Nightbloom (16 page)

“Oh.”

His frown deepened. “You do want children, don’t you?”

“Yes. Of course, I do.” Laughing, I shifted under him, feeling a familiar ridge poke me in the hip. “Apparently, you want them soon.”

A devilish grin. “I have a really, big bathtub.”

“I only saw a shower in there.”

“My bathtub has its own space.”

“Wow. And how many girls have you entertained in this really, big bathtub?”

I was teasing, but his face sharpened, the laughter leaking from his gaze, yet there was still warmth there. He wove both hands into my hair along my temples, his expression grave. “You are the only woman I have ever brought here. And you are the only woman who will ever share my bathtub”—a soft kiss on one eyelid—“my bed”—the other—“or my heart.” A long, lingering kiss, sealing my lips with his full intent.

“I love you, too, Paxon.”

I slid my hand down the hard planes of his abdomen. He shivered as my hand wandered farther south.

“Now let’s go try out that big bathtub.”

“Your wish is my command, angel.”

A gossamer veil

Begotten of fear

Lifted away

When he drew near

Revealing a truth

I failed to see,

when I hid behind

Such falsity

But now . .
.

Purple dreams fill my mind

Golden thoughts of every kind

Showering my world

In brightest blue

Unlocking my heart

To life anew

As a bud in bloom

Opens to the sun

Her petal-soft soul

Knows hope has won

I stared at the floor-to-ceiling canvas, my words splashed in vibrant oil paint, enhanced by the swirls of colored glass—a rainbow of celebration at the center of my otherwise bleak exhibit. Strong arms wrapped my waist from behind. A tender kiss on my cheek from the one who inspired this artwork made me smile.

“I’m so proud of you.”

I smiled up at him over my shoulder. “I’m proud of me, too.”

“Good. You should be.”

“Holy shit, Ella!”

Sorcha strode into the gallery in six-inch heels and a tight red dress. Paxon threaded his fingers in my hand at my side as Sorcha and Lorian joined us.

“So, tell me how you really feel,” I teased.

“Where have you been hiding?” She gaped at my opus standing twenty feet high.

I smirked at Paxon at the “hiding” remark.

“I’ve been working ever since I graduated, but was, uh, not sure if I wanted to exhibit.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sorcha had such a way with words. “This is amazing! Oh,
wow
. Paxon, I can totally use this to promote the new gallery. I’ve already got an idea.”

Jessen and Lucius stepped into the gallery. My dear friend’s face beamed as she stared over my shoulder at my latest artwork, the one of which I was most proud. When she reached me, she pulled me into a tight embrace, whispering, “I’m so happy you finally came out to join us. This is so beautiful, Ella. Just like you.”

Tears pricked my eyes. She’d always known I had kept a part of myself hidden. I’d been afraid for so long. But not anymore. I pulled back and sniffed. “Thank you,” was all I could manage.

Jessen beamed, winking at Paxon to my right. “I want to see all of them before the exhibit officially opens, and you’re swarmed by admirers.”

“Oh, shut up.” I playfully nudged her.

“You think I’m joking? Wait till the art critics get here and see this.”

Panic beat in my breast for a minute. Critics? Oh, crap! What if they hated it? Paxon’s arm slipped around my waist, his mouth lowered to my ear.

“Stop thinking what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I know you.”

I couldn’t say anything to that.

I heard Elsibeta greeting someone new at the gallery entrance and recognized my mother’s voice at once. That’s when real panic set in.

I stiffened as my parents approached. I hadn’t spoken to her since I left the house the day I proposed to Paxon nearly two months ago. Dad was the one who had brought me my works of art, promising me that she’d “come around.” I wasn’t sure she ever would. But here she was, walking into a Morgon-owned gallery to support me.

They approached in silence, both of their eyes on the painting. My father gazed for a quiet moment, smiled at me, and placed a kiss on top of my head. “Great work, sweetie.”

His posture stiffened as he stood in front of Paxon. Though I’d never known my father to be a violent man, I wondered if he’d start something here at my first gallery showing. To my utter shock, he thrust out a hand for Paxon to shake. After a slight hesitation, Paxon shook his hand, the two men locked in wordless understanding. The tension lining my father’s mouth and clenched jaw said clearly, “You hurt her and I’ll kill you.” Paxon’s returning smile, rimmed with charm and confidence, said, “No one will ever hurt her.”

Within a few seconds, the intense exchange was over. My dad gave Paxon a tight nod before he strolled off into the gallery, leaving my mother, Paxon, and I staring up at the artwork. My pulse pounded in my throat. I feared she would think she had something to do with my own personal demons, hiding myself from the world. I feared she would blame herself. It was never her fault. My actions were my own.

After a long perusal, she cleared her throat and dabbed at her eye. Paxon handed her a handkerchief. How was it he was always so prepared for such things? When she took it from him, hesitantly, she curled her hand around his and gazed at him. For a fleeting second, I saw the old fear, but it slowly melted into some other emotion, something softer and forgiving.

“Thank you, Paxon,” she said, voice cracking. “For everything.”

With that, she took the handkerchief and turned to me. “I’ve…I’ve missed you.”

I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed. Bliss at my newfound love, and heartbreak without my mother to share in my happiness, had equally filled the last two months.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered close to my ear. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” I kissed her on the cheek, tears blurring my eyes.

“Well, I’ll join your father,” she said, clearing her throat. “We’ll talk more after the show. I was thinking perhaps of having you and Mr. Nightwing over for dinner.” She glanced nervously at the Morgon man at my side.

