I tried to pull my arm back, but he held fast.

“Let go of me,” I repeated, louder this time.

“Answer the question,” he said.

His grip tightened further, turning my skin white.

“You’re hurting me,” I said.

“Then promise me you’ll enter the codes,” he said.

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening.

The air in the small gallery suddenly felt freezing cold.

Behind Tristan, the heavy brass doorknob of the gallery room began to slowly turn.

The door swung open with a quiet, oiled glide.

Arthur Sterling stood in the threshold.

His tailored charcoal suit was immaculate, the dark wool catching the dim gallery light.

He did not look angry.

His face was perfectly still, like carved grey stone in the winter dusk.

Behind him, two of his security detail remained in the shadows of the hallway, their faces obscured.

Tristan’s grip on my wrist didn’t loosen immediately.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat like a dry rattle.

“Am I interrupting an intimate moment?” Arthur asked.

His voice was low, carrying a calm, rhythmic weight that filled the small room.