by Angel Lawson
“Wow,” I look around the foyer again. “That’s pretty amazing. I can’t believe I get to live here. Sure beats the dorm at my university.”
“Despite the grandeur it is a comfortable home with plenty of space to work on your projects. I’m happy to give you a full tour now, or would you prefer to see your living quarters first?”
“I think I’d like to see my room.” I point to the stain on my shirt. “I may need to freshen up a little.”
Dylan guides me up the stairs, pointing out small details along the way like some notable pieces of artwork and the passage to a back staircase that leads to the kitchen. On the first floor, he explains, there is a dining room, library, and living room. Each upper level has two suites per floor. The suites include a bedroom, private bath, sitting room, and studio, each specific to the creative needs of the student.
My room is on the third floor, just beneath the attic, which, according to Dylan, has been retrofitted for two additional rooms.
“There’s a rooftop garden I can show you later,” Dylan says, opening the door to my room.
“Holy shit,” I blurt before covering my mouth. “Sorry, but wow, this place is insane.”
The room is luxurious—like something out of a high-end home decor magazine. I take in the small sitting room with a comfortable-looking couch facing a top-of-the-line television. The bedroom is to the left and I gaze at the king-sized bed with exquisite bedding. The bathroom has a shower and a tub with wide-mouthed ravens each holding a large marble in their mouth as the feet. Across the way is one more room.
“Your writing chamber.” Dylan says, standing back so I can go in.
The antique desk faces a wall-length window that overlooks Central Park. A little nook, with pillows and a blanket, is built into the wall, with what I assume is one of the best views of the city.
A new computer, laptop, and printer have been set up on the desk. A small chair and table are across the hall. Bookshelves line the walls, halfway filled with classics and books on craft. I clutch the back of the chair at the desk and look around the room.
“I’m dreaming, right?”
“Excuse me?”
I blink three times—which sometimes helps lull me out of my fantasies. Dylan and the room are both still here. “This can’t be real. The house, the scholarship…” I walk over and squeeze his bicep. “You.”
He looks down at my hand and licks his lips. “I assure you, Morgan, it’s all very real.”
“So I just go to class, work on my projects, and live here?”
“Yes.” His eyes are an intense ice blue and are both intriguing and unnerving at the same time. “One of the stipulations of the scholarship is that dinner must be eaten by all residents together—daily—no exceptions. The meal will be prepared and served in the dining room. If you have specific dietary needs you’ll just need to leave a note on the board in the kitchen. The cook will take care of it.”
“So everyone that lives here will eat together?”
“Yes. It’s a way to foster companionship and creative inspiration between artists. Now that you’ve arrived, we’ll have our first meal this evening.”
“Our? You’re one of the students?” I ask. I don’t know why but I didn’t think he was one of the residents.
He leans against the door frame and I get a better view of his long, lean body. “Yes. I am. Does that surprise you?”
I look around the room and settle my eyes on the window and the magnificent view outside. “I’m beginning to expect the unexpected.”
Chapter 3
Dylan
I exit Morgan’s room and the composure I’ve held since she arrived falls away like a sheet. I inhale, catching my first real breath in minutes. She has no idea of her power, of her effect on me and eventually, the others. I assume they’re already aware of her presence in the mansion, and if they aren’t, they will be soon.
I head straight to my room, needing a minute to myself. My suite is directly above Morgan’s and it’s like I feel her alluring presence the instant I walk in the door.
My quarters do not exactly contain a studio—more like a library or artifact room. I’m the historian of our select little group and today is noteworthy, and before the day’s end I’ll document it extensively.
Morgan has returned to the nest.
I’d hoped she would recognize me, and for a brief moment in the reflection of the mirror, I thought she did. I’d known her memory was severely impaired. I just wished there would be a spark of some kind.
I sit at my desk and pick up the sheath of papers Morgan submitted with her application. Her writings implied the memory of her childhood was still intact—that the power she possesses is still flowing through her veins. It’s up to each of us to help reveal the memories, and it will be our duty to help her control that energy.
Leaning back, I close my eyes, reliving the past hour. Morgan is no longer the girl under our protection. She’s a woman that has come into her own, just as we always knew she would. Beneath her disheveled humanity is a beautiful woman—I’d let that slip during our tour. If given the chance I’d say more. I’d comment on her passionate eyes, her sensual lips. I’d reach for the slim curve of her neck. The charm of protection rests between the swell of her breasts and it’s clear she has little idea of her effect.
She’s still a virgin, that was apparent first off. Crossing that barrier will be both necessary and dangerous. Mythologically speaking, Morgan’s power comes from her heart and body. Taking care of her is of utmost importance; showering her with affection, providing unconditional support.
In the past this was forgotten—to great destruction. We know better. We understand her heart as well as her mind. Her innocence will make her first days here even more precarious. The others…they’ll have a hard time staying away from her soft skin and alluring flesh. Although our fates are intertwined, Morgan must be the one that determines our destiny. Our future depends on her.
I stare out the window. We aren’t the only ones aware of Morgan. Her innocence and power.
That’s why we’ve brought her here.
