Nightbloom Page 8

  “What? What’s that look mean? I don’t know all your looks yet.”

  Yet. One simple, beautiful word that implied we had a future together.

  “I’m just surprised. You don’t seem the type to live with mom and dad.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “Yeah, but I am the type to live with mom and dad.”

  He pulled me to a stop before we crossed the outdoor threshold.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just sort of, you know, dependent.”

  His brow creased into a frown. “That’s how you see yourself?”

  A one-shouldered shrug.

  He trailed my braid through his hand, sliding along his palm. “I’ll remedy that.”

  Before I could ask him what he meant, we stepped out onto a wide terrace with a black-and-white checkered floor. A tall, Morgon woman walked toward us from a glass table—silky black hair, slender black wings, and a benevolent smile. She held out her hand to me as we approached.

  “Hi. You must be Ella.”

  I shook her delicate hand.

  “You are far lovelier than I imagined.”

  “It’s not as if I didn’t tell you, Mother.”

  Her eyes rested lovingly on her son. “Yes. But men tend to exaggerate on occasion. I see that you did not.”

  I thought meeting the parents was like a third or fourth date event. I had no idea what I expected when meeting Paxon’s parents, but this warm welcome was not nearly it. I blushed, but not from her compliments. Rather, I was ashamed when I imagined how my own mother might greet Paxon.

  “I’m afraid I can’t join you for a drink. Neero has been hounding me all day about the household accounts. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ella. I hope to see you again soon.”

  “Thank you. I hope so, too.”

  Still holding my hand, Paxon led me to the head of the terrace table where a formidable figure read The Gladium Post. I almost laughed. He looked just like my dad. Except with huge, black wings, of course.

  My mother had instilled in me this image of the savagery of Morgonkind. Yet here was this picture of perfect civility. As we drew closer and Paxon’s father shifted in his seat when he realized we were there, something else dawned on me. One of his wings was bent at a painfully abnormal angle. An obviously old injury, as scar tissue discolored the area around the break. The wounded wing had also shriveled over time, the muscles thin from disuse. There was no need for anyone to tell me. I knew this injury prevented him from flying. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.

  “Father. This is Ella Barrow.”

  He rose and gave me a familiar, charming smile. Now I knew where Paxon got it from. His father was as devilishly handsome as he was.

  “Well, well, well. My son snags the prettiest girl in the province, does he? Must take after the old man.” He winked at Paxon.

  “Father.”

  “Quiet, son. I’m admiring the wisdom in your choice.”

  It was all so odd. They spoke as if we’d been dating for ages, as if we were an actual couple when this was our official first date. At the same time, it seemed as if I’d known Paxon for ages.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr. Nightwing.”

  “Oh, call me by my first name, Ardimus.” He took my small hand in both of his. “And the pleasure is all mine. So where are you two kids headed tonight?”

  Kids. I laughed. Paxon didn’t fit that description in any possible way from where I was standing.

  “Dinner,” he answered. “In a quiet, peaceful spot.”

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting, son. You can do better than that.”

  “Oh, no.” I squeezed Paxon’s hand, thinking of the many nights Clayton dragged me to his rough and wild haunts. “Peace and quiet sounds wonderful.”

  Ardimus chuckled. “I’m sure it does.”

  Paxon let out a long-suffering sigh. I’d already become accustomed to his frustrated sounds. I smiled at the doting and teasing nature of Paxon’s father.

  “Stunning creature.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t understand how Paxon had “snagged” me.

  Another heavy sigh from Paxon. “We’d better go. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Well, don’t let me keep you.” Ardimus chucked me under the chin. “You keep him in line, Ella.”

  “I’ll try, but that’s a difficult job.”

  Another deep-chested laugh. “Ah, yes. I know well enough. I had to raise him through his teen years. Can you imagine how horrific that was?”

  “No!” I laughed with him.

  “Enough.” He grabbed my hand and tugged me along. “Goodnight, Father.”

  “Goodnight,” he called, sitting back to read his paper and snickering to himself.

  Paxon led me to a stone staircase that wound along the outside of a turret up to the roof. The rooftop was certainly used for take-off and landing with low, minimal stone railings and an open archway leading into the house. He let go of my hand and picked up a twining bunch of leather straps off a bench. The look he turned on me with an arched brow melted me to my toes. My knees buckled, and not for the first time.

  “Turn around, angel.” His voice rumbled low.

  “Um. Paxon. I’m not quite sure what that’s for, but I’m not into kinky stuff or anything.”

  He stood an inch before me, holding the straps in one hand. “I don’t believe you know yet what you are or are not into. With me, that is.” One finger trailed down my cheek, my throat, and down along the scoop of my sweater.

  I hitched in a breath.

  “Do you trust me, Ella?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then turn around.”

  I did. Hearing the buckles and straps move, I glanced over my shoulder to see that he’d secured himself into part of the harness.

  “Step back in.”

  He held open two loops, one for each leg. He shimmied the leather straps up and buckled it around my waist. Tight.

  “Do you have some gloves?”

  “Yes,” I replied, digging them out and slipping them on.

  “Good. Now, hold out your arms.”

