Velvet Knives

The Man Behind The Door

The knock reverberated through the studio again, louder this time, rattling the door in its frame.

Rina felt Selene’s fingers tighten around hers, steady but trembling.

“Selene,” the man’s voice drawled, rich and lazy like smoke. “Don’t make me come in.”

Rina’s throat went dry. She looked toward the door, then at Selene. Her dark-haired goddess, so confident before, was now pale, her jaw clenched, her breath quick and shallow.

Selene’s free hand moved to Rina’s cheek, thumb brushing her lips, as if memorizing her. “Listen to me,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, you’re mine. Don’t forget that.”

The tenderness broke something inside Rina. She nodded, unable to speak.

Another knock.

No—a shove. The door rattled in its frame, the latch groaning.

Selene moved quickly, pulling on her robe, tying it loosely around her body. The shift from lover to survivor was instant, like watching an artist swap brushes mid‑stroke.

“Hide,” Selene mouthed.

Rina hesitated. “I’m not leaving you.”

Selene’s lips brushed hers in a fleeting kiss, fierce and urgent. “Please.”

There was no time to argue. Rina slipped behind a large canvas leaning against the far wall, crouching low. From there she could see everything through a sliver of space between two paintings. Her heart hammered so loud she was sure it would give her away.

The lock broke with a metallic crack, and the door swung open.

A man stepped in. Tall, broad-shouldered, in an immaculate gray suit that seemed to drink in the candlelight. His hair was dark, slicked back, his face handsome in a sharp, unsettling way. He closed the door behind him, slow and deliberate.

Selene stood near the center of the studio, arms folded, chin lifted. She looked calm—but Rina, watching, saw the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her fingers.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Selene said coolly.

The man smiled. “Neither should she.”

Rina froze. He knew.

“She’s none of your business,” Selene went on, voice steady. “Leave her out of this.”

He stepped closer, shoes clicking softly on the wood floor. “Out of this? My darling, everything you touch is my business. We had an agreement.” His voice dropped, low and intimate. “Did you forget?”

Selene’s jaw tightened. “That agreement ended the day you laid a hand on Maren.”

Ah. Maren. The missing woman. Rina’s stomach twisted.

The man chuckled, a sound that raised goosebumps on Rina’s arms. “She was careless. I had to remind her of the rules.” He stepped closer still, and the air in the room thickened. “But you… you were always my favorite.”

Selene didn’t flinch, though Rina saw her fists clench at her sides. “Get out.”

His smile widened, wolfish. “You think you can protect her? That sweet little gallery owner?” His eyes flicked casually around the room. “You always did pick the ones with soft hands.”

Rina’s pulse slammed in her ears. He knows I’m here.

Selene took a step forward, closing the distance. Her voice was low, dangerous. “If you touch her, I swear—”

“What?” he interrupted softly. “You’ll paint me to death?” He laughed again, slow and cruel. “You forget who paid for your first studio. Who bought your first show. Who made you.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that still carried across the room. “You wouldn’t exist without me, Selene.”

Selene moved so fast Rina almost gasped. She grabbed a palette knife from the table and pressed it to his throat. The thin blade caught the candlelight, a shimmer of silver.

“Touch her,” Selene hissed, “and I’ll cut you open and make art out of you.”

The man didn’t flinch. His smile never wavered. “There she is,” he murmured. “The artist I fell in love with.”

Rina felt her breath catch. Love?

He stepped back just enough to let the knife press a little harder against his skin. “But love doesn’t save you,” he said softly. “It makes you weak.”

Then he moved.

Too fast. His hand shot out, gripping Selene’s wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the floor. Selene cried out, the sound sharp and raw, and Rina almost leapt from her hiding place—but Selene’s eyes flicked toward her, a silent command: Stay.

The man shoved Selene back against the wall, pinning her there with one hand at her throat. “I could end you right here,” he said calmly. “But where’s the fun in that?” His other hand smoothed down her robe, possessive, vile.

Selene spat in his face.

For a second, time froze. His eyes went dark, cold. He wiped his cheek slowly, his grip on her throat tightening. “You’ll regret that.”

Rina couldn’t watch another second. She surged from behind the canvas, grabbing the fallen palette knife. “Get your hands off her!” she shouted, adrenaline drowning fear.

The man turned, startled—but not enough. He caught her wrist easily, wrenching the knife from her grasp. “Ah,” he said, his voice amused. “The little muse herself.”

“Run, Rina!” Selene gasped, struggling against his grip.

Rina refused. She swung wildly with her free hand, catching him across the jaw. He staggered back, surprised. Selene broke free, snatching up a heavy jar of turpentine and smashing it against his shoulder. Glass shattered, liquid splashing everywhere.

The man cursed, slipping on the wet floor. Selene grabbed Rina’s hand. “Now!”

They ran.

Out the door, down the narrow stairs, their bare feet slapping against wood and stone. Rina’s lungs burned, Selene’s grip iron-strong. Behind them, a bellow of rage echoed from the studio, followed by pounding footsteps.

They burst into the street, neon lights stabbing their eyes. The crowd swallowed them, the night alive with horns and voices. Selene pulled Rina into an alley, pressing her against the brick wall, her chest heaving.

Rina’s heart pounded against Selene’s. “Who is he?” she gasped.

Selene’s eyes darted toward the alley’s mouth. “A man who doesn’t lose.”

Rina cupped Selene’s face, her fingers shaking. “Then we don’t let him win.”

Selene stared at her for a long moment, something fierce and raw in her eyes—fear, love, hunger, all tangled together. Then she kissed her, hard, desperate, their teeth clashing. Rina clung to her, kissing back with everything she had, as if this might be the last time.

When they broke apart, Selene’s lips brushed her ear. “We can’t go back. Not to my studio. Not to your gallery.”

“Then where?” Rina whispered.

Selene glanced toward the darkened city streets. Her mouth set in a grim, determined line. “Somewhere he can’t follow.”

A siren wailed in the distance. Footsteps pounded far behind them.

Selene took Rina’s hand again. “Run.”

And they did—into the night, into the unknown, their hearts pounding in sync, two women bound by art, desire, and the sudden, terrifying certainty that they were hunted.