Beautiful Nightmare (Dark Dream 2)

But until this moment staring through bleary eyes at the simple beauty of Picasso’s Dove over Dad’s desk, at the center of his great domain, I had believed Lane Constantine was a liar. That every time he told me I was his dove, his little haven of peace, every time he told me how much he loved me, he was holding something back like a secret or untruth.

Now, I knew he’d meant it.

Every word.

Every time he put his reputation and livelihood on the line by carving out time to be with Aida, Brando, and me it was because he wanted to. No. Not want. Now, I understood that what had driven Lane toward Aida and the family they made together wasn’t so simple, so easily given up as base desire.

It was something with its own force, a singular gravitation pull. No matter how far Dad was from us, he was always in our orbit, circling, waiting for the next time the stars aligned and he could be with us again.

I understood that then, looking at that painting, crying so hard I could barely breathe, but I understood it too, because of Tiernan.

That magnetic compulsion to be near him, to love him when everything in our lives seemed to conspire against us. The terrifying enormity of the emotions his very presence had evoked in me from day one, the way every moment with him made me feel as if I was on fire. The way I knew he would always bleed for me, when I was sad, if I needed a champion to fight for me, to prove to me that every inch of him was mine to have, and I would do the same for him.

I choked on a sob as forgiveness bloomed in my throat like a thorny rose.

It was so much easier to understand Aida, her depressions when Lane was gone, her euphoria when he returned to us, even her distraction and neglect of Brando and I. She didn’t truly exist unless she was with Lane and I wondered, if I’d been able to see Dad here at the Constantine Compound with his other family, he’d been the same. I’d like to think so.

When Dad died, Aida didn’t get out of bed for more than a bathroom break for over a month. And even when she dated again, it was with mercenary intent, to better our lives, not heal her broken heart. She knew, I thought, that Lane had been it for her.

So fucking romantic and so tragic.

Lane and Aida. Tiernan and Grace.

I resolved right then and there with more convicton than I’d ever felt before, not to let Tiernan and I end on such a devastating note.

“Bianca?”

For a moment, I thought it was Dad calling to me and my fragile heart pounded like ram against the cage of my ribs as if it could break free and go to him.

But it wasn’t Lane.

Of course not.

And no one should have been home.

I whirled away from the painting to face the man at the door.

Beckett Fairchild stood there in a smart overcoat with that bright red scarf he’d worn at Aida’s funeral. Despite his dark hair, his pale eyes and facial features resembled Dad slightly.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

The words weren’t accusatory even though they could have been. I was quite clearly trespassing on a sacred space in a house where I was merely a precariously placed guest. Instead, he seemed genuinely curious, almost saddened by the sight of me crying in my pajamas in front of a dead man’s painting.

“I-I thought I heard something coming from behind the door and I got scared,” I explained after clearing my throat and dashing the wet from my cheeks. “I’m sure thieves just wait for the family to leave so they can try to break in.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth, but he also cocked a brow. “Yes, well, there is a very good security system in place. Monitors on most on the windows and doors in the house.”

Alarm rang through me. How had Tiernan stolen in and out of my bedroom if that was the case? I had to think there wasn’t a monitor in my room.

I shrugged. “I’m not used to all this. I come from a small town where breaking and entering is pretty common.”

Beckett nodded, his movements easy and casual, but there was a shrewdness in his eyes that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He jerked his chin at the Dove painting. “I think Caroline mentioned that you are an admirer or art? It’s an exquisite piece, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone cry over it.”

“I’m a seventeen-year-old girl,” I played it off with a self-deprecating shrug and a little grin. “We tend to be overly emotional.”