  I slipped them through another part of the harness, which cinched back across my chest. From behind, Paxon tightened the straps until our bodies were pressed tightly together, his front to my back. The friction of his jean-clad thighs pressing and flexing against the back of legs and bum sent a shiver down my spine.

  “There. Now we can fly a good distance.”

  “Can you please explain to me what this is?”

  I knew my breath quickened with every brush of his hand. There was something about having Paxon’s hard body pressed and strapped behind me that sent my nerves into orbit. His hands curved around my hips, and I was glad of the night on my face. I could feel the heat of a deep blush rising up my neck to my cheeks as I tried to keep it together.

  “Sorcha developed this idea so she could fly more easily with Lorian.”

  “I bet she did.”

  A rumble against my back. “Now you can’t get away from me.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. His face was in shadow, but I could see the gleam of white teeth.

  If I were Sorcha, I would’ve said something sassy like, “Who said I wanted to get away?” Or maybe, “The closer the better.” But I said nothing at all, raising my face upward to see where we were headed in a matter of seconds.

  He nuzzled my neck close to my ear. My stomach fluttered. His hands eased around, splaying across my abdomen and ribcage. The snap of his wings made me flinch.

  “Hold on, angel. I’m taking you for a ride.”

  He bent his knees, then rocketed up into a vertical climb. I squealed, gripping his forearms, then relaxed when the harness cinched tight. Secure against Paxon, even dangling beneath him, we soared as one being into the darkening sky.

  The wind stung my cheeks. I was glad I’d wor
n my hair in a braid to keep it from getting in Paxon’s way. It was exhilarating—the sensation of weightlessness, of drifting between earth and space, and being cradled in the most capable arms I could possibly imagine.

  Rather than head back into the city, he flew us farther into the countryside over a dense wood.

  “Where are we going?” I yelled over the rushing wind.

  He spoke close to my ear. “You’ll see.”

  Banking right, he lowered to skim a hundred feet above a valley with vast, rolling moors. Only a sliver of daylight hovered on the horizon, casting long shadows into the valley. Paxon swooped left toward a field of flowers I couldn’t identify. We flew closer. Dancing in the early evening breeze were thousands of purplish-black buds, their petals barely opened. A field of strange flowers nodded in the wind, as if in greeting.

  “What are they?”

  “Black Hellebore.”

  “They’re so lovely. But it’s freezing! How can they grow?”

  “They only grow in winter. Also called the Winter Rose.” His hands tightened around my middle. “They’re poisonous but also medicinal.”

  “They can heal and kill?”

  “Yes.” His lips brushed my ear, ripping a flare of heat through me.

  As evening crept in, he winged up higher toward a cliff-face hidden in shadow. I heard the rushing of water before I could see its origin. Down the side of the cliff streamed a long, gushing waterfall. By now, the moon had made her appearance, reflecting on the splashing pool below like glittering shards of glass. I wrapped my arms along Paxon’s, holding him as he held me.

  Dipping down again into a meadow, three deer, startled by our sudden appearance, shot like darts through the long grass, heading for the cover of woods. Their pelts shone bright under the moonlight.

  “There’s no snow here.”

  “Not yet. It’ll reach here soon enough.”

  At the other end of the meadow, a warm glow of lights brightened the edge of the woods. Drawing closer, the lights materialized from a…a house? But the house didn’t sit on the ground. It stretched between three great evergolds, their trunks thicker than any I’d ever seen. As was particular to this tree, even in the dead of winter, the branches burst with orange-gold leaves, lighting the forest with a fiery canvas. The twining branches of the two trees camouflaged the house, made from the same fine, pale wood.

  Paxon flew us onto a wide balcony and landed gently. Through a wall of glass, a fire crackled in a stone fireplace. A floor of cushions were spread about near low-built chaises in earthy tones of russet and brown—a sumptuous lounge. On a low table stood an array of food and a pitcher of a pink beverage.

  “Paxon. Where are we? What is this?”

  He reached around to unhook the buckle beneath my breast. I held my breath as his fingers worked the straps off my shoulders and slid them down my body. In less than a few seconds, we were free, but he molded his body against the back of me as if we were still tied to each other. Somehow, we truly were.

  His hands gripped my waist, his mouth close to my ear. “My hideaway. My true home.”

  He planted a tender kiss on my neck. Something warm bloomed in the pit of my stomach and urged me forward.

  “Let’s go inside. I want to get you out of the cold.”

  I noticed the tilt of his lips—charming, inviting, devastatingly sexy. My heart tripped double-time. How did he do that to me just with a smile?

  I stepped inside and pulled off my coat. He took it from me as I perused the vast, open room. I laughed.

  “Something funny?”

  I eyed him with suspicion. “You don’t fit here.”

  “How so?”

  “I just, well, with all the dress clothes and expensive shoes, I imagined a high-rise suite with sleek furniture and streamlined décor, not…this.”

  I circled the living area, taking in the high, vaulted ceiling and a skylight where the stars twinkled down. This space spoke of one who wanted privacy and a beautiful view, one who enjoyed the simplicity of life. This wasn’t the pad of an indulgent playboy living life hard and fast.

