My brain a fog, I barely registered what she said, my wayward thoughts somewhere else entirely.
“What gives you the right to decide anything for me? Are you afraid your precious Nightwing family will be contaminated by touching a human woman? Well, fuck you!”
She stormed off. I froze at her words. She thought I was angry because I was a bigot? I’d love to tell her, show her what I felt right this second. Her pretty mouth would shut up at once because it would be better occupied.
I followed her to the parking lot. She could barely stand up as she pulled out her keys. I snatched them from her.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me. Give me my keys, Lucius.”
“You’re not driving intoxicated.” Did she truly believe I would let her out of my sight in such a condition? Anything could happen to her. My mind reeled at the thought of one scratch on her porcelain skin.
“Oh, so now you’re my daddy? You’re going to make all my decisions for me?”
Her tone spoke of pain and betrayal. Her rage stemmed from more than this—her father.
“I’m head of security. I cannot let an intoxicated woman drive away, knowing she’ll probably kill herself, if not someone else, on the way home.”
“Men. You think you’re so fucking superior. You decide what a woman needs, no matter what’s in her heart.” Hot tears poured down her face, twisting my gut into a knot. I remained motionless, waiting for her to spend her anger; then her question staked me in the heart. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Nightwing. Have you thought about me even once since we first met? Just once?”
Once? Once! Was she fucking kidding me? I wanted to scream. Daily. Hourly. Every second of every fucking day she saturated my thoughts. Driving me out of my mind! My beast already knew she was his, the man needed to yield and tell her. Show her.
Just once? She was insane. How could I not think of her? She was my mate. Until I marked her with soulfire, there would be no peace, no restful sleep, no waking hour where the clawing need didn’t nearly drive me mad.
She demanded her keys again.
Fuck this.
I shoved her keys in my pocket, grabbed her, and flew up into the night. As soon as I cradled her in my arms, a sensation of serenity poured through my veins. Yes. I could deny it till doomsday, but there would be no peace, not until she was truly mine.
She nuzzled my neck, her lips brushing my skin. Desire, hot and instant, flared bright.
“Jessen.” I warned her to stop, wanting the opposite. The beast could only stand so much temptation. But she was drunk. I’d never take her like this. She didn’t know what she was doing.
Her whispered words shattered me. “Why do you haunt my dreams?” Soft lips pressed to my skin. “Why won’t you let go of me? Let me be?” Unbelievable. She only let herself say these things because of the alcohol. In the light of day with a clear mind, she’d never admit the truth.
Our hearts and bodies knew the inevitable end. Fate decreed it so. Our brains kept us apart, kept us playing this game of denial, convincing us we were in control, when we never were. She mirrored my own feelings when she mumbled against me, “My heart is breaking.”
I knew where her villa was. Not only had I seen it the first night, but I’d found myself flying far overhead the college campus more than once in the last three months. Feeling helpless, I needed to catch a glimpse of her to keep my beast caged.
Opening her balcony door with the keys, I placed her on the bed, removed her boots, and tucked her under the covers. She curled on her side, tears streaking her face.
“Sleep,” I commanded, touching the silken strands of black hair against the white pillow.
What I wouldn’t do to have her in my bed—to protect, possess, treasure. Forever.
The look of heartbreak on her face, eyes closed, made my gut clench in pain. I soothed her, soothed myself, combing fingers through her hair. The lines creasing her face slowly disappeared. When I thought she had finally drifted into sleep, her full lips pursed and whispered my name. “Lucius.”
My chest constricted. Never had my name sounded like a plea, a prayer, and a benediction all at once in such a mournful tone. With this one confession on sleepy lips, her subconscious gave me the answer I needed.
When she slept, I locked up and left, winging high above the clouds toward my home. Feeling the heavens press down, I made a decision. I must tell her who she was to me, who I was to her, whether she wanted to hear the truth or not. It had to be soon.
