From the outside, it looked much like before—they’d taken care to rebuild in the same style that Gregory’s great-great-grandfather had used for the other towers.
But on the inside... on the inside, it was an artist’s wildest dream come true.
The large room spread before them. They had eschewed hardwood floors, as much as Naomi loved them. Instead, they’d gone with tiles—not a sterile white, but a beautiful terracotta that made Naomi think of holidays by the Mediterranean Sea. Most importantly, the tiles could be easily cleaned, in case of drips—or rampaging toddlers, she supposed.
There were more windows than there’d been before, but that was an alteration in the design Gregory had been only too happy to make. Now, no matter what time of day, sunlight was always falling in through several of the generous windows. On the other side of the room, a door led out onto a balcony, large enough for several chairs—or an artist and her easel.
The tower had been transformed into an artist’s workspace, alive with golden sunlight, and with more than enough space to work on ten paintings or more at the same time, if she wanted to.
Oh, and she wanted to now. The need to create had returned as if it had never left.
This part of her that had been dead for so long had come alive with a vengeance. Now her fingers itched and her heart was overflowing with images of the secret pond at dawn, the red autumn leaves covering the sides of the mountain, the memory of petals dancing in the air—and, above all, that memory of wild, unbridled joy as she rode through the sky on the back of her dragon, one with the elements, as free and wild as a lightning storm.
“The gallery called this morning,” Gregory murmured into her hair when they stepped out onto the balcony. “They’re sending out the invitations to the press today. The Art of Naomi Drago: Beauty of the Wind. You’re going to take New York by storm.”
Naomi laughed and turned in his embrace, just so that she could see the fascinating shift of light in his silver-gray eyes.
“I doubt it,” she said. “But it’s a start. And New York... Jeff is going to turn green with envy. Dragons aren’t art,” she muttered, remembering the way the gallery owner had mocked her. “If only he knew just how real dragons really are.”
“There’s an invitation left,” Gregory said, his smile widening to a grin. “One of those gorgeous, silver cards you ordered. Should we mail it to him?”
Naomi giggled.
“Let’s do it,” she decided. “Maybe it’ll change his view of dragons. Or of what’s real art. And it was thanks to him we even found each other. If he’s happy for me for once, I’ll forgive all that talk about real art. And if he’s not—I already have all I could possibly want in my life. My home. My mate. And soon—a little dragonet.”
Gregory’s hands cupped her face, his thumb trailing along her cheek as she relaxed against him with a sigh.
“I couldn’t possibly be any happier than I am right now,” she whispered, her heart alight with joy.
In the breeze that suddenly picked up as though directed by a dragon’s power, the silver curtains fluttered in the sunlight, the exact color of clouds hit by the sun.
Well chosen, she told Gregory’s dragon through the mate bond.
In return, the dragon’s pride and joy came back to her through the bond, accompanied by the little rumble that she’d come to recognize as his restlessness.
“Want to go for a flight over the town?” she said, her hand curving over her belly. “Before I get too large for it.”
“No such thing,” Gregory said, his dragon’s delight shining through every word. “You’re gorgeous. Both of you are gorgeous. The wind will be honored to carry us.”
Gently, the wind played with the strands of her hair, as if to agree with Gregory’s statement.
Again Naomi laughed. Gregory’s jewel still rested against her chest. She couldn’t grow wings of her own—but the wind was a part of her now, a friend who lifted petals and leaves and brought the scent of roses with it from the garden.
“Let’s fly,” she said, drawing back from Gregory to look at him standing in the sunlight before her, her beautiful, strong dragon of the storm. Her mate.
“Let’s fly—and then, I’m going to inaugurate this studio with a painting I’ll never exhibit, and never sell. A painting of the most beautiful creature in the entire world.”
She could see it perfectly now, the strokes of silver, the sizzle of lightning, the clouds lit by the sun, the eyes filled with light.
A dragon. But not any dragon.
Lightly, Gregory stepped from the balcony. Joy and love filled Naomi until she thought she’d burst with it as he shifted right there in the air before her, powerful silver wings spreading, catching the light of the sun.
My storm dragon. My mate.
Yours, Gregory agreed through the mate bond.
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