THE NEXT FEW days pass excruciatingly slow, a little piece of me dying with each day without Dorian. I know I should call him but my pride- well, what’s left of it- along with sheer humiliation, won’t let me. If he wanted to see me, he’d be here. The looming truth that Dorian has finally seen me for what I really am and would rather do without the headache is unbearable. But I can’t fault him; he deserves so much more than me. Regardless of what he is, regardless of his past, he is perfect in every way.
After a tortuous sleep that I eventually aided with an entire bottle of red wine, I awaken Thursday morning feeling confused and anguished. My head is pounding and my body feels like it’s been dipped in cement. Dorian still hasn’t called nor texted and my mind is beginning to sprout painful musings of him running to Aurora’s waiting arms and warm bed.
Maybe this is it. Maybe Dorian has had enough of me and my childish ways. He didn’t deserve that considering he’s devoted his life to protecting me. Yet, because I was feeling irrational and scorned, I had to have the last word. I had to make him feel as demoralized as he made me feel. Right or wrong, I took it too far, and I am dreadfully afraid that I’ve pushed him away for good.
Luckily it’s my day off, so I slowly nurse my hangover, watching bad TV and eating junk in bed. I’m in a dark place; I can feel myself slowly ticking towards self-destruction. Even with the faint remains of my alcohol-induced headache, all I want to do is drink until I can’t feel anymore. It’s only noon but I head to the kitchen to pour myself a shot of tequila and grab a cold beer to chase it.
With Morgan at work, the apartment seems cold and desolate, yet I feel like I’m suffocating, the feelings of loneliness and remorse tightly gripping my chest. I have to get out of here; the longer I stay, the more I’ll have to feel. I down my shot, letting the hot, burning liquid scorch my aching chest. Then I pick up the phone. There’s only one person who could begin to ease my discontentment.
“Hey Jared, what’s up, buddy?” I say after he picks up after two rings.
“Gabs! Didn’t expect to hear from you! I’m glad you called,” he says cheerfully.
Jared. Always a breath of fresh air. His sincerity instantly begins to soothe my troubled soul. “I wanted to see if you were busy today. It’s my day off, and I was hoping we could hang.” Translation: I was hoping you could help me forget what a massive screw up I am.
“Really?” he replies incredulously. “You want to spend your day off with me? Not Dorian?”
Crap. Of course he’d bring him up, causing the tightness in my chest to return with a vengeance. I take a deep breath, trying to level my shaky voice despite the large lump in my throat. “No. I want to spend it with you,” I say, hoping he can’t detect any sign of suffering.
“Ok,” he says cautiously. He knows there’s more to it than what I’m giving away. “Where do you wanna meet up?”
“Um, actually, would you mind coming to pick me up? I’ve already been drinking.”
A long beat passes before Jared speaks again. “You ok?” He knows me better than anyone else and I can’t hide from him. Yet, he also knows when not to press the issue with a barrage of judgments and questions.
“I will be. See you in half an hour?”
After downing my beer, I rummage through my closet in search of something to wear. I don’t even feel like getting dressed at this point but I couldn’t subject Jared to the embarrassment of having to be seen with me in pajama pants and a t-shirt. I decide on jeans, a charcoal grey tank and black flip flops. It’s not much better than my PJs but at least I’ve taken the time to comb my unruly hair. Before Jared arrives, I take another shot of tequila to ward off the threat of melancholy that keeps trying to creep its way to the surface. He’s punctual as always, and I instantly notice the worry etched in his face when I open the front door.
“Don’t,” is all I say shaking my head. I don’t want his concern; I don’t deserve it. I grab my purse, and we head for his car in tense silence.
“Where to?” Jared asks once we are on the road, headed towards Academy Boulevard.
“Just drive. I’ll tell you when I see it,” I respond.
I see Jared’s CD booklet, housing his music collection. I flip through until I find what I’m looking for before ejecting The Script, singing a heartfelt melody. I can’t hear this, not now when I am trying so hard to hold it together. I pop in Eminem, knowing that only he could relate to my afflicted state of mind.
I instruct Jared to pull into the first tattoo parlor we see. He looks over at me with hesitation and question in his eyes.
