Beautiful Nightmare (Dark Dream 2)

Bianca giggled in my arms and it shocked me that such a simple sound could live inside my chest like some eternal flame.

“I’d live and die for that laugh,” I told her in a raw voice as I curled my hand around the back of her neck and pressed another to the vulnerable base of her spine. “I’d live and die for you.”

“I know,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to my pulse point, the scritch of her lips harsh against my stubble. “But let’s hope you never have to, okay? I promised you a happily ever after.”

I chuckled. “You did. I suppose a large part of that was taking revenge against Caroline like you did.”

She stilled, her voice filled with caution. “Are you angry?”

“No. How could I be when I’ve wanted the Constantines to pay so badly for so long that I stole two orphan children to do it myself?” I asked darkly.

To my surprise, she laughed. “Good. Really, I just wish you could have seen her face. She was white as the snow outside. I thought she might faint.”

Wicked satisfaction seeped through my chest and mingled with the pride there. “Clearly, I’ve corrupted you.”

“Clearly,” she agreed happily, nuzzling me. “But only because there was something in me that already yearned for corruption.”

“True,” I murmured, squeezing her neck. “I recognized the darkness behind those velvet eyes.”

“And I recognized your goodness,” she countered, pulling back to stare me dead in the eye so that I could see the sincerity there. So that I couldn’t hide from it. “No one is all good or all bad, and together we’re the best combination of both.”

I kissed her then, a seal of red lips like a wax on an official stamp.

On silent agreement, we broke apart and got out of the lukewarm water. Bianca peeled me out of my wet clothes and we dried each other off, still unable to keep our hands off each either even though the lust had cooled to reverent affection. She giggled when I hauled her into my arms and, both of us naked, stalked into my bedroom where I lay her down in my bed. Instead of joining her there, I took a step back, taking a mental photo of the perfection that was Bianca Belcante’s lush femininity in my dark space. A space that had symbolized my isolation for so long.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” she asked, lazily arching her pale gold body in a bow, breasts tantalizingly presented.

“Not yet,” I murmured. “Put on the clothes Walcott left out for you then get back into bed and wait for me.”

I wanted to give my girl the last gift she needed to rid herself of the turmoil of the day and the days before. So, I turned on bare feet and padded down the long corridor to the opposite side of the staircase to a familiar door with a plaque reading ‘Brandon.’

The door swung open silently, revealing a lump under the sheets topped by a riot of sleep-mussed curls and a little grey apostrophe of sleepy dog pressed up to his side. I swallowed thickly past the emotion that rose in my throat as I thought about Brando growing old in the room, graduating from elementary school into high school and beyond, going to college to make something of himself without worrying about money (because I had so much and it was all his if he wanted it) or familial expectations (because I had none and all I wanted was his happiness). I thought about adding kids down the line, filling more of the empty, forgotten rooms in Lion Court with blonde headed Morelli-Belcante children. I thought about us all together on Christmas Eves like this one and decided it would be a tradition to spend the night together snuggled up in my huge bed, our united warmth against the cold winter night, our collective breath in harmony, our dreams shared behind our closed lids.

A family.

That was what we were.

That was what we would be.

My throat constricted so tightly I could barely breathe as I sat on the edge of Brando’s bed and pet a waking Picasso.

“It’s okay, boy, you can come with us, too,” I promised as I gently gathered Brando’s sleep-heavy, warm body in arms and hugged him to my chest.

He woke just enough to curl into me, murmuring, “Tiernanny?”

“Right here.”

“Is it time to open presents?” he asked, rubbing at his nose with a small fist before tucking it under his cheek. “Anca told me we got presents when I was a baby, but we never had as many as what’s under the tree downstairs.”

I tugged his body farther up in my arms, placing his cheek against my healing shoulder, my hand on the back of his downy head. “Not yet, buddy. But there are so many presents, you might have to spend all morning opening them. Picasso will have to help because your hands will get tired.”