Even with all the art snobbery in the city, it’s hard to have not heard about Annika Amaranthine’s sudden reappearance. It’s all the baristas at the coffee shop I stop at every morning before work could talk about.

She was a legend when I was in college. The few in my classes who understood and appreciated the beauty of street and tattoo art all stood in awe of her incredible skills, both conventional and modern.

I couldn’t tell from the conversations I was eavesdropping on where her shop would be located, especially when all they could talk about was how long she’d been gone from the scene. She’s been gone so long I’m surprised people remember her—I guess that’s how good she is.

In between phone calls and overseeing the recent closing of a showing while Cassandra is off, I try to find out more about Annika online.

The information is sparse but from what I can gather, she’s a one-woman operation and she’s reopening her old shop. It’s not hard to notice that it’s on the other side of the main drag from Taran’s shop. I hope the guys there aren’t taking it too hard with competition opening right across the street from them. Taran talks like he has some business acumen so I’m sure they’ll be okay.

My hand is on the phone to call Taran to find out before I stop myself and replace the handset in the cradle.

As a friend, of course I want to make sure a friend is doing well. Would Taran interpret that as more? As me being pushy after he dumped me?

Breaking off was his idea, after all. I could be a clingy boyfriend and trail around behind him but even I have some pride.

Yeah, it hurt to be pushed off like that. Part of that hurt really is my fault. I’m the one who built up this huge scenario of us getting married and whelping baby dragons. I really believe that being fated mates is enough for us to work through any difficulties. Taran suggested we were moving too fast and it’s not like I disagree with him on that.

We needed time to get to know one another and I don’t disagree with that, either.

I think we could have worked it out.

Instead, Taran breaks it off completely and I’m left feeling adrift.

At least I have my work to fall back on. Just like Taran does.

Huffing out a breath, I collapse back in my chair and take deep, cleansing breaths to get my focus back.

I scoot around on the internet for a while longer, digging up anything I can on Annika, finally uncovering a barely-used blog. It’s just been updated with a picture of her standing in front of her shop, which is in the process of being renovated.

She’s a pretty lady, with unnaturally vivid eyes and hair. They’re almost otherworldly, or certainly not natural. And by natural, I mean found in human nature. Something about the way she smiles gives away far more. There’s an ancient feeling to the eyes staring out of the screen at me. I would hazard a guess she’s a shifter.

But there’s more to it than that.

I read her posts, and uncover interviews from several years back. Considering I work with artists and business people day in and out, I feel like I’ve learned a thing or two about talking and not giving anything away.

Annika has a huge social following but the information she gives about herself, well… They’re not lies. They simply give nothing about her away, yet give the casual reader the feeling she’s bared her soul to them.

Her fans think they know her. Reading her posts with an eye to that, I can see it clear as day that they know nothing because she’s given away nothing about herself.

The classic example of secretive without appearing secretive.

Masterfully done, too.

Now I’m really intrigued. Although, I don’t think she’ll be giving up any secrets to me.

A few pieces of art she claims to have done during her hiatus are posted in the body of the blog.

They are stunning. Her style is far different from Taran’s. His style is bold and brash and earthy, aggressive while still showing delicate touches to indicate a strong undercurrent of sensitivity.

Annika’s is finely tuned, with the delicate touches featuring more as accents. There’s more detail, more finesse with the medium, lending it a light and airy feel.

Taran’s are tattoos, beautiful as they are, hers are fine art for the skin.

Down at the bottom of the post are her social media links. I click on one and open it to message her directly.

It takes me the better part of the afternoon, with many interruptions for gallery business, to finally craft a simple message.

I want to be direct, without being off-putting, or coming across as an opportunist. The upshot of my message to her is that I think her art is amazing and there could be a larger market out there for her talent. If she is amenable, I’d love to talk to her about showcasing her work in my gallery.

I’m not sure I’ll even hear back from her, but I give her all my contact information anyway.

Cassandra’s going to flip her lid when she finds out I’m pursuing this without her input. It’s my genuine and honest belief that she’ll be on board with my idea once she sees the incredible quality of work I’m talking about bringing in.

Maybe Annika’s name will help do that.

I have to do something to pay the bills. Cassandra is right in being concerned about that. I have complete trust in her instincts, I hope she’ll have trust in mine.

By the end of the day, I make a note that Cassandra is never allowed another day off ever. It’s easy to lose sight of what she does day in and out until I’m forced to fill in for her. On the way home, I stop by a florist to send her flowers to the gallery tomorrow, in appreciation for all she does to free me up to do my thing.

The apartment is dark when I key in and there’s a chill in the air. It drives that longing and regret home which says that I’m tired of being alone and I’m tired of being lonely.

It’s pretty sad to come to the realization that I really don’t have friends to speak of in Stell. My family live further north in the territory. Even if they were closer physically, we still wouldn’t see each other much. We’ve never been close.

I mean, I know my parents love me. I know they know I love them. Maybe it’s in our nature as Whiptails to be reclusive since there are already so few of us. Most of the other dragon breeds are far more numerous.

It drives the feeling of being alone that much deeper. Not that I consider myself a failure or anything. I don’t think I have social anxiety, I simply prefer to keep my circle very small. But it does make for very lonely nights.

Knowing that my fated mate is on the other side of the river and so impossibly out of reach for me now isn’t helping my mood any.

I really do wish I had someone to talk to. I consider calling Cassandra but dismiss that quickly. She’s human, she doesn’t know I’m a dragon, how would I be able to adequately explain what’s weighing on me?

What good is a fated mate if he doesn’t want to be with me? I can’t be angry about it. I know the hunger that drives Taran. I was the same way when I opened my gallery. Maybe it’s because I have a few years of being a business owner under my belt.

No close friends to unburden on, a fated mate who wants nothing to do with me.

I’m on my own for this. Again. It’s not an unfamiliar situation to be in.

It does hurt a little more this time.

Okay, a lot more.