“My treat,” I say opening the passenger side door. Lord knows I can afford it since I started working at Cashmere. Thanks to Dorian, my salary as a store manager rivals that of a CEO of a major corporation.
Dorian. Just thinking about him causes me to gasp in agonized desperation. I can literally feel my heart splintering, sharp little shards poking me in the chest.
“Gabs, I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Jared says, opening the door to the shop for me. Always a perfect gentleman. Even though I am far from a prim and proper lady.
“I do too,” I smile weakly.
Jared and I flip through dozens of giant photo albums in search of body art. He has a few random pieces already and has taken me up on my offer for some new ink. He’s chosen to get a tribute piece to mark Tammy’s miraculous recovery. I honestly have no idea what I want which is no surprise.
“So things are kinda rocky with Dorian?” Jared casually asks about thirty minutes into our search.
“You could say that,” I sigh. “We got into a fight. Well, he said something that upset me and I let him have it. I really went too far. Now I’m afraid he’ll never speak to me again.”
Jared nods, knowing the routine all too well. I don’t let myself just hurt; I get angry. And when I’m angry, I see red, unable to control whatever venom falls from my tongue. Then the damage is done. And rather than trying to mend the broken relationship, I simply punish myself for my misstep, too ashamed to face my mistakes and the real issues festering within me. Unfortunately, the people that I love the most are usually in the line of fire. If it weren’t for my family and the few friends I actually do have refusing to give up on me, I would have pushed them away years ago rather than reveal just how insecure and broken I really am.
“You really do love him,” Jared remarks.
I take a deep breath, feeling a swell of emotion rise in my chest. “Yes. So much.”
“Then it will be ok. He’ll forgive you. You’re worth it, Gabs,” he smiles warmly.
I struggle to return his sentiment then return my attention back to the book. A grouping of eight photos grabs my attention and I nearly drop the album.
“What’s wrong, Gabs?” Jared asks, gauging my startled reaction. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I shake my head, unable to verbalize my shock and horror. Just then, the tattooed receptionist walks by and I wave her down.
“Excuse me, who received these tattoos?”
The young lady, who looks more like a 50s pin-up girl with her jet black hair and red lips, takes a closer look at the collection I’m pointing to with a shaky finger. “Uh, I think it was a group of some Emo kids a while ago. I remember because they were really odd, kinda freaked me out. Since then, not too many people have asked for them. Is this what you want?”
“No, thank you,” I respond. “Just wondering.”
Once she returns to her station, I pull out my phone and take a picture of the page. I take a long look at each word, fashioned in what I assume is ancient Greek. I touch each one, feeling somewhat drawn to them, connected to the exotic scrawl. Under each photo of foreign characters etched on pale skin is the phonetic translation.
Algea
Apatē
Thanatos
Mīsos
Oinos
Polemos
Órexis
Skotos
“That looks like Aurora’s last name. And isn’t Skotos Dorian’s last name?” Jared asks casually while orchestrating a text message on his cell phone. Luckily, he’s been so wrapped up in his task that he still hasn’t caught on to my anxiety. I nod and quickly flip to the next page to avoid further questions. I couldn’t explain it even if I tried.
Once Jared and I are each in an artist’s chair, I mentally prepare myself for my first tattoo, a lotus blossom accented with feminine filigree extending from the nape of my neck, down my spine and ending at the middle of my back. It’s a beautiful piece and though I’ve opted to do without the vibrant pinks and greens in the photo, it still evokes feelings of serenity and peace, exactly what I so desperately want to channel. Reluctantly, I remove my shirt and unsnap my bra, then carefully shield my breasts as I turn to sit backwards on the reclining chair.
“Pretty big piece for a first timer,” the bearded artist warns before touching my unmarked skin with the buzzing needle of the tattoo gun. “This’ll hurt.”
I turn my head a fraction to look him in his eyes, demonstrating my absolute certainty. “Good.”
Hours later, we emerge from the shop bandaged, sore and starving. We stop at a drive thru to grab some fast food before heading back to Paralia to eat. I am anxious to get home, hopeful that Dorian is finally ready to make amends but am once again disappointed when I discover my empty bedroom. The stinging on my back pales in comparison to the radiating ache in my chest. Being without him is unbearable. The only inkling of hope I have to hold onto is the fact that I’m still alive. He still loves me.