“Call me Paxon, please. And it would be my pleasure,” he said in his honeyed, charming voice, which earned a bright smile from my mother.

“Well, then. It’s settled.” She squeezed my hand, then strolled over to meet my father near one of my earlier works.

My throat constricted. I wasn’t sure my mother or even my father would ever fully accept Paxon. They’d spent too many years hating the Morgonkind, especially my mother. My parents loved me, and they knew me well enough to understand I wasn’t the reckless sort of girl. I’d not tie myself to Paxon for any senseless rebelliousness. That wasn’t my style. I had settled for Clayton because I thought I would never experience true love. But I finally had. There was no changing the fact it happened to be with a Morgon man. And I didn’t regret it for a second. For now, a handshake from my father, albeit tense, and a dinner invitation from my mother was enough.

I clasped Paxon around the neck, pulled him down to me, and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. He held me tight, returning my affection. Gazing into warm brown eyes, I smiled. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. For whatever I’ve done to deserve that.” He tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear, his debonair smile in place. “Now, let’s go show the world how brilliant my mate is.”

Hand-in-hand, we strolled the gallery of my first exhibit, and all my fears evaporated with him at my side. I realized it didn’t matter what anyone else thought about me or my work. Not my parents, not society, not even my best friends. It only mattered what was in my heart. And if I tried and failed, I would always have this strong, wonderful Morgon man at my side to love me no matter what. As I would love him.

Juliette calls lush, moss-laden Louisiana home where the landscape curls into her imagination, creating mystical settings for her stories. She has a B.A. in creative writing from Louisiana State University, a M.Ed. in gifted education, and was privileged to study under the award-winning author Ernest J. Gaines in grad school. Her love of mythology, legends, and art serve as constant inspiration for her works. From the moment she read JANE EYRE as a teenager, she fell in love with Gothic romance--brooding characters, mysterious settings, persevering heroines, and dark, sexy heroes. Even then, she not only longed to read more novels set in Gothic worlds, she wanted to create her own.

Be sure not to miss Juliette Cross’s first book of the Vale of Stars series

The Gladium Province is on the verge of civil unrest as humans and Morgons, the dragon-hybrid race, clash once more. But amid disorder can also arise passion…

When the bodies of three human women are discovered in Morgon territory—with the DNA of several Morgon men on the victims—it’s just a matter of time before civil unrest hits the Province. But for ambitious reporter Moira Cade, it’s more than just a story, and it may mean risking her own life.

Descending into the dark underworld of Morgon society, Moira is paired with Kol Moonring, Captain of the Morgon Guard, for her protection. Fiercely independent, Moira bristles at his dominance, and defies his will at every turn. Yet resistance proves futile when passion flares between them, awakening powerful emotions within both, body and soul. But as the killings continue, can their fiery newfound bond survive an even greater evil—one that threatens all of humanity, Morgonkind, and Moira’s very soul?...

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Learn more about Juliette at
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/30578

I paused the image on the comm screen, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. Pale and naked, the mutilated woman was splayed spread-eagle on her back in the snow, her bloodless skin only a shade darker. Dirty-blond hair, matted and tangled, covered her face—all but one glassy, green eye. A slit made with precision and patience opened her entire cavity from throat to pubic bone, exposing internal organs. What seemed to be left of them, anyway.

“Did you get any close-ups?” I asked Macon.

“Yes. Your favorite smuggler is getting better at his illegal activities.”

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Stop sucking up. It doesn’t suit you, Moira.”

“But I do appreciate it,” I said, setting his comm device in my lap. “Seriously.”

“Well, when I get fired from my job, you can hire me here at
The Herald
.”

“First off, you don’t get paid as an intern at the precinct. And secondly, you can’t write or edit worth a damn, so what could you do at a college paper?”

He rolled his eyes. “True. But payback for this will be you helping me pass my Ancient Lit class.”

“Done. Now, show me what else you got.”

Macon tapped the comm screen to play. “Here. Look.”

Sure enough, his video panned to photos of the victim’s hands and ankles, bruised from restraints. Just like the others. The last shot zoomed in on her lower torso and legs. Bright blood stained the inner slopes of pale thighs. I heaved in a deep breath and blew it out. “This blood doesn’t look like it came from the mutilation.”

“No. I asked my boss, Torrance, about that.” Macon’s voice dropped, grave and thick. “The tearing came from the sheer violence of the, uh…”

Macon swallowed hard. He seemed to be struggling to find words to describe such brutality to one of his best female friends. Finally, he cleared his throat, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, and continued in a professional manner. “I heard our forensics guy talking to Torrance. Said the DNA evidence proves there was a multiple-rape. Like the others. But this time was much worse.”

“Dear God.”

I set down his comm device on the desk. Standing up, I stared out the window, unable to look at the images for one more second. My hands trembled. I crossed my arms and closed my eyes in an attempt to steady myself. But the images kept flitting through my mind on instant replay. A horror movie come to life. The torture and terror these young women suffered wouldn’t leave me. Raped. Multiple times. Then torn open like sacrificial lambs. The fear they must’ve felt in those last moments. Anger welled inside, demanding justice for these young women. I twisted the medal that dangled on a silver chain at my throat, rubbing it for comfort between thumb and forefinger. Knowing that emotion was the one inhibitor of a journalist’s investigation, a fault that could make me lose focus, I wiped away the thoughts and forced myself to the task at hand. Investigation.

“How—how many?” I asked. “Six of them, like the last two victims?”