The United Charity Ball was next weekend. Yes. Then we would see whether Fate would have her way.
Chapter 7
“Thank you. Come again.”
My hangover finally subsiding, I could actually force myself to smile. I took the two plastic-wrapped dresses and steered Moira out the door.
“Here, I’ll hold them, Jessen. You still look pale.”
“Thanks, Muffin. Happy?”
“Yes!” She beamed, automatically lightening my sour mood. “My dress is beautiful. And yours is, too.”
Having Father’s credit card encouraged me to buy the two most expensive gowns I could find and outrageously pricey shoes to match. Petty revenge, but I was not above getting what little satisfaction I could.
“You deserve it.” I linked my arm with hers as we walked along the storefronts. “Hey. How about we get a cup of coffee together? And a piece of that double-chocolate cake you like.”
“Oh, yes. I’d love to.”
I steered her left, away from the car. Passing an accessory shop, I noticed a Morgon woman adjusting handbags in the display window. She glanced at us and smiled before resuming her work.
“Interesting, isn’t it.”
“What is, Moira?”
“Morgons working in human retail stores. My teacher said we’re in a progressive age where humans and Morgons must learn to work alongside each other.”
“She did, did she?”
“Mm-hmm. She says it’s better to be more tolerant, and then both species will flourish together.”
“Smart teacher.”
“Yep. She is.”
I could hear the admiration in Moira’s voice. For a fifteen-year-old, sheltered under the watchful eye of our father, she was wildly bright and perceptive. She was what some called an old soul.
Her brow pushed together into a frown. “There are some kids who don’t agree with her.”
“Hmph. I’m sure there are.” I slid her a knowing glance, whispering conspiratorially, “But I think she’s right.”
Moira giggled, still one of the sweetest sounds I’d ever heard. “I do, too,” she whispered back.
I gazed up the wall of glassy skyscrapers, catching a glimpse of a Morgon winging onto a rooftop. Morgon-owned buildings primarily housed Morgon-owned shops on the top floor. Humans stayed street-level with various offices on other floors. Most owned and rented property on the other side of Gladium Province where the Cade Empire squatted like a tentacled behemoth. Morgons still kept to the west side. But these few blocks of the Warwick District were the blurring line where the two merged, sharing space and apparently working together as evidenced at the handbag store.
Considering whether Morgons would ever own street-level businesses and cater to humans outright, the familiar crest of three black dragons caught my eye. A small imprint at the bottom of an etched name in glass read “Flaming Hearts Art Gallery.” My pulse pumped faster.
“Muffin? You mind if we step inside? I’d like to take a look in this gallery.”
“Sure.”
A Morgon woman smiled at us when we entered. I’d never seen wings her shade—deep indigo. She fluttered her delicate wings and did a double take. She frowned before plastering a serene, welcoming expression onto her pretty face.
“Good day, ladies. Please let me know if I can assist you in any way.”
I nodded in greeting. A Morgon art gallery for human patrons. How interesting. And I knew ex
actly which clan owned it.
“Oh, Jess. Look at this. It’s simply beautiful.”
An abstract sculpture of a Morgon in flight stood at the front of the gallery. While Moira circled the piece, I ventured to the paintings, a mystical pull drawing me forward. I ambled slowly along the wall, first past a study of mountains in black and white. Next was an abstract series of Morgons in different stages of flight, all a vibrant smear of color, presumably by the same artist who created the sculpture up front. I moved on.
My heart plummeted into my stomach.
A nude, fair-skinned human woman stood on a balcony, peering over one shoulder back at the artist, as if he’d called her name. Black waves of hair poured down her back, revealing a smooth curve of hip. I knew this woman. I’d seen her often enough in the mirror. I knew this artist’s brush, too. I’d seen it on the ceiling in Lucius’s living room. Sweat beaded along my brow.
The next piece was a rectangular painting in blacks, browns, and golds—a close-up of a pair of deep, brown eyes, promising mischief. Maybe more. I gasped.