Morgan surfaces from her bedroom wearing a spicy red minidress and heels, her long weave fashioned into a bun atop of her head.
“Hey, I got you some food, but looks like you’ve got plans,” I remark from the carpeted living room floor where we’ve decided to eat our chicken strips and fries.
“Yeah, I’ve got a date. Don’t wait up,” she winks, grabbing her clutch purse and heading out.
“I can stay,” Jared says once we are alone.
“No. I’ll be fine.” He’s been texting all day, surely with Aurora, and has already given me so much of his time. There’s no telling what plans he had to bail on to come rescue me from myself.
After repeatedly assuring him that I won’t go off the deep end and drink myself stupid, Jared leaves to meet up with Aurora. I’m alone once again with my overwhelming guilt and remorse. I head to the cabinet to pour myself a drink and down three shots without blinking, desperately trying to squelch the rising urge to cry. Then I carefully bathe before climbing into bed and praying for the crippling pain that reaches to the depths of my core to subside.
I feel the soft, white sand between my toes, little granules glistening like tiny diamonds in the sunlight. The sun feels heavenly, heating my bare back like a warm, feather-light blanket. The sounds of crashing waves combined with the fresh, salty smell of seawater piques my memory. I’ve been here before. My eyes are closed, heavy with relaxation but I know where I am.
Skiathos.
I’m alone again, but I don’t feel lonely. I’m not afraid of this unknown, exotic land. I feel oddly comfortable here. I feel at home. I want to turn over onto my back so I can look up at the clear blue skies, but my body is so heavy and fatigued. And the sand is so soft and warm, I just can’t bring myself to disturb this perfect moment.
Suddenly, a cool, tingling sensation runs up and down my spine, causing me to lightly shiver. The contrast of the hot sun coupled with the coldness is delightfully titillating. I moan reflexively as the tingles spread out towards every nerve ending, igniting my carnal senses.
“I love you, little girl,” a velvety smooth voice murmurs in my ear. It’s a voice I know, a voice I want to hear for the rest of my life.
Dorian.
I force my heavy eyelids to flutter open to find the source of the angelic voice but am greeted with darkness instead. I am no longer on the beach. I am in my bedroom. However, I can still feel the icy tingles kissing my back and I lift my head in response. He’s here, tracing the outline of my tattoo with a single cool finger. I can’t see the expression on his face, only the twinkling depths of his azure eyes. Emotion instantly floods my chest, erupting into a strained sob.
“Dorian,” I choke, feeling hot tears pool in my tired eyes. The response startles him and he quickly kneels to meet my gaze.
“I’m here. Are you hurt?” he questions worriedly.
I don’t say a word. I’m afraid that if I do, he will disappear. I simply turn from my stomach onto my side and pull him onto the bed with me. He willingly obliges and we lay face to face, silently relishing the comfort of closeness. I let the cool freshness of his scent envelop me, the soft pads of his fingers wiping away my tears.
Having him here now makes me realize just how broken I was without him. Now I can breathe. Each of his touches strips away the anguish that was strangling me, draining the life right out of me. It’s now more apparent than ever that I can’t live without him.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, once I am certain that I can contain myself.
I feel Dorian shift as if he’s shaking his head. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have spoken to you in that manner. Forgive me. And you were right.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was absolutely wrong to say those things. I hate myself for it.” I lift my hand to stroke Dorian’s stubble-laden cheek. He nestles into the touch and inhales, breathing my essence. He needs me just as much as I need him. “I never want to fight again. I never want to be without you.”
“You won’t,” he breathes. “I’ll never leave you, Gabriella. I never did.”
Dorian’s fingers drift from my face down the curve of my side, making me remember that I’ve gone to bed topless to allow my tattoo to heal. My free hand flies up to my breasts reflexively yet Dorian quickly pulls it back down.
“Don’t ever hide from me. I love you, every inch of you, inside and out. You never have to shield your body. Or your heart.”
Dorian can see right through me, straight to my core. He knows the insecure, scared feelings I harbor deep inside. He knows my darkest secrets, my deepest regrets. He lives in me.
