After that exhausting lunch date, all I wanted to do was get myself and Moira home. We made our way toward the parking garage in silence. Moira seemed to know I needed it.

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 exactly 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. “Very,” I agreed and stepped toward the gallery of paintings, while Moira circled the piece.

As I passed the woman at the counter, she glanced up from her work and froze, staring at me with surprise for three beats before glancing toward the gallery, and then lowering her eyes again to her work. It was odd, as if she was surprised to recognize me. I’d never met her before.

Again, she glanced up and with a tight smile, she said, “I need to step into the office for a bit. I’ll be back if you need anything.” I nodded as she disappeared through a door that apparently led into a larger space.

Strange. I shrugged it off and 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 screamed 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 she?”

I jumped in my skin, but didn’t turn. I knew that dark rumbling voice. The seductive awareness of him prickled over my skin, the back of my neck burning where I felt his gaze. I suddenly lamented my lack of care in my appearance this morning. Feeling as if I’d spent the night inside a raging tornado, I hadn’t the energy to do more than pull my hair back in a ponytail, wash my face clean of last night’s make-up, and pull on jeans and a plain black v-neck t-shirt. Finally summoning the courage to face him, I pivoted halfway and peered up at Lucius.

His staggering presence still took my breath away. So large, his black wings imposing, intimidating. So beautiful. But something was different this time. He’d always looked at me with an intense blue gaze, which was no different today, but there was a new emotion shifting across his features. One I’d never seen before. Was it anxiety? Fear? Maybe not exactly, but something akin to both. And why wouldn’t he be feeling this way? I’d just discovered his secret, plastered across the wall of this gallery.

In my drunken stupor last night, I’d asked him if he’d thought of me at all over the past months. As evidenced on this wall, he’d thought of me a great deal…in intimate detail. I didn’t know what to say. I was literally speechless. It was like walking in on a private moment you shouldn’t have and being confused how to proceed through the embarrassing intrusion.

He stepped closer, bringing with him the delicious aura of his body heat and his massive size and strength. Rather than make me feel smaller, he made me feel safer. Nervously, I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, knowing full well I didn’t look my best, certainly not like the woman in the paintings. And still, he gazed at me with intense admiration, drinking me in, sweeping across my cheeks, brow, lips then traveling down my body, stalling at my breasts and legs, then finally traveling back up where he snagged on my lips. Edgy and self-conscious, I licked my lips before turning back to the painting, unable to withstand his severe gaze any longer.

Clearing my throat, I blurted out stupidly, “So you’re an artist.”

Idiot. Way to state the obvious.

Then I felt him so close behind me, there could hardly be an inch between us.

“I am.” His warm breath brushed my neck, his rumbly velvet voice sending a shiver through my body, addling my wits and scattering them into the wind. “This series is called My Lover.” I swear I almost fainted, swaying a little on my jellified legs. “What do you think?”

There was weight in his question. My answer was important to him. I didn’t quite know how I felt. It’s not as if he painted a sweet portrait of me. It was as if he’d cut a piece of his soul out and splattered it on canvas with the deepest, most sensual of emotions. All of which encompassed his vision of me. I didn’t recognize that woman. She was too beautiful, too confident, too sure of her place in the world.

Finally, I stammered out, “I think it’s amazing. You’re…you’re very talented.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Once more I felt his gaze sweeping over my face in profile as he had a view from above and slightly behind me. I say slightly, because his body was so close, he might as well have been pressed flush to mine. I wished he was.

“That’s not what I meant.” He placed a large hand on my waist. I gasped at the electric intensity of his touch. “What do you think of the subject?”

My brain was misfiring, pinging all over the place while tendrils of heat from his hand wound through my body and melted my insides into goo.

“That’s not”—I stared into the sensual woman who seemed to rule her world with a fearless hand—“that’s not me.”

