Page 14 of Peacock Me Like a Hurricane

“Linens? We needed to bring something besides this?” Hex arches his brow, looking at me to make sure he didn’t miss something.

“Oh, hell. We didn’t bring the damned linens! Back to the store we go,” our girl says, not looking sorry in the slightest.

“Abso-bloody-lutely not.” Leo stomps his foot. “I have to get my roast on and Hex has a half-painted bathroom. You can come back with them yourself, Juliet.”

She pouts, hoping to sway him. “Aw, but Hex’s so much better at this than me. If he didn’t buy any, we have to go shopping.”

Hex blinks, a grin creeping over his handsome face. “Oi. Sod the bathroom.” We groan and he grins. “What? I love home stores. You gits feck off; I’m going with Nancy.”

“You did that on purpose, Night Bloom. Now the guest bathroom will have to be completely redone because the shades will dry differently,” I say.

Not that Hex will care; he’ll happily strip it and paint again because he loves that shit.

“Who fucking cares? That’s his problem,” Leo grumbles, heading for the door. “You two have fun finding home and garden stuff for the secret lair. We’re going back to the Maison so I can make sure dinner isn’t ruined.”

The cat grins at Hex, clapping her hands in excitement. “Where should we go first?”

“For this git? We gotta start at Neiman Marcus.”

Once Leo and I decided to leave them to their décor journey, we were promptly sent back to the Maison. The quirky chef looks relieved as fuck, but honestly, I’m indifferent. Since I broke things off for us with Rhea and Alistair, I’ve been staying cloistered in my studio to avoid attention. The pain of losing Victor and now them is too much, especially with the other mates being so… unpredictable.

Aradia saunters up to me with Twist on her back and I scratch her ears. Seeing the little ferret doesn’t make that spot where the jokester used to live ache anymore because we weren’t nearly as close as the mates. This has been one hell of a year for my heart.

If I didn’t have art, I’d definitely be in need of some heavy medication.

Leo jerks his chin and I nod at him before he scampers off to deal with his roast. It’s no surprise when the tiger follows him: he spoils the shit out of her when she’s not with our girl. I’m alone again, but I know what to do—I have things to work on.

It probably sounds as if I’m lamenting the cat’s sudden absence while she’s gallivanting with the bird. I’m not—at least, not how it might be perceived. I miss my mate when she’s gone and I definitely wish I had her around more so I could use her as support. But I don’t begrudge her happiness with that jackass, nor would I ask her to cool it until I’m in a better place mentally.

That’s just not how our bond or our family work.

With a heavy sigh, I throw open the double doors of my studio. It’s perfectly set-up for all the various mediums I experiment with, including a sitting area, a bathroom, and a closet so I can work without interruption. When I go on a ‘project bender’. I can’t be bothered to leave the room even for basic needs. Leo even has a specific knock to let me know he’s bringing food or Hex has laundry because I won’t open the door when I’m focused.

“Should I paint or sketch?” I murmur as I look around the room.

The walls and shelves are filled with the evidence of my pain. I haven’t let my primary or anyone else in here since I started using this as my way of coping; it’s way too obvious what state I’m in if you look at the various paintings and drawings hanging up. Every ounce of my heartache is shown in dark shades and rich colors, and I know they’d be able to sense it.

I’m a moody git and I don’t want anyone’s pity.

My eyes catch on one of the unfinished works on an easel and I know what I’m going to do. “Painting it is.”

Turning on the music on the wall panel, I close my eyes as I begin the ritual of preparing to work. The music helps me get in the right headspace, then I set up my oils and brushes, and at last, I stand in front of the canvas to get the vibe from where I left off. Once everything clicks into place in my mind, I dip my brush in the paint. These won’t hang in galleries or even on the walls in our house, but they are masterpieces of emotion just the same.

Everything I am is going into these artworks and hopefully, when they’re done, I’ll be healed.

The Cat Admits Something Big

DELILAH

Hex and I finished up my ‘surprise’ with relative ease. His eye for design is exquisite. We got a fluffy black down comforter and achingly soft Egyptian cotton sheets in blood red. There are piles of accent pillows in satin and lace, but I’m sure they’ll never again see the light of day once I’ve shown this to Taurus. He doesn’t seem like the accent pillow type. Once the bed is perfect, I curl up on the huge wrought iron bed amongst the mounds of pillows and fall right to sleep.

The hairs on the back of my neck prick up, waking me. I open my eyes, knowing what that means: he’s here. Yawning, I stretch limb by limb, rolling onto my tummy with a smile. “Hello, my love.”

Leaning against the doorjamb casually, he smiles. He must have been watching me sleep. “Hello, love. You look beautiful.” It hits him suddenly because he gapes at me. “Wait. Bed. You.” He looks around as if trying to make certain that he’s in the right place.

Grinning, I tilt my head. “Nice to know your keen observation skills haven’t failed you.”

His jaw works, but he doesn’t seem to get anything out. “You... you. It’s a bed.”

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