“I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done.” I whisper. “I hate myself for hurting you.”
I feel Dorian smile against my hand. “I’ve lived through worse, little girl.”
“But not from me. I never want to be the source of your pain. I don’t want to be that person anymore- always so defensive, expecting for someone to hurt me. I don’t want to push you away.”
“You won’t. You can’t. I’ve been waiting my entire life to love you,” he says before placing a soft kiss on the inside of my palm.
My heart warms at his admission, carefully falling back into place, jagged shard by shard. And with that, I close the small distance between us and nestle into his arms, the only place I’ll ever want to be.
When we awaken Friday morning, I am still tightly secured in Dorian’s arms, chest to chest. We spent the entire night talking, kissing, and feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies. I wanted to feel him entirely, wanted him to make love to me but he refused until my back healed a bit. Plus it was nice just being together again, knowing that more than sex binds us. Along with his incredible body, he truly has the most beautiful soul.
“Good morning, little girl,” Dorian murmurs in my hair.
“How do you always know when I’m awake?” I giggle against his skin. It always smells so wonderful, so refreshing.
Dorian leaves a kiss on the crown of my head. “That beautiful brain of yours.”
Reluctantly, I wriggle out of his hold to trot to the bathroom. I’m dressed in only yellow striped flannel boxer shorts and can’t help but blush as Dorian watches me cross the room with desire burning in his smoldering eyes. After relieving my bladder of last night’s tequila and brushing my teeth, I reemerge and giddily flop back onto the bed. Dorian inspects my back in the daylight, though I’m certain he could see it perfectly fine in the dark.
“Do you like it?” I ask timidly.
“I do. It suits you.” He leans forward and kisses the tender skin around it, his cool lips soothing the soreness. “Very sexy.”
“Mmmm,” I moan. Even the slightest touch makes my body quiver.
“Don’t do that. If you start making those kinds of sounds, I won’t be able to stop. I know you’re sore. I don’t want to hurt you.”
I look up at Dorian solemnly. “That pain is nothing in comparison to how I felt these past few days. Not because you hurt me, but because I hurt you. I want it to hurt. I want to suffer for what I’ve done.”
He cocks his head to one side and gives me a crooked smile. “Gabriella, the only pain I felt was the agonizing feeling that I had lost you. Nothing else matters to me. Knowing I could only watch you as you slept, knowing I couldn’t touch you, kiss you, be inside you… It destroyed me. Last night, I couldn’t stay away. I was too weak for you. I had to touch you, feel your skin against mine.”
I sit up and straddle his lap, pressing my lips against his. Dorian instantly responds, pulling me closer into him by my backside. His skilled tongue delves into my mouth, massaging, tasting, teasing. My bare swollen breasts ache against his chiseled chest, longing to be touched and fondled. I can feel the swell of his erection under his slacks jabbing my sensitive flesh. I want him now, and I don’t care if it hurts. Just as my hands fumble to undo his fly, I feel an unwelcomed vibration in his pants pocket. You’ve got to be kidding me!
I ease back just far enough for Dorian to fish out his cell. He hits the Talk button and gives an exasperated greeting then listens contently. I suddenly remember the picture I took with my own phone and hop off his lap to retrieve it despite his puppy dog faced plea for me to stay.
“Look what I found at the tattoo parlor,” I say, handing him the phone once he’s done with his call.
Dorian studies the picture for a beat then his unreadable eyes meet mine. “Humph. Humans.”
“The lady there told me that some random guys each got them. How would they know? And what are these other names?”
Dorian sighs and rubs his eyes as if he’s suddenly grown weary. “There were 8 original Dark families, supposedly the very first clans of the Dark which spawned all other clans. Over time, of course many more were birthed, but it is believed that we are the purest, most powerful of all the Dark. Each family is influential in their own right, the Skotos obviously being the most dominant.”
“So these eight families, are they the noble families in Greece?” I sit up on my knees, totally engrossed in the subject, hanging on to Dorian’s every word. This is my heritage too. My father was Polemos.
