“You’re becoming me,” he says.
He kneels beside her. For the first time, he removes his gloves. His hands are scarred—from holding blades meant for her enemies.
“As your curator. I decide what survives. I decide what burns.” mejores libros dark romance
The east wing is a shrine. Photographs of her—every coffee shop, every breakup, every hospital visit when her mother died. A vial of her old perfume. A lock of her hair from a brush she lost in Barcelona.
“The painting is in the basement vault,” he says, voice like crushed velvet. “You’ll work alone. At night. And you will never ask who the man in the portrait is.” “You’re becoming me,” he says
Lena’s blood turns to ice. The girl is her. She was seventeen.
And she does. By pulling him down into the red. (Or the beginning of something worse.) His hands are scarred—from holding blades meant for
“She tried to burn the painting,” he says. “You would have done worse. You’d have burned me .”