Descent (Black Heart Romance presents Heaven & Hell)

My nude heels click against the cool marble floor as we take a hallway toward the elevators.
There’s an older couple ahead of us. The woman is stylish, the man’s barrel chest is wrapped in
an expensive-looking suit. The elevator doors open and they step inside. I start to take a step forward,
but Hollis pulls me back, his firm grip never leaving my arm. “Not that one,” he says. At first, I think
he just doesn’t want me in the same elevator as other people since I might ask for help, but then he
adds, “The penthouse has a private elevator.”
He has to enter a passcode to gain access to the elevator we get on.
Once we’re inside with the doors closed, he finally releases my arm. Knowing it’s because I
stand no chance of escape now, my tummy begins to flutter with nerves. I fidget with my handbag as
we make the journey to the top of the skyscraper, trying to focus on seeing Marie and ensuring she’s
safe, not whatever else might happen tonight.
There’s a soft ding to announce we’ve reached our intended floor, then the elevator doors open
to a white-walled gallery, cold and blank but for the paintings hanging up on its walls.
As we step into the room, my gaze skates across several paintings. They’re all interesting, but
my attention is snagged by a brightly-colored painting that seems to show a woman with big eyes
hiding in her bed with a warped mirror showing her reflection behind her. The pattern on the wall in
the background is familiar. I’m nearly certain it’s a Picasso—a copy of one, anyway—but I haven’t
seen this particular painting before.
“Do you know what this one is called?” I ask Hollis.
It’s not Hollis who answers, but Calvin himself, standing in the archway to my left. “The Mirror
by Picasso. Do you like it?”
His presence makes me tense, but I keep my gaze trained on the woman in the painting. “She
looks afraid.”
Dark amusement hangs from his words. “That’s why I like it.”
It’s a depraved thing to say, but since his lips are tugged up at the corners when I look at him, I
tell myself he might be kidding.
Probably not, though.
He’s also holding my cat. In his black suit, stroking her fluffy little head, he looks like a super
villain hell-bent on taking over the world. Marie appears to be his willing accomplice. She preens as
he strokes her, the little traitor.
Abandoning the painting, I approach him and hold my arms out. “May I have my cat back?”
He doesn’t hand her over, and while Marie looks at me, she makes no effort to leave his arms as
he continues to stroke her head.
I cock an eyebrow at him expectantly.