Chapter 4
Morgan
Besides the suitcase I traveled with, I do have other belongings. I sent a few boxes ahead and they were waiting for me in the closet of my suite. Dylan showed me where he stored them, told me he would be on the third floor in his rooms, and left me to unpack.
It doesn’t take long until my closet and dresser are filled with clothing. The bathroom cabinets hold all of my toiletries. The biggest hassle is the box of books and mementos.
Like many authors, I started writing as a child and I’d filled dozens of journals with my ideas—most about Maverick and her ravens. I’m carrying a stack of these books from the bedroom to the studio when I trip over the coffee table, dropping the stack with a clatter against the hardwood floors and howling in pain.
I slump to the floor, holding my busted toe, when I hear footsteps racing down my hall. I look up, expecting to see Dylan but instead find a smaller, absolutely gorgeous man coming my way.
“Are you okay? I heard you scream.”
“Yeah, I’m just a bull in a china shop.” I grimace at my swollen toe. “Whoever thought it was a good idea to put me in a classy place like this may be crazy.”
The man helps me to the couch and I feel a sharp undercurrent of electricity between us. I stop cold. He pulls his hands away from my body and offers me one in greeting. “I’m Sam—your floor-mate.” He points down the hallway. “I live right down there.”
“I’m Morgan.” He doesn’t let go of my hand and I feel my cheeks heat as he studies me. “I heard you were coming—I just didn’t know…”
“Know what?”
“How beautiful you are.” He touches my cheek and it should be weird—super weird—but it’s not. I only feel the shock of energy between us.
I swallow and say, “Stop. That’s two men today that have called me beautiful. Is that what it’s like in New Yor
k? Because I thought the men laid it on thick in the South.”
His forehead wrinkles. “Who else called you beautiful?”
“Dylan--well sort of, he just said I need to be careful in the city.”
Sam tightens his grip on my hand. “He’s right. You do.”
“You would know. Are you a model or something?” We hold eye contact for a beat and I absorb his features. They’re disturbingly striking. Sharp cheekbones. Perfect lips. Green eyes that suck me in like an inviting pool. His hands are warm and I feel the strength in his touch. He’s not big like Dylan but he’s strong.
Amusement flashes in his eyes. “No, I’m not a model, but I work with some. I’m here on a photography scholarship. Maybe you’ll pose for me sometime.”
“I doubt that’s a good idea. I’m not really the model type.” I look at the mess on the floor. “More like a hot mess type.”
“Hmm.” He pushes a strand of hair over my shoulder. “We’ll let the camera determine that.”
I flex my toe and determine it’s not broken and reach for the stack of books. Sam grabs them from me and says, “Where do these go?”
“In the studio.”
And that’s how I met Sam.
*
There’s time before dinner and if I don’t get in my daily writing I start to feel twitchy, so I grab my latest journal and settle into the cozy window seat. With a new pen and a fresh sheet of paper, I add to my ongoing story.
Maverick first noticed the birds when she was a kid.
The instant she walked outside, they would be there. Large, with sleek, glossy feathers. Round, brilliant eyes. They would appear slowly, one at first, flying down from the sky and perching on a branch. He would call to the others and they would follow—four more ravens, with wide, shadowy wings to guide them down to the treetops.
This went on for years. Maverick walked outside and her ravens greeted her. The other kids in the neighborhood thought she was strange, walking to the bus stop every day talking to ’herself’. They didn’t notice ravens in the trees or hopping along the lawns nearby.
Over time, her relationship with the birds became so intense she stopped having friends entirely, preferring to sit in the backyard on a soft blanket. She socialized with the ravens. They brought her trinkets, pieces of metal and shiny beads. Marbles from lawn ornaments. Jewelry they’d plucked from somewhere with their beaks.
She fed them bread and birdseed and told them endless stories about her day. The way the teacher smiled at her essay, or the one particular girl named Callie in the 6th grade that called her names. The next day during recess she spotted the familiar shadow arc across the playground and watched, both fascinated and terrified, as a large, black bird snatched the bejeweled barrette out of the girl’s flaming red hair. Callie howled, screeching in pain. She pointed upward and all the teachers and students gathered around.
Not Maverick. She watched the raven fly away with a shiny trinket in his beak.
That afternoon, the clip--along with a tuft of auburn hair still attached--waited for her on the backyard blanket.
That was the day she decided to name them…
A knock on the door pulls me from my writing and I walk to the front door of my suite. Sam waits on the other side. He’s cleaned up from his casual shorts and T-shit from earlier and is now wearing perfectly fitting jeans and a light blue shirt that makes his eyes twinkle like jewels. His hair is long, knotted at the top of his head in a man-bun I’d find ridiculous on anyone else, but not him.
“I thought I’d walk you down to dinner, if you’d like?”
I look down. I never changed. “Give me a second? You can wait in the sitting room.”
“You look fine.”
I shake my head. “First impressions and all of that.”
My closet is sparse, so it doesn’t take long to pick out an outfit. I go for a strappy sundress and sandals with heels. I brush out my hair and apply a little makeup. I don’t want it to look like I’m trying too hard but I also don’t want to look like a hobo next to Mr. Model out there. Not to mention the rugged good looks of Dylan. I slather on a little mascara and a hint of blush and walk out of the room.