My heart hammered a drumbeat against my ribs as I moved to the next. In the foreground, the muscular shoulder of a Morgon man and part of an open wing framed the raven-haired muse. Though the artist only revealed bare shoulders and the profile of her face, she appeared to be nude again. At the same time, this scene reeked of protection, keeping this woman safe within the shadow of his wing.
I trembled as I stood staring at a perfect rendition of my profile. My profile! I could hardly breathe. How could he possibly have recreated me in oil and canvas so true to life? He’d only seen me twice. My pulse throbbed in my throat as a slow dawning washed over me. I wasn’t the only one haunted by forbidden desire.
I moved on to the final painting and froze in place. It was the largest of the four, and by far the most intimate. Stretched out in a languorous pose on a bed of black silk, the milky-skinned woman stared from the canvas, obviously sated from lovemaking. Considering I’d never made love, the image sent my imagination into orbit. How would it feel to be loved as she was by such a man? I envied the woman, the mirror of myself, wishing I knew her secrets. Was this a projection of what awaited me? She lay on her side, arm under her cheek, a fall of black hair covering one breast. The sinuous curve of waist, hip, and thigh a stark contrast to the slide of black silk draping mid-hip. Her eyes at half-mast and full lips parted, promising more pleasure to come.
Oh, my God. How in the world had he imagined me this clearly, especially when he hadn’t seen my body?
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
I jumped in my skin. The curator stood next to me, admiring the work. She was fine-boned. Most Morgon females were thin, delicate in their features.
“This series is called The Lover.”
Of course, it was. She examined me closely with vibrant violet eyes. She recognized my resemblance, probably wondering how many hours I’d lain naked on a bed for the artist. Uh, that would be none. He had conjured this image from his own head. This sultry lover, which looked exactly like me down to every bare inch, made my blood rush. Everywhere.
Still unable to speak, the curator continued, filling the awkward silence. “This comes from one of our anonymous donors. Not for sale, only for viewing.” She smiled a secret smile. “He is quite possessive of this collection.”
“Is he now?” Interesting, since last night he implied he didn’t care at all. “Excuse me.” I pivoted and grabbed Moira before she could view The Lover series, featuring myself lounging naked on a bed in a six-foot frame.
“Is something wrong?” asked Moira as I ushered her down the street.
“Um, no, Muffin. I don’t want to keep you out too late. Father will worry. Let’s get our coffee and cake to go, huh?”
She nodded, a frown creasing her brow.
Questions raced through my mind. I could hardly hold on to one thought. How could he imagine me so well? So real? How many hours had he pictured me in his mind in order to create such ornate paintings? He had acted indifferent to me last night when I had asked if he ever thought of me just once. Hell—countless times more like.
Ugh. Last night. Every time a snap of memory popped into my head since I’d dragged myself out of bed this morning, I had shoved it far away, too humiliated to relive my embarrassing tirade and admission of feelings. He’d let me believe I suffered alone, pouring my heart out like a moron.
“Bastard,” I mumbled under my breath.
“What?” Moira looked shocked.
“Nothing.”
We stood in line for our coffees, last night replaying in my head when I tried to forget. Yes, he had been pissed I’d been making out with Pax. At the time, I had assumed he was furious because a human woman had dared to contaminate his superior family line. No. The fire in his eyes had meant something else entirely. Through the haze of memory, I could still feel the possessive hold when he’d carried me home in his arms. And what about the gentleness of his touch when he put me to bed?
Oh, Lucius thought about me all right. Morning, noon, and night apparently. Affection, possession, and something more lined every stroke of those paintings. “Why are you hiding from me, Lucius?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?” asked the cashier behind the counter, passing me a foamy coffee in a to-go cup.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
He might be able to fool many with his calm mask of indifference, but I’d just witnessed what was behind Mr. Nightwing’s cool exterior. He’d imagined me in the most intimate of ways, sprawled on his bed, beckoning my lover—him—back to my side.
