmurs, tugging my skirt up.
I smirk. “Really, you do?”
He brushes a soft kiss against my lips. “Now let me show you what home feels like.”
“Can you sign here, ma’am?” I take the electric clipboard and sign.
Deimos escorts the three men carrying the wooden crate down to Ares’s vault.
I am brimming with excitement. Deimos told me that he found a rare painting from Trinidad. I didn’t know much, but after some research, I learned about Michel-Jean Cazabon.
I grab a cup of coffee and walk out to the foyer, watching the men nod and leave.
“Thank you so much,” I say after the last one goes through the door.
As the door clicks shut, I hurry down to the vault. The door hisses as I enter. I speed-walk past artifacts and paintings, heading to the second steel door.
It’s ajar, and I can see Deimos looking down at a framed picture on the table.
“I’m here.” I walk in and set my coffee down on the desk by the door. Grabbing a glove and a mask, I turn back to Deimos.
“You shouldn’t stand so close to the painting. There could be mold or solvent on it. Put a mask on.” I adjust the mask on my face.
“Don’t need it,” Deimos says flatly. I don’t even bother fighting. If he is anything like his father…
Walking over to the painting, I smile as I see the beautiful work of the Trinidadian artist Michel-Jean Cazabon. It’s an impressionist painting of a bamboo-covered forest. The short strokes of the paintbrush, the use of color…this was dynamic.
I take a measuring tape and begin to measure the size of the painting, taking notes on my phone.
“Is it real?” Deimos says, his eyes never leaving the painting.
“I have to isolate the painting and let it acclimate. That process takes one to two days.”
Deimos shakes his head. “We don’t have the time. I have to know whether it’s real or not. Now.”
“That’s not how it’s done, and please put a mask and gloves on,” I plead.
