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“So, what next?” Caleb asked as he tugged on his shirt. I got up from the bed, no longer covering my chubby cock. I went for my shirt first, grabbing it off the floor, bending over in Caleb’s direction. I turned just as his gaze lifted back up, his cheeks flushing pink.
“Next? I thought that part was obvious.” I gave him a wink. “We steal the painting from the Crimson Ring, obviously.”
Caleb’s brows shot up his forehead. “I, uh, but aren’t there still two other paintings out there? Why don’t we focus on those?”
It took everything I had in me not to look at my horde room. Did I feel like a fucking asshole for keeping the paintings from Caleb? Absolutely. Did I think it was necessary for the time being? Yes, I did. There was still more I had to learn about Caleb, and while I was trusting him more and more with each passing second, each passing kiss, each passing lick, I still had to be smart about this. Especially knowing why the Crimson Ring wanted the paintings. I didn’t entirely enjoy the fact that Caleb had a past with them, however far removed, and that meant I needed some more time before I came clean.
And I planned on telling him. It just had to be the right time, and today, it wasn’t.
“I think we should go after the one we know about,” I explained, ignoring my underwear and pulling on just my pants instead. I always enjoyed a little commando. “Especially because I don’t want those cultists having any chance at releasing Niazatos.”
“Do you think that would actually happen?” Caleb said, voice dropping a few decibels. As if the coal-eyed and blood-hungry god were in the room right now, listening, salivating.
“I think there are some very powerful people trying their damnedest to make it happen. So, yes, I do think there’s a chance.”
His expression—fearful, wide-eyed—made me feel bad about being so blunt. I reached out and touched his elbow, rubbing his arm.
“We’ll find the paintings and destroy them, and that will be one less way Niazatos can come back.”
Caleb rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. What about my client? He’s paying me a shit ton of money to bring him those paintings.”
“And I can cover the price. Consider yourself poached.” I said it without missing a beat.
Caleb blinked, nearly stumbled over his socks as he sat on the edge of the bed to put them on. “What? No, you don’t have to do that. It’s fine. I can talk to?—”
“Trust me, it’s fine. I’d rather have you comfortable and happy than stressed and sad.”
“And poor?”
“Besides,” I continued, ignoring his comment. “Have we considered why he’s paying you such a huge amount to find the paintings?” I let the question hang in the air as Caleb finished putting on his shoes.
“You think… fuck. Is he a cultist?”
“I don’t know, but we should be careful of who we trust from here on out.” As if that was anything new to me. Trust for me was as rare as finding a rainbow flight of dragons. Yes, my family may have been one, but we were likely one of the only handful in the world. That’s how hard it was for me to trust people. The only person outside of my family I could genuinely say I trusted with my life was Amelia, and the sad reality was that I was set to lose her to an incurable disease.
I looked into Caleb’s hazel eyes and briefly wondered if there was someone else outside my family that I could trust.
“Hold up, why are you hunting down these paintings?”
Caleb paused for a moment. I swallowed a lump of emotion as I began to explain. “My best friend. She’s an art fanatic. She has a terminal disease, and she’s always wanted to see the three Moriarty pieces in person. So I promised her I’d make it happen.”
Caleb blinked at me, as if surprised. “Oh, that’s… wow. Ok.” He nodded and held his back a little straighter. “Damn. Ok, I’ll talk to my client. I’ll tell him the job is over. Peter’s going to be fucking pissed.”
“Peter?” I asked, suddenly worried Caleb had someone he didn’t tell me about. Which wouldn’t be all that weird, considering he had no reason to tell me about his dating life.
“The detective I work with. It’s just us two, but he was also counting on the paycheck from this. He’s got a majority stake in the agency so anything he says, goes.”
“I’ll handle it,” I said, opening my bedroom door and stepping out into the cool hallway, the gray stone walls adorned with colorful tapestries stitched in blues and whites and teals, my favorite colors. Warrick must have mopped recently, the dark wooden floors looking extra polished, the fresh scent of orange and lemon cleaner filling the space.