“Are you okay, Jess? You look feverish.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m fine.”
I tried to smile, but my stomach fluttered, knowing in a few short days he’d be standing in front of me at the charity ball with his concrete facade in place. I’d have to chisel through the mask and make Lucius reveal the man who longed for his lover.
* * * *
“Brant said I’d find you in here.”
I glanced up from the canvas. Lorian leaned against the entrance to my studio, eyes scanning the room, hands in his pockets.
“Here I am. What is it?”
I set the brush down, stood, and wiped the brown paint from my fingers. I could’ve tried to conceal the myriad of paintings, tried to conceal my desires. There was no point.
“Brant says you’ve been spending a lot of time in your studio lately.”
“If you want to know something, ask me, not my valet.” I crossed my arms and waited.
He ambled into the room, picking up a canvas of my latest work. “Have you taken her to bed yet?”
“No.”
“It may be just lust.”
“It’s not.”
Lorian set the painting down and walked the room, taking in the proof of my passion. “Obsession, perhaps?” He gestured wide with one arm.
“No.” My voice dropped to a growl.
Lorian caught my darkening gaze. “You don’t even know her, Lucius.”
“My dragon does. He recognizes her.” The fire stirring in my gut reminded me on a daily basis who she was to me. There was no denying it anymore.
Lorian finally paused in his wandering, fixing his gaze on me, surprised. “You’re serious.”
“Would I joke about something like this?”
“She’s human.”
“Apparently. The dragon doesn’t care. Nor do I. If she’ll have me, I’ll take her as mine.”
I didn’t need to say the words heartbonding or soulfire. Lorian understood exactly what I meant. He also realized I wasn’t asking permission of him or my father. When it came to heartbonding, there was no choice except to live without ever having a mate. He knew that wasn’t the path I wanted, not when I’d tasted her and all the promise inherent in her kiss, her beauty, her passion.
Lorian raised a dark brow. “When?”
“As soon as possible. My beast is…” How did I exp
ress what I felt? I could easily show it in my art, but words were useless. The closest I could come to the emotion was, “Impatient.”
Lorian nodded. “We’ll be at her home for Cade’s alleged Unity Ball.”
“Yes.” The thought of seeing her again steeled my spine. My muscles tensed.
“Will you ask her then?”
“I plan to.” He glanced at a painting of her on the wall behind me, the one I’d never hang in a gallery, the one for my eyes only—standing under moonlight, nude with one slender arm outstretched to me. Lorian’s eyes on the painting stirred my beast awake.
He must’ve sensed it, and smiled. Rare for Lorian. “I’ll always support you, brother. You know that. And she’s well worth taking”—he winked—“from the looks of her.”
I relaxed my shoulders a fraction.
He turned to leave the room. “Great payback to the old bastard, Cade, too,” he said with a laugh. “Would love to see his face when he gets the news.”
I turned around, searching the eyes of the woman in the painting on my wall. Hoping.
Only if she accepts me.
Chapter 8
“You look lovely, my dear.”
Mother’s words echoed off the walls of her vast dressing chamber. I stood in the center of the octagon of mirrors after her hair and make-up stylists had their way with me. Coils of dark hair twisted on top of my head, tiny gold clasps fastening them in place. The rest fell in dark waves down my back, wispy ringlets framing my face. A one-shouldered black gown shimmered down my body like glass. I wore only a thick gold cuff on my forearm for jewelry.
Usually, I steered clear of Mother’s stylists who pulled and primped for hours till I was coiffed and decorated to the latest fashion. But tonight, I wanted to be beautiful. For him. I wanted his eyes on me. Who was I kidding? I wanted his hands and lips on me, too. The black gown hugged my frame and contrasted with my pale skin. Black. My pulse quickened. I was wearing his signature color and hadn’t realized it till this moment. I smiled at my reflection.
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