Cover Copy
The love between a human and a Morgon, the dragon-hybrid race, tempts fate once more…
All her life, Ella Barrow has allowed others to make her decisions. Forced to stifle her artistic talents and stay in a loveless relationship with Clayton Kerrington, the man her mother believes to be her perfect match, Ella’s life may be safe—but it’s not her own. Paxon Nightwing, on the other hand, is anything but the safe choice.
A charming and alluring Morgon, Paxon sees Ella for the woman she truly is. His bold confidence and protective nature ignites a passion she’s never felt before. But a dark family tragedy forces their secrecy—until Clayton makes it impossible to hide their clandestine affair. Will Ella be strong enough to fight for herself at last? Or will she succumb once more and risk losing the only man she’s ever loved?
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Books by Juliette Cross
Nightwing Series
Soulfire
Windburn
Nightbloom
Vale of Stars Series
Waking the Dragon
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Nightbloom
A Nightwing Novel
Juliette Cross
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Juliette Cross
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First Electronic Edition: September 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-576-9
eISBN-10: 1-61650-576-1
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Brooke DelVecchio, my first bestie in the book world.
Acknowledgements
As the final installment in the Nightwing series, I’d like to thank my beta readers one last time who encouraged me every step of the way—Julie, Jessen, Rebekah, Rachel, Brooke, and Amber. To Renee Rocco, for giving me the call last January that changed the course of my writing career. And, as ever, to my editor, Corinne DeMaagd, who is just plain fabulous. I’d be lost without you.
Prologue
“Would you like to hear the story about tragic Princess Morga and the dreadful dragon king of the North again?”
“No, Mother. I’m fifteen years old. I’m too old for fairytales.”
I fidgeted with the white satin bow on my pajama top.
“Oh, Ella. I realize you’re blossoming into a young woman, but—”
“Mother. Please! That’s so embarrassing.”
I crossed my arms over my small breasts, blowing a blond ringlet out of my eye.
“I just want you to be safe, dear. To be aware there are good and bad men in the world.”
“Well, I don’t think there are any dragons swooping down to steal virgin princesses anymore.”
“No, dear.” She sat on the edge of my bed, her honeyed voice a paradox to her piercing gaze, hinting at some secret too terrible to speak. “But there are Morgon men. Understand that though they are half man, they are also half beast. Their lust of the flesh is no different than human men, but they will take what they want like the savages—the animals—they are.”
I curled my knees under my chin, wrapping my arms tight.
“You must beware of them, Ella. Don’t ever allow a Morgon man alone with you.” She cupped my face with one hand. “You’re so sweet, so innocent. He would destroy you just to satisfy his desires, just to please himself.”
I gulped hard, fearful of such a man. “Yes, Mother.”
“That’s my good girl.”
She tucked me in my downy white coverlet as she had all my life and flipped off the lights. “Sweet dreams, my dear.”
I always wondered how she could expect me to have sweet dreams after leaving me with visions of lusty Morgon men sating their hunger on my innocence.
The thing was, even after I grew up and discovered my mother’s words to be false—that Morgon men weren’t mindless monsters—I could never shake the innate fear of being caught alone with one. I wasn’t afraid of him using his animal magnetism to seduce me senseless and ravage my body.
I was afraid I’d want him to.
Chapter 1
I blotted my Petal Pink lips on a piece of memo paper and capped the lipstick. It slipped from my fingers, bounced off my lap, and rolled underneath my receptionist’s desk.
“Dangit!”
Trying to retrieve the tube with the tip of my open-toe heel, I only succeeded in pushing the lipstick farther away. “Ugh.”
Unable to bend that far in my pencil skirt, I hiked the hem up to my thighs and crawled on all fours, shimmying my behind, then stretching my arm till my fingers finally gripped my favorite lipstick.
That’s when I heard a low, masculine whistle from someone standing behind me.
Scooting back, I shot off the floor and slid my hemline back to my knee, all under the steady gaze of Paxon Nightwing, silhouetted by the sunlight that filtered into the foyer of Linden and Burke.
Towering above me with jet-black hair and matching sharp-edged wings, wearing a charcoal button-down, black slacks, and a devilish smile, his voice crooned when he spoke. “Now that’s what I call a warm welcome.”
“I, um, well, I…”
He extended a bronzed hand. I reached out with my right, nearly dropping the lipstick again. I shifted it to my left hand. “I like pink.”
I like pink? I like pink! For God’s sake, Ella. How old was I? Five?
His extended hand engulfed mine, then he drew our bodies closer. Grinning wide and stroking his thumb across my knuckles, his melodious voice sounded sultry and sinful.