His hand wrapped the other side of my waist, his fingertips nearly touching across my stomach, then he pressed his delicious body against the back of mine. I jumped, unable to control my response to him. His hard chest against my shoulder blades, his tight torso along my spine, his—God help me—crotch pressed against my bottom sent a tidal wave of scorching heat through me. Good thing he was holding me up, because my knees trembled, threatening to let me tumble to the floor in a full-on swoon.

“That is you,” he said low and intimate against my ear. “That is the woman who fascinates me beyond reason. Who won’t leave my thoughts for a single moment. Who drowns my mind in beauty and sets my body, my soul, on fire.”

His fingers tightened as he brushed his lips against my temple. I gripped his wrists, completely overwhelmed by his declaration and the fear that he saw someone who wasn’t real. I wasn’t the confident goddess staring back from that painting. The only thing I was sure of was that whatever was happening between me and this powerful Morgon man terrified me to death. This wasn’t a little crush or a whimsical act of rebellion against my father; this was paralyzing, bone-shaking, heart-pounding attraction…and something more. Something I wasn’t able to identify at all. Only feel. Like the universe knew better than I did, so it spun my reason into orbit every time he was near me. Like now.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he commanded, as if he could see straight through my skull and read my thoughts. “Tell me you don’t recognize what’s happening between us.”

I clenched my fingers around his wrists, unable to make it more than halfway around them, and pulled free. He let me go, and I swiveled to face him. That was a mistake. The heat behind those cerulean eyes sent my heart catapulting away. Caught between the awe-inspiring homage in oil and canvas behind me and the frightening, devastating magnificence of him, I couldn’t breathe. It was too much. He thought too much of me, and the fear of shattering his illusion threatened to strangle me.

I shook my head and swallowed hard. “I don’t know what’s happening.” That was true, but not entirely. “I-I need to go.”

When I brushed past him, he gripped my wrist to stop me. “Jessen.” A dark plea.

I stared at the floor, unable to meet his stunning gaze one more time. I was confused, unsure, and terrified.

“Lucius. I just need time to consider what this is.”

He let go of my wrist, letting his fingertips trail ever-so-slowly up the inside of my arm before he dropped away. “Take all the time you need. I’ll still be here.”

Gulping the lump in my throat, I gave a little nod and rushed toward the exit, grabbing Moira’s hand where she still stood at the sculpture, and never looked back.

“Is something wrong?” she asked as I ushered her down the street.

“Um, no. I don’t want to keep you out too late. Father will worry.” Father would kill me if he knew where we were, what I was contemplating doing—giving my heart to a Morgon. The staggeringly beautiful and powerful Lucius Nightwing.

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? How could he say such things to me? How could he have been thinking of me—apparently often—all this time and let me think he was indifferent to me last night?

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. Now I knew that wasn’t even remotely true.

“His body was on fire?” I scoffed.

“What?” Moira looked shocked.

“Nothing.”

We strode into the parking garage. 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. Now, I knew the truth. And the truth was a wonderful, fearful thing. A sharp sting of regret struck me, remembering how I’d tried to lose myself in Pax Nightwing. How I’d tried to wipe Lucius from my memory by clinging to another. Certainly not my finest moment. But how could I have known he’d been carrying this blazing torch for me over the past three months?

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? The fact that I was spinning out of control after so brief a time and one fiery kiss had me bewildered beyond reason.

Affection, possession, and something more lined every stroke of those paintings. Why had he been hiding from me?

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 and burning gaze. He’d imagined me in the most intimate of ways, sprawled on his bed, beckoning my lover—him—back to my side. The thought of being his lover—God! If he could scorch me to cinders with a look, I might lose my mind in his bed…in his arms…with him inside me.

“Are you okay, Jess? You look feverish.”

I cleared my throat, popping the trunk of the car on my key fob. “I’m fine.”

I tried to smile, but my stomach fluttered with a thousand drunk butterflies crashing into each other, 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 needed to decide before then if I was ready to admit he was right, if I was ready to chisel away more of what he hid behind his mask, if I wanted to know more of the man who longed for his lover.