The Drazen World: Destroy (Kindle Worlds Novella) by Nikki Sloane Page B
Authors: Nikki Sloane
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“Please.” He motioned to the open door at the back of the garage. “They’re setting it up in my studio.”
The weight to his words made my knees threaten to buckle. I hoped now the sculpture was fractured into a million pieces. My breath halted painfully in my chest. “You’re going to display my piece in your studio?”
In the scariest movies, the villain doesn’t usually look like a villain. When the plot twists and you discover the seemingly benign character you trusted is the one actually pulling the strings, the floor drops out beneath you.
As an evil smile quirked on Alec Rafferty’s lips, I went weightless, hitting the drop. There was the villain I anticipated. Somehow I forced my feet to move, although it was chaos in my mind. What was my next course of action? If the sculpture was broken and I refused to fix it, I’d drive the final nail into my career’s coffin. Yet, if my piece had survived the fall, what then? How could I leave it in this parasite’s hands?
His studio was breathtaking, and made my dislike for him intensify. My feet moved silently on the floor, where different types of hardwood were laid, although the warm tones matched. The floor was a work of art. How fitting. Rafferty literally stood on someone else’s beautiful creation as he built his own “art.”
The contemporary room was the back corner of the house. Custom glass double doors let out onto a stone patio, only the center of the doors was positioned at the edge, so they could swing outward and open the space on a ninety-degree angle. The entire corner was open now and the setting sun was visible through the break in the trees of the backyard. Overhead, there were frosted skylights, no doubt to keep direct sunlight from fading artwork or the stunning floor.
Rafferty didn’t have to, but he put a hand on my shoulder to shift me out of the way as the men brought in the crate. I closed my gawking, unbecoming mouth, and pretended his unnecessary touch hadn’t burned across my skin in a pleasurable way.
There didn’t appear to be any works in progress in the studio, and the white walls were bare. There was a table on one side, and beside it a bookshelf loaded with paints and other materials. The other side of the space held his tools of destruction. A workbench with a circular saw, its curved teeth gleaming in a sickening, endless smile. Beside it, an unlit blowtorch. Mallets, hammers, and chisels hung on the wall above.
A clipboard was handed to Rafferty, who signed with a jerky flourish of movement. Had he used his artistic signature on the delivery slip? Pompous. With nothing left to do, the men filed out, shutting the door behind them.
“I should use that freight company more often,” he said, “if they’re going to deliver a beautiful woman with each shipment.” His compliment was jarring, but like all women, it was nice to hear.
“I’m not part of your delivery. I’ll call a cab to take me back to Maritza’s gallery when we’re done here.”
“All right.”
I stared at him as he retrieved a crowbar and gripped it with steady hands.
It was dangerous. The air in the room grew sharp and debilitating.
I flinched when the crate was pried open with a loud groan of protest. I felt the crowbar ripping off my skin and exposing me to Rafferty’s eager gaze. The heavy blanket was peeled back, revealing the next layer of foam wrap. My breath halted as the long strands of white plastic were methodically unwound from the base upward.
Blood roared faster in my veins with each new, undamaged inch that was uncovered. My heart sank to my toes as he made it two-thirds of the way up the stem, and everything seemed intact. He moved faster as he uncoiled the wrap around the slender part, and slowed as he hit the first series of delicate petals.
The plastic shifted, and a faint, but distinct clink made him hesitate.
Sadness and hope mixed together and was a hard taste for me to stomach. There was absolutely damage to my
The weight to his words made my knees threaten to buckle. I hoped now the sculpture was fractured into a million pieces. My breath halted painfully in my chest. “You’re going to display my piece in your studio?”
In the scariest movies, the villain doesn’t usually look like a villain. When the plot twists and you discover the seemingly benign character you trusted is the one actually pulling the strings, the floor drops out beneath you.
As an evil smile quirked on Alec Rafferty’s lips, I went weightless, hitting the drop. There was the villain I anticipated. Somehow I forced my feet to move, although it was chaos in my mind. What was my next course of action? If the sculpture was broken and I refused to fix it, I’d drive the final nail into my career’s coffin. Yet, if my piece had survived the fall, what then? How could I leave it in this parasite’s hands?
His studio was breathtaking, and made my dislike for him intensify. My feet moved silently on the floor, where different types of hardwood were laid, although the warm tones matched. The floor was a work of art. How fitting. Rafferty literally stood on someone else’s beautiful creation as he built his own “art.”
The contemporary room was the back corner of the house. Custom glass double doors let out onto a stone patio, only the center of the doors was positioned at the edge, so they could swing outward and open the space on a ninety-degree angle. The entire corner was open now and the setting sun was visible through the break in the trees of the backyard. Overhead, there were frosted skylights, no doubt to keep direct sunlight from fading artwork or the stunning floor.
Rafferty didn’t have to, but he put a hand on my shoulder to shift me out of the way as the men brought in the crate. I closed my gawking, unbecoming mouth, and pretended his unnecessary touch hadn’t burned across my skin in a pleasurable way.
There didn’t appear to be any works in progress in the studio, and the white walls were bare. There was a table on one side, and beside it a bookshelf loaded with paints and other materials. The other side of the space held his tools of destruction. A workbench with a circular saw, its curved teeth gleaming in a sickening, endless smile. Beside it, an unlit blowtorch. Mallets, hammers, and chisels hung on the wall above.
A clipboard was handed to Rafferty, who signed with a jerky flourish of movement. Had he used his artistic signature on the delivery slip? Pompous. With nothing left to do, the men filed out, shutting the door behind them.
“I should use that freight company more often,” he said, “if they’re going to deliver a beautiful woman with each shipment.” His compliment was jarring, but like all women, it was nice to hear.
“I’m not part of your delivery. I’ll call a cab to take me back to Maritza’s gallery when we’re done here.”
“All right.”
I stared at him as he retrieved a crowbar and gripped it with steady hands.
It was dangerous. The air in the room grew sharp and debilitating.
I flinched when the crate was pried open with a loud groan of protest. I felt the crowbar ripping off my skin and exposing me to Rafferty’s eager gaze. The heavy blanket was peeled back, revealing the next layer of foam wrap. My breath halted as the long strands of white plastic were methodically unwound from the base upward.
Blood roared faster in my veins with each new, undamaged inch that was uncovered. My heart sank to my toes as he made it two-thirds of the way up the stem, and everything seemed intact. He moved faster as he uncoiled the wrap around the slender part, and slowed as he hit the first series of delicate petals.
The plastic shifted, and a faint, but distinct clink made him hesitate.
Sadness and hope mixed together and was a hard taste for me to stomach. There was absolutely damage to my
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