Page 14 of Kidnapped Plus-Size Mate

Oh, dear.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Torres,” Sterling apologizes with a charming smile. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me more about that painting over there,” he says as he points to the mystical painting near the window overlooking the city.

I nod timidly. “S-sure,” I respond, to which he smiles with gratitude before folding his arms behind him and walking off toward the painting.

Frowning, there’s nothing I can do except follow him to the window where he leans one shoulder against the frame as if he’s at home here, in a public place.

“What…” I clear my throat to straighten out my voice when it accidentally comes out too skittishly. “What would you like to know, Sir?”

He lifts one thick, almost too-perfect brow before turning to the painting. “Who’s the artist?”

The mystical painting with the brightest pastels, rich in ancient occultic symbolism, is one of my personal favorites. It’s the closest thing to a physical depiction of the dreams I usually find myself waltzing in.

Seeing it up close after spending days in my own mystical fantasy that has turned into my prison gives me the chills. A shiver of iciness slithers down my spine, and I gulp hard.

“Domingo,” I say in response to his question. “Carlisle Domingo is the artist of this magnificent, fictional piece of art that dates back three centuries.”

“Hmph,” the man hums dubiously, prompting me to frown at him.

Not only is he hanging back when the tour has already ended, but he’s also been skeptical of the painting as he inspects it with narrowed eyes.

He lifts a hand to point at a corner. “What’s this?”

I lean in to inspect what it is that he’s pointing at, noticing the flying figure with robust wings in the corner.

“It’s a bird, I’m guessing.”

“You’re wrong,” the man clicks his tongue. “As wrong as you are about the artist.”

Suddenly, I’m able to ignore the incessant pull of attraction toward the stunning man, and my curiosity is piqued.

“I’ve never had someone dispute my information,” I murmur.

He turns to me with a knowing smirk. “Not even when you’re historically incorrect?”

“I don’t believe I am… misinformed,” I counter curiously.

“That’s not a bird, Miss Torres,” he says matter-of-factly as he glances back at the painting. “That’s a dragon.”

My breath hitches in my throat at the mention of the single word that’s been haunting my dreams for the past five nights. Staring wide-eyed at the man, I turn slowly to the painting with fear crippling my tongue, afraid that the painting might come alive and prove that today has just been a dream.

But luckily for me, it doesn’t come to life, the pastel colors remaining fixed on the canvas, eternally frozen in place.

“This isn’t a work of fiction. The artist painted what they’d seen with their own eyes,” he says with a hand beneath his chin. “Dragons are as real as the air we breathe.”

“Dragons don’t exist,” I rebuff with a light scoff, rolling my eyes to dismiss the one detail I didn’t notice on the bird before.

Its wings aren’t feathery at the tips and are heavily reminiscent of the wings of the dragon from my dream with pointed tips filling out with what appears to be crystals.

Just like the dragon in my dreams with its emerald gems crowning the sharp tips of its webbed wings….

“Let me prove it to you,” Sterling says, snapping my attention from my mystical daze as he reaches into his pocket.

Blood rushes from my heart and into the soles of my feet with frightful speed. Prove it to me?

With what?

To my relief, he produces his cell phone and offers the device to me.

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