Chapter 41 He recognizes it
Chapter 41 He recognizes it
Nyx's p.o.v
I fear any moment from now, my heart would jump out of my chest considering how hard it's pounding. I looked at the painting now most people's focus and lowered my head to my clammy hands.
I shouldn't look at him, maybe one glance to him would confirm the obvious.
Oh God why did I add the scar?
Fuck it.
I turned to the space I saw him standing at minutes ago but it was empty of his domineering presence, save for the new occupants whose interest are on the paintings on display.
Where's he?
Did he leave?
“You looking for me?”
The voice came from behind me low, amused, far too close.
I startled violently as I turned, my heart nearly leaping out of my ribcage. “When did you…” I hissed. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
His lips twitched. “Why are you startled in a public place?”
I rolled my eyes, trying and failing to calm my breathing. “Because some people don’t announce themselves like civilized humans.”
Instead of answering, he stepped closer, invading my space with that same quiet dominance that always unraveled me. He reached out, fingers firm but controlled, and slowly turned me so my back faced him—so my eyes were forced onto the painting.
The painting.
Those eyes.
My stomach dropped.
His reflection stared back at us from the canvas dark, knowing, devastating.
“How deep does your attraction for your uncle run,” he murmured near my ear, “that you had to paint this?”
I snorted, even as my pulse went wild. Of course he recognized it. Of course he did. “That’s not yours.”
Silence.
Then…“You might want to look into my eyes when you lie to me.”
He turned me around sharply, my back brushing his chest as his hand tilted my chin up. His gaze was hard now, unforgiving. Commanding.
“Go on,” he said quietly.
I swallowed. “Um… the eyes aren’t yours.”
His stare darkened, drifting deliberately to my lips.
“I dare you,” he said, voice dropping, “to lie to me once more.”
The threat in his tone sent heat curling through my spine.
“I’ll make you eat your words right out of my palm.”
Before I could respond…
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Matthew’s voice rang out, “let’s welcome Miss Wyatt to give a short speech on this painting.”
Relief hit me so fast it was dizzying.
I rushed forward without looking back, grateful to Mr. Matthew for the first time in my life and torn because I hadn’t prepared a single word. My mind was still tangled in Travis’s gaze, his closeness, the unspoken tension humming between us.
“Nyx,” Matthew whispered, nudging me.
I realized I’d been standing there in silence.
Slowly, I lifted my head.
My eyes locked with Travis’.
He was leaning casually against the wall now, arms crossed, that dangerous smirk firmly in place like he knew exactly what I was about to say.
Fuck it.
I inhaled and began.
“People often think eyes are just a feature,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Something you notice in passing. Color. Shape. Expression.”
A pause.
“But eyes… they tell the truth long before the mouth ever dares to.”
Murmurs rippled through the room.
“These eyes,” I continued, gesturing to the painting, “belong to someone who watches more than he speaks. Someone who carries weight power, restraint, and secrets he never intends to share.”
My gaze flicked, briefly, back to Travis.
“They don’t beg,” I said softly. “They don’t plead. They command.”
The air shifted.
“They see through pretenses. Through lies. Through people who think they’re in control until they aren’t.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved my lips.
“And once those eyes decide you belong in their focus,” I finished, “there’s no escaping them. You’re already caught. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
Silence.
Then applause.
But I didn’t hear it.
Because Travis hadn’t looked away once.
His jaw was tight now. His eyes darker than before heated, possessive, and unmistakably affected. The smirk was gone, replaced with something far more dangerous.
Something raw.
His gaze dropped to my mouth again, lingering.
I felt it then the shift in him. The way his body tensed, the way control slipped just enough to be noticed.
“Three thousand grand,” someone shouted.
My brows lifted.
Then…“Five.”
“Seven.”
The numbers started climbing fast, voices overlapping, excitement crackling through the room. It took me a second to realize what was happening.
The auction.
My painting.
Heat bloomed in my chest, unexpected and dizzying. They loved it. They actually loved it. Each new bid felt like a small, electric validation, like hands clapping directly around my ribs.
“Ten thousand.”
A soft gasp rippled through the crowd.
My lips parted slightly, breath catching. I’d painted that piece in silence and rage and longing, never imagining it would be wanted like this.
“Fifteen,” another voice called.
My fingers curled at my sides. My heart was racing now but not from fear.
Then…
“Twenty thousand.”
The voice was calm. Low. Unhurried.
It didn’t need to be loud.
Because it cut through everything.
My head snapped up.
Travis.
He hadn’t raised his voice. Hadn’t even shifted his stance. One hand in his pocket, posture relaxed, eyes locked on me like the room didn’t exist.
The air went dead still.
Matthew cleared his throat, glancing around once, twice. “Twenty thousand,” he repeated. “Any higher bids?”
Silence.
The kind that presses against your ears.
“Going once,” Matthew said slowly.
My pulse roared.
“Going twice.”
I couldn’t look away from Travis. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He already knew.
“Sold,” Matthew announced, bringing the gavel down. “To Mr. Scott.”
Applause erupted again, but it sounded distant, muffled.
Because all I could feel was the collision of emotions inside me.
Pride. Shock. Heat.
And something dangerously close to desire.
He bought it.
He bought my painting.
The same one Matthew had taken from me without permission.
“Go ask Mr. Scott if he wants the painting packed now,” Matthew said quietly, nudging me forward.
My legs moved before my mind caught up.
I crossed the room, each step heavier than the last, until I stood in front of him.
“You didn’t have to spend that much,” I said under my breath.
His eyes dropped to mine.
And something in them cracked just a hairline fracture in all that control.
“I didn’t spend it,” he said softly. “I claimed it.”
The words hit me square in the chest, sharp and warm all at once, like butterflies shattering and reforming.
Before I could respond, he reached past me, already turning away.
“Take the painting,” he added, tone leaving no room for argument. “Finish your shit here and wait for me in
the car.”
He pressed a cool set of keys into my palm, his fingers lingering for half a second too long.
“Garage,” he said, already walking off.
I stood there, keys clenched tight, heart pounding wildly…