“So do I.”
I blinked stupidly till my brain started functioning again. He didn’t say a word, mesmerizing me with ridiculously deep brown eyes.
“I’m, uh, Ella Barrow.”
“Paxon Nightwing. Pleasure to meet you. But I think we’ve met before.”
I tugged on my hand. He didn’t let go, tightening his hold.
“Uh, well, I’m friends with Sorcha and Jessen.”
“Yes.”
I knew this guy was a player, the kind to make a girl swoon with a glance and charm the pants right off her. Literally. Jessen had even kissed him in a club once. And while his carousing behavior should make me want to run away, I couldn’t forget that Jessen had said on a scale of one to ten, his kiss was a ninety-nine.
He still held my hand, angling his body closer. “I’ve also seen you at the Vaengar games. Wit
h Kerrington.”
“Yeah. We’re, um, dating.”
“That’s a shame.”
I tugged again.
He released me. “I have an appointment with Sorcha Nightwing.”
“Yes. I know.”
Pulling myself together, I pressed the comm device on my desk and cleared my throat. “Mr. Nightwing is here.”
“Thanks, Ella. Show him to my office, please.”
Rounding behind the desk, I gestured down the hall. “This way.”
“After you.” A sly grin.
I tilted up my chin, pretending I wasn’t afraid of him, then led him toward Sorcha’s office. I was good at pretending.
As soon as I stepped in front of him, a primal shiver vibrated through my bones. His eyes were on me. I felt his gaze, as if his gaze were a caress, brushing up my legs, curving over my behind, rounding my hips to the dip of my waist and finally settling on the blond waves that fell past my shoulders. By the time we reached the door to the office, my heartbeat hammered in my throat.
Gesturing for him to enter, I kept my eyes on the floor, trying desperately to regain control. He stopped in front of me, but I held my gaze until I realized I was fixated on his crotch. I jerked my head up. Amusement flickered across chiseled features. He was about to say something, but I didn’t give him the chance. I marched back up the hall to the receptionist area.
Back at my desk, I fumed.
What was wrong with me?
I’d been around Morgon men before. Charming Morgon men. Charming, flirty Morgon men, at that. They made me nervous sometimes, but not to the point where I was struck dumb. Most of the ones I’d met had been rough around the edges, the kind that Clayton liked to hang with at the stadium. My two best friends were married to sophisticated and powerful Morgons, but even they didn’t make my stomach flutter or my brain malfunction like Paxon had just done. He was so…put together. In every possible way. From his starched shirt to his expensive shoes to his mischievous smile that hid all kinds of danger. And promise. He was possibly the most confident man I’d ever met.
And I had met him before. Briefly. A few months ago at the grand opening of Spire Maiden, the first club designed for both humans and Morgonkind. Clayton had come with me so, of course, I had been the dutiful, attentive girlfriend, trying not to let my eyes wander. Not that Clayton cared. He wasn’t the jealous type. Good thing, because as soon as his back was turned, I let my eyes drink their fill of Paxon Nightwing.
I sat in my swivel chair and straightened my desk with a vengeance—stacking and restacking messages and memos, reorganizing my pens, deleting voice and video mail from my comm device, separating the color paperclips from the silver. You know, all of those monumentally important things a receptionist does.
Hmm. He had said it was a shame I was dating Clayton. A shame that any girl was dating Clayton? Or a shame that I was dating Clayton?
I blew out a breath. A blond lock of my hair fell across my face. I jerked out my compact mirror and tucked it back into place. I spent a few minutes tidying up and pretending I had something better to do than listen for the door to open down the hall.
When I heard the telltale click and the rumble of low voices conversing, I snatched a pen from my immaculately organized holder and scribbled nonsense on a memo pad while they approached.
Sorcha’s throaty laugh echoed as they entered the lobby. How did her laugh make her sound so gorgeous?
“Ella.”
I jumped from my seat, forcing my nerves under control before walking coolly to meet them, serene smile in place.
“Ella, you remember Paxon, don’t you? He’s Lorian’s cousin.”
“Of course,” I squeaked, then cleared my throat.
“Yes. Ella and I have met before. She goes to the Vaengar matches. I’ve seen her in the Box from time to time.”
That was one place I hadn’t seen him before. But he’d noticed me? That was interesting.
“Ella?” asked Sorcha with surprise. “You watch them play Vaengar? I didn’t think you liked violence.”
“Oh, well, Clayton, he likes to go.”
Sorcha made a sour face. “Right. Of course.”
Paxon smiled, but his brows pinched in the middle. “I didn’t expect you to be working here.”