“Damn.” Sam stands as I enter the room. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get hotter.”
“Stop.” He shrugs but pulls out his phone and takes a quick photo before I can stop him. “Hey! At least let me see it.”
He shakes his head but I notice the hint of a frown as he slides the phone back in his pocket. He offers me the crook of his arm and, reluctantly, I hook mine with his.
“Do you know anything about the others in the house?” I ask as we approach the staircase and head to the second floor. “I’ve only met you and Dylan.”
“Sure.” He points to the two rooms on the second floor. “Damien lives on the top floor with Dylan. Clinton and Bunny live down here.”
“Bunny?” Relieved to hear another girl may be in the building, even if she has a stupid name. “What’s her focus?”
“Bunny is a dude,” he gives me a strange look. “I’ll let him explain the name. He’s a visual artist—painting, drawing, collage.”
We enter the foyer, my arm still linked with his. Sam’s proximity and the delicious scent of soap and musk make my heart flutter in a way that is totally inappropriate and out of character. I tell myself it’s because I’m tired and need a little extra support, but that doesn’t explain the tightening in my lower belly. I follow him through the archway under the stairs and down a hall lined with wood. I stop cold in the doorway of the dining room and feel Sam’s hand slip to mine.
The first thing I notice is the mural. It covers all three walls, minus the one made of glass. Hand-painted trees shoot up with lush leaves creeping toward the eighteen-foot ceilings. My eyes zoom in on a girl wandering in the woods, chin lifted, with a smile on her pink lips. I step forward and Sam releases his grip. I spin, trying to take it all in. Five ravens dot the landscape. One with a jewel in his beak, another with wings spread. One more hops on the ground while a fourth soars overhead. A fifth watches the girl from his perch in the tree.
“What is this? Who made this?” I ask, feeling my heart race like a hummingbird.
“It’s been here since the house was built,” Dylan says. “The Brannon family was big into Gaelic lore.”
I turn and face him. He’s wearing a blazer that make his shoulders look a mile wide. His black hair is cut short on the sides but a bit longer in the front. It’s then that I notice the others…all men, all equal shades of gorgeous, flanking Dylan’s sides.
“Morgan, I’d like you to meet our other housemates,” he says. “Damien, Bun, and Clinton.”
Without being told, I know who is who. Damien stands to his right, much taller than the others but lean with hard muscles visible though his shirt. He wears a shiny belt buckle and two rings on his fingers. Tiny earrings glint in his lobes and his eyes flash violet when he looks at me. And man, does he ever look at me. His gaze is consuming, like he’s drinking me in. His head is shaved and two tattoos peek out from the collar of his shirt.
“You’re Damien,” I say, finding my voice.
“Hello, Morgan.”
I look to Dylan’s left. “And you’re the one they call Bunny.”
The nails on his right hand are thick with paint and splatters cover his shoes. He’s smaller than the others, even Sam, but he has the most soulful coppery-brown eyes that match his spiky hair. Bold glasses frame his face and everything about him is adorable. His shirt sleeves are long, but one side seems unusually baggy and sits at an odd angle. I tilt my head as it dawns on me. He has a disfigured arm. He lifts up on his feet when I know his name and his mouth splits into a grin. “It’s good to see you, Morgan.”
Standing at the end of the table, with his hands wrapped around the back of the chair, awaits our final housemate. His jaw is clenched, gray eyes hard as steel. His dark, shoulder-length hair is loose against his massive shoulders. I thought Dylan was big—b
ut no—Clinton must spend most of his days in the gym. Which is equal parts impressive and frightening. I feel dark energy rolling off of him and he seems to do his best not to make eye contact. When he doesn’t speak, Dylan says, as though the man isn’t in the room, “This is Clinton. Ignore him. He’ll eventually warm up.”
I stare at the men around the table, each standing behind an empty chair. The only one left is at the head and it’s clear they’ve saved it for me.
“Now that introductions are over, is everyone ready to eat?”
Groans of happiness burst from each man, including Clinton, but they all look at me like they’re waiting for my word.
“I’m starving,” I say, lowering myself into the chair. “Let’s eat.”
Chapter 5
Morgan
Dinner is served by an older couple named Sue and Davis. I learn soon enough that they’re married and together they’ve been responsible for cooking and cleaning for the residents of the mansion for decades.
The men speak animatedly during the meal, discussing their various projects. I can’t help but finding myself caught up in their talk—as though they’ve known one another longer than a few hours. When there’s a brief lull in the conversation I ask, “How long have you all lived here?”
A weird quiet settles on the group but Sam finally speaks up. “We’ve all been here for over a year.”
I scan the men, all in various states of looking at me or at their empty plates. “All of you?”
Dylan nods. “Yes, your spot just became available.”
“And I’m the only female?”
He nods. “It’s a little untraditional, I guess. I hope you don’t feel uncomfortable.” Not as awkward as walking in and seeing the historic painting on the wall behind me depicting a scene my story.
“I don’t mind. I never got along very well with other people, females in particular.” I don’t count Shannon. That relationship was an anomaly.
