by Nadia Aidan
“There are guards posted just beyond the lake, and more who are monitoring the exterior walls. No one will enter without our knowledge.”
Adonis would have still protested but Eros interceded. “I will stay with her until you both return.” His lips twitched into a semi-smile. “Since I was the only one out combing the city all night, I did not manage to get much sleep. I will take a nap in the sitting area, just outside her bedroom. She will be safe and I can finally get some rest.”
Adonis still did not want to leave her, but he trusted Selena’s welfare to only three men and one of them would be with her.
He gave his youngest brother a curt nod, then followed after Ares, who led him beyond the safety of the fortress that had once been his home. Together they plunged into the bustling city that was alive and vibrant during mid-afternoon.
* * * *
La Ville des Dieux was a thriving, modern metropolis. The financial district, military headquarters as well as the epicentre of contemporary sports could be found in Ares’ domain. The arts was Adonis’, along with the frivolity of being the shopping hub. Apollo’s boasted the dualities of sin and salvation—brothels and religious institutions clamoured for supremacy within his territory. Meanwhile, Eros paid homage to any and all pursuits of knowledge within his domain.
To navigate the winding maze of thoroughfares, through the meticulously refined and ordered city, one would never garner that the proprietors of such a carefully ordered and peaceful domain were capable of depravity. They could so easily succumb to the violence they’d been born with and had been bred to nurture.
As Ares brought his vehicle to a stop and they gracefully slipped from the automobile, both men fought hard to restrain the brutality that was as much a part of their existence as their shared beauty.
Neither carried a weapon as they approached the four-storey brownstone in the heart of Swan Pointe, one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods within Adonis’ district, but the violence radiating from the two men was palpable. As they crossed the sidewalk, the few people milling about saw them, but none dared to speak. In a neighbourhood as exclusive as Swan Pointe, few people were about. Those who were knew that when any of Dieu’s progeny came calling, it was best to disappear then later pretend as if they’d witnessed nothing.
A woman with a stroller, and the two gentlemen who’d been walking towards them all found something to draw their attention in the opposite direction and proceeded that way. The two brothers ignored them as they climbed the concrete steps of the looming brownstone.
Adonis stood beside Ares on the small front porch and rang the bell. At the same time he gave his brother a sharp look until Ares set his foot back down on the ground.
“At least let’s ring the doorbell before we resort to that.”
Ares’ only response was a shrug, but at least he complied. Adonis was grateful. He’d learned throughout the course of his life that aggressive tactics only made it more difficult to obtain information. And information was what they sought on this day.
There was the soft patter of footsteps, a brief pause, followed by a gasp and another pause until the door was finally opened—just a small crack—to reveal a petite woman with wide frightened eyes and frizzy ringlets that framed her cherubic face.
“May I help you?”
“We are here to see your employer,” Ares answered, not waiting for an invitation as he pushed past the woman into the foyer. With a sigh, Adonis followed him. So much for not using aggressive tactics.
The maid gave the impression of a fish out of water as she floundered and blustered helplessly, trailing behind the two men who seemed intent upon ignoring her as they began searching her employer’s home.
“What are you looking for?”
“Your boss,” Ares replied, not stopping his efficient perusal of first the living room, then the dining room. When the kitchen and finally the closets turned up empty, he focused his ferocious gaze on the poor woman.
“Woodward Gowen—where is he?”
The girl looked as if she was about to disintegrate into a puddle right there in the middle of the dining room. Adonis, who’d been on his way up the stairs to the second floor, intervened.
“We don’t intend any harm. We just need to speak with him.”
He ignored Ares’ measured glare, not once batting an eye at his twist upon words. They did only want to speak with him, and they did not intend to harm him unless he said something that confirmed what they already suspected. Only then would they harm him.
“He—he is not here,” the frizzy-haired girl stammered.
“Well then, where is he?” Ares snapped impatiently.
She visibly flinched. “I don’t know and he did not say, but he hasn’t been here in over a month.”
He exchanged a quick, telling glance with his brother.
“Who else lives here besides you?” Adonis asked.
“Just myself and Earl.” She gulped. “Earl tends the yard and does regular maintenance, while I serve as the cook and housekeeper.”
Adonis studied the woman. “How long have you been employed here?”
She gulped again. “Two years, sir—”
“And in all that time it has just been you and this Earl?”
“Oh no.” She shook her head vigorously. “There was Mr Gowen and then his son, Jarrod.”
His son?
Adonis and Ares exchanged a longer look this time.
“You said Mr Gowen left about a month ago. What about his son, Jarrod?” Adonis probed.
She cast furtive glances between both men, as if she knew it was in her best interests to tell them, just as she knew it was in her best interests not. Adonis moved to continue up the stairs as if to say that she could provide the answers he sought, or he could rummage through the entire house, leaving a mess in his wake, to find them on his own. Her eyes were wide and guileless, but apparently she was smarter than she looked.
“Jarrod Gowen does not live here, but he visits.” Adonis noticed she had begun to wring her hands. “About once a week he comes in and spends about an hour locked in his father’s study. He does not wish for us to bother him, so we don’t. Then he leaves.”