“Ella is just filling in for our receptionist, Sherrie, who’s been on maternity leave, but she’s back next week.” Sorcha’s face lit up. “Hey, I have an idea. Ella, you should go work at one of Paxon’s galleries. That’s right up your alley.”
My heart plummeted into my stomach. I tried not to throw up on his shiny shoes. His creased brow arched in interest.
“Um, I don’t know if… Well, I don’t think—”
Sorcha waved me off with a manicured hand. “She has a degree in Fine Arts. She’s brilliant, and her talents are being wasted here. She’s even an artist herself.”
Paxon’s interest intensified. “Are you now?”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Sorcha leaped ahead of me. Of course.
“Yes! She is. Are you still doing sculpture, Ella? Those you made in school were beautiful.”
“No. I don’t do sculpture anymore.”
“What do you do?” His velvet voice dipped lower.
My eyes hit the floor. “Something else.”
“She’s modest, Paxon, seriously. You should give her a job.”
I shot daggers at Sorcha while his attention diverted to her. He pulled something from his back pocket and handed it to me. His card—white letters on solid black.
“We could use a good curator who knows what she’s talking about. With the new marketing you have in mind, Sorcha, I know we’ll be expanding soon.”
I took the card, noting he moved his fingers forward till they grazed mine. Butterflies in my stomach, I stared at the block letters of his name—bold, masculine, strong. Just like him.
“Ella?”
I started, then forced myself to meet his gaze with complete calm, hoping my knees didn’t buckle under his intense scrutiny.
He took my hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Giving my hand a gentle squeeze, he then released me and trailed his index and middle finger down the underside of my wrist and across my palm. “I hope to be hearing from you soon.”
I gulped. He walked out the glass double doors, tucking his huge wings in tight to manage the human-sized doorway. I couldn’t help but stare as he took three long steps onto the pavement, flared out great black wings, and lifted off into the air with a graceful whoosh.
Sorcha giggled. “Pretty, isn’t he?”
“Stop, Sorcha.”
“Here.” She snatched a tissue out of a box on the desk and waved it at me. “You drooled a little.”
“I did not!” I snatched the tissue and checked just to be sure. “He’s…interesting.”
“I bet he’s real interesting…in bed.”
“Stop it. I have a boyfriend, if you didn’t know.”
“Who? Clayton? Give me a fucking break, Ella. That dude is a douche.”
“He is not. He’s handsome and wealthy. He comes from a good family.”
“Bo-ring. Please. You can do so much better. Besides, I caught Pax watching you.”
“What?”
“That opening night at Spire Maiden.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. He had eyes for you, Blondie.”
“You’re delusional.” I gave her a look, then took my purse from behind the counter. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Wait, Ella. Don’t run off. If you like Clayton what’s-his-face, then I’ll try to be nice to him. You just don’t know guys like I do. He’s not good for you.”
I wanted to scream at her, tell her she didn’t know anything about him or what I knew or didn’t know about guys. But the truth was, she tended to be right. And that ticked me off even more.
“I’ve gotta go,” I repeated.
“You
ought to give Pax a call.”
I glared at her from the doorway.
“I mean about the job! Jeez.”
“Yeah. And how do you think that will go over with my parents?”
Sorcha tilted her head and gave me her sassy smile. “Who said they have to know?”
I rolled my eyes and pushed through the door.
“Think about it!” she yelled after me.
All the way home, Paxon Nightwing was all I could think about.
Chapter 2
A ghost of palest blue
drowned by every vivid hue
A world that screams in red
won’t hear my whispers said
or note my gentle words
so rarely ever heard
I see a world sun-bright
from my place in darkest night
No eyes seek me here
I am
unseen
A violin concerto hummed through the room. I poured the paste into the flat basin on my worktable, then submerged the white parchment that bore the scripted words until the entire page was soaked. Lifting the slick paper from the basin, I let the excess drip away. After tearing the edges close to the words, I then smoothed the remaining fragment onto the canvas, dead center of the image in charcoal. A wan figure of a young woman in a flowing gown stood in a grove of wintry trees. Tendrils of her hair blew across her face.
Now sealed in clear paste, I skimmed my finger from top to bottom of the verse, dragging the ink away from clean lines, making the words bleed black.
I stepped over to the sink, rinsed, and wiped my hands on my stained apron.
Having cooled next to the kiln, the crackled glass was ready. Removing the brittle blue sheet, I set it on my worktable, covered it with a cloth, and hammered it in five precise places. Unfolding the cloth, I was happy to see it had broken exactly as I’d wanted.
Nightbloom Page 1