  “You’d prefer the high-rise and sleek furniture?” His voice rolled deep.

  “No.” I snapped my attention to him where he stood in front of the fireplace, hands in his pockets. “I mean, no.” I smiled. “This is a very pleasant surprise.”

  He held out a hand to me. “Come.”

  I did and let him guide me down to the plush carpet of cushions. Rather than sitting on the chaise, I leaned back against it. He joined me on the floor and poured me a glass of the pink drink.

  “What’s this?”

  A roguish grin lit his face, making my cheeks heat up.

  “Something I made for you.”

  “For me?”

  “I know you don’t like alcohol. There’s very little in it. Taste.”

  He handed me a glass. The flavor was fruity, tangy and sweet, with a hint of something else I couldn’t place.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes. It’s very good, but what’s the tangy taste?”

  “Unripened mulberries.”

  I laughed again, covering my mouth.

  “This is the most I’ve ever seen you smile,” he mused with a glint of merriment and mischief in his eyes. He piled pasta with olives and mushrooms onto a plate and passed it to me.

  “I’m just a little shocked.”

  He settled his weight with one arm on the floor. His shoulder muscles bunched on one side, his dimpled chin tilted at a playful angle.

  “Why? Because a handsome Morgon like me knows how to cook and make drinks? I’m the full package, Ella.”

  “You sure are.”

  Just like that, tension flared—a lovely, sexual tension, making my pulse pound a wild rhythm in my chest. He reached across and brushed a loose tendril of hair behind my ear, letting his finger graze a line of heat along my jaw before dropping away. With a wider smile, promising all manner of devilry, he passed me my plate of pasta without saying a word. We began eating in silence.

  A log shifted in the grate. The fire snapped. Paxon adjusted the screen. I cleared my throat and asked what had been weighing on my mind since we left his parents’ house.

  “How did your father injure himself?”

  As if expecting this, Paxon launched into the story. “Before we moved to Gladium, when I was an infant, we lived in Drakos. My father has always been a proud sort of man, but also stubborn. He intervened in an argument on the street between a meek-mannered man of the Violetvale clan and a younger group of Morgons.”

  “Like Elsibeta?”

  He nodded. “Her father.” Leaning back on his hands and shifting his wings with a roll of his shoulders, he continued. “My father was right to protect him, but just scaring the younger gang off wasn’t enough for him. You see, my father has a bit of a temper, too. Like me.”

  “You don’t appear to have a temper,” I interjected.

  The casual way he carried himself, the lazy way he smiled, the confident style of his every move—none of this denoted a man of high temper.

  “I hide it well,” he said.

  And with that single statement, I knew his calm exterior was a practiced, well-worn cover to keep his beast at bay. Just as I struggled to find my voice to be heard, he struggled not to be heard too much.

  “My father attacked them,” he continued. “The fight ended with one of their deaths and my father being lame for life.”

  I set my plate down. “Your father wasn’t imprisoned for killing him?”

  “The Morgon courts ruled him blameless. The laws in the Drakos Province are more ruthless than they are here. We moved not long after.”

  “So, that’s why you don’t fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you fought that guy in the Pit, the Pike player.”

  “I’ll fight if necessary.” The clenched line of his jaw showed in stark relief against th
e firelight. “I wasn’t going to let that asshole touch you. The fact that Kerrington would let another man touch you proves he never deserved you.”

  Not wanting my thoughts to stray to Clayton and his demands, I straightened and tried to gain clarification on something he slipped into his story.

  “You said.” I wiggled more upright. “You said ‘like me,’ but I’ve never seen you lose your temper. You’re so calm, so in control all the time.”

  His eyes glinted gold. I thought it only a reflection of the fire, but I’d seen it happen this morning when he had me on his desk, and that night under the moonlight in the sculpture garden. He was so still, watching me with intense interest.

  “This place is more than a hideaway. I need a place to center myself in order to stay in control.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Because my dragon always wants out. Always.”

  “Your dragon.”

  A sharp, definite nod. His shoulders stiffened, lifting his right wing a fraction before it resettled on the floor.

  I’d heard Sorcha and Jessen speak of their men and their inner dragons. How sometimes the beast took over the man. A tantalizing thrill shivered through my frame when Paxon’s eyes shined molten amber, his voice dropping to a gravelly tenor.

  “All Morgons, especially Morgon men, must fight to restrain their dragon. I’ve managed to keep mine under a tight leash for a long while. I believe I struggle more than my cousins, Lorian and Lucius, because I hold my dragon so close to me. There are times when he wants out. And sometimes, I want to let him.”

  Butterflies flapped wildly in my belly. I licked my lips and sat up on my knees with my legs bent under me, using the shift to break eye contact. Paxon’s intense focus set my usual steadiness off-kilter.

  “What,” I asked, clearing my throat, “what stirs your dragon?”

  “You.” No hesitation. “You inflame him to no end.” He hadn’t moved, and yet I was staked to the spot, my pulse thrumming faster.

  “I’d like to meet…your dragon.” The bold words tumbled from my mouth before I had a chance to consider what I was saying.

  A shining flare of gold glimmered in his eyes. Definitely not my imagination. “Are you sure about that?”