“Yes. It is rumored that they are responsible for the corruption of the Dark.” Dorian runs his hand through his sexy disheveled hair. “I’m not entirely sure how humans got ahold of this information, but I’m not surprised. Myths can easily reflect truth. I’ve been…out of the loop, so to speak, for the last twenty years. Apparently, changes have been made.”
Right. Dorian’s petrification was only reversed so he could hunt and kill me. Who knows what he awoke to find. “What do you think this means?”
Dorian shrugs. “I can’t say. There’s been a breach, that’s for sure. Whether or not it was intentional is the question.” I can see the subject has aged him, his brow furrowed in deliberation. I smile at him brightly and plant a kiss on his soft lips, hoping to restore his pleasant mood. It works. “Get dressed. I’m going to take you to work then I have some business to attend to. I’ll be back in time to take you to lunch.”
Business at Cashmere is steady, and I happily jump into helping customers and rearranging displays, a welcomed change from my melancholy demeanor in the past days. Once it slows a bit, I take a moment to peruse the racks for something hot to wear for Carlos’s birthday party later tonight. I had totally forgotten about it until Morgan mentioned it over coffee this morning. She, too, seemed oddly chipper, indicating that her date the evening before was successful. I wanted to ask her who the mystery man was but didn’t want to put her on the spot in front of Dorian. Before I can think too much about it or complete my search for a dress, Carmen asks me to sign for a delivery.
“It’s addressed to you,” she says, observing the black jacquard box adorned with an elaborate red bow.
I shrug my shoulders and take the small package back to my office to inspect. Probably a few sample pieces from a new designer who wants a little extra credit for flair. After I’ve successfully unraveled the bow and open the box, I find something else entirely. An all-white jeweled string bikini sits amidst a sea of black tissue paper. It’s absolutely gorgeous, yet I already knew that it would be. I’ve worn this bikini before. In my dream. The dream the Dark King gave me.
Resting on top of the sexy swimwear is a white note card. I take a deep breath and turn it over to read.
The lotus flower- a symbol of sacred beauty through adversity. Purity. Rebirth.
Congratulations on embracing the true goddess within you.
-Stavros
“How very convenient,” a voice mutters from behind me.
I spin around, clutching my chest, the note still gripped tightly in my hand. “Dorian!” I shriek. “When did you get here?” He obviously didn’t come through the door.
He holds his hand out, requesting the notecard and ignoring my question. I look back down at it, contemplating scrapping it to save us the drama but reluctantly hand it over. Dorian studies it with an unreadable expression, showing no signs of discontent or irritation. The momentary flash of his crystal blue eyes is the only sign of reaction at all. He sets the card on the desk then mutters something in Greek, ‘Stavros’ being the only word I’m able to decipher in his heavy accent. Even in this heated moment, it arouses me fiercely.
“Your father?” I finally mumble after a few tense moments of silence. Dorian’s eyes meet mine, and I receive the answer to my question, his irises icy and cold with ire. Crap. Can we go one day without him losing his shit about something?
I force a stiff smile of reassurance. “I’ll get rid of it. Not my style anyway.”
“No. It was a gift,” he mutters. “You should keep it. It would look incredible on you.” His cool hand strokes my cheek delicately. He’s trying desperately to reel in his anger.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I do feel like I should send him a thank you note though. Do you know where I could send it?”
Dorian’s brow furrows a bit, unable to mask his surprise and confusion. Then something else reads across his beautiful face. Resignation. He nods in defeat.
“Good!” I beam. I pull out a sheet of stationary and begin to fashion my letter of gratitude to Dorian’s persistently vile father.
Stavros,
Thank you for the swimsuit; it is beautiful. However, I can’t and won’t accept gifts from you or anyone else. I am pretty crazy in love with your son, Dorian. Him and only him. And there is nothing that you could ever give me that I don’t already have in him. So please, don’t waste your money or your time.
Sincerely,
Gabriella
I fold the piece of paper in half and place it in the box followed by the elaborate box top. “Please be sure he gets this,” I say handing it over to Dorian, who looks somewhat bemused.
“You don’t have to do that. I’m serious,” he insists. “I’m sure this will make him very angry. Probably provoke him to do something rash.”
“And would that bother you?”
Dorian takes a beat to think about it before giving me a sexy half-smile. “Not in the least.”