Adonis made his way back down the stairs. He needed to get inside that study and discover what secrets it held. However, he was certain that, despite who they were and that the woman was terrified of them, to let them into her employer’s private study would be out of the question.
“Around what time does Jarrod Gowen visit?”
The woman’s wringing grew more pronounced and Adonis knew he would only be able to get maybe two more answers out of her before she would be compelled to ask them to leave.
“On Mondays, sir, around noon. ”
It was Friday.
He could not wait three days for answers. He might not be alive that long.
“So he was here this past Monday?” Adonis wasn’t sure why he asked that question, but something demanded him to probe deeper. He was glad that he did.
If the frizzy-haired girl wrung her hands any more he was convinced she would begin to rub away her skin. “Well, it is odd that you would ask. He didn’t come this past Monday. He didn’t manage to get around here until Wednesday and when he did he stayed a very long time, far longer than unusual. I thought nothing of it.” She stopped, her gaze sweeping over them.
“Well, I thought nothing of it until now. ”
* * * *
Selena awoke sometime in the middle of the afternoon to find Eros asleep on the couch in the sitting area just beyond her bedroom. He’d been left behind to guard her, while Ares and Adonis had gone on some secret mission they’d refused to share with her.
Faced with just a few hours of sleep, and after battling a fire that had been deliberately set to claim her life, she hadn’t protested all that much when Ares and Adonis had departed. She’d decided that sleeping was her best strategy at the moment, and that once she’d woken she could ply Adonis with questions then. That Eros stil
l slept outside her bedroom told her Adonis had not yet returned, which left her to her own devices to explore his childhood home until he did.
With the practiced grace of one who’d studied the Eastern fighting arts for more than a decade, she crept out of the room, her footsteps silent.
As soon as she closed the door, she found herself in a cold, draughty hallway with harsh fluorescent light spilling from the lamps that hung along the walls. Her feet were bare, the cool stone slabs beneath them chilling her to the bone as she made her way down the hall.
Adonis—the man—intrigued her. The home he’d been reared in, even more so. Years ago, she’d been set to marry a man she did not know but had longed to. Adonis, even then, had always been both a blank canvas and a stone wall—hard to read, difficult to know. He’d been impenetrable, but she’d loved him anyway. Her belly twisted into a fierce knot. Deep down in that secret part of herself that was not tainted by revenge, she still loved him.
She’d come to realise that, had come to accept it as she’d desperately called out his name when she’d thought she would die.
To still love a man who had hurt her so deeply was torture. To love a man who sought to take that hurt inside his body, to ease her of her burden, tortured her more. But to not love him—to somehow stop—would be death itself, worse than torture.
Making her way through the winding halls of the sprawling home, she allowed a small smile to cross her face. Adonis had been right. She was a masochist—they both were.
Every corner she turned seemed to lead her into a hallway darker than the last. She had no idea what she was searching for, what propelled her forward, only that this place—Adonis’ former home, a place he hadn’t wanted to return to, the memories of which still haunted him—held the answers to a man who was still as much an enigma to her as he had been the day they’d been introduced at the Winter Cotillion.
She cautiously approached a stairwell. The winding staircase was shrouded in darkness and shadows, the dim fluorescent lamps straining to bring light to the oppressive darkness. Selena wasn’t certain of what urged her upstairs, but she continued along her journey until she was three floors higher.
She stepped into the hallway, which stood in firm opposition to the floor she’d just left, even the stairwell. Brightness assaulted her immediately. The carpet was a fiery red, the tapestries along the walls a vibrant gold with splashes of deep rose.
The soft plush carpet was heavenly against her bare feet and she wriggled her toes, her feet sinking deeper. The entire corridor was immaculate and well maintained, the brilliant strokes of rich colour alluding to a woman’s touch. And not just any woman, but a vivacious, decidedly feminine one with a penchant for outrageousness.
Selena tried the nearest door, surprised to find it locked. She tried the next one, and then the next. She went down the entire hallway, only to find every door locked. Her elation at finding such an oasis of colour among the drabness of the rest of the home soon dissipated.
She turned to leave, but, as she did, she was struck with alarm when she swore she saw a shadow disappear into the stairwell as if its owner had been on its way towards her. She crept closer to the dark stairwell, cautious and alert. She heard nothing, not the hurried pitter-patter of footsteps along stone, not hands sliding across a brass rail. She heard nothing, so she relaxed.
As the tension eased from her body, she glanced over her right shoulder, as if her gaze was being drawn in that direction, independent of its master, and that’s when she glimpsed it.
A portrait, done in the classic, wistful pastels that had been popular over two decades ago. A beautiful woman with smiling eyes stared down at her from the golden framed portrait, as if she had a secret to tell, as if she possessed not a care in the world.
Selena knew the era of the painting because a portrait of her mother had been done in a similar motif and her mother had died more than twenty years ago.
Selena knew the woman in the painting because it was her mother.
“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”
Selena whipped around, her gaze clashing with Adonis’.
“Where did you come from?” she exclaimed. Startled, her heart hammered in her chest. “When did you return?”
She thought of the dark shadow she’d glimpsed earlier and wondered if it had been him, deciding it must have been.
He nodded to a door over his shoulder, at the other end of the hallway.
“There are two entrances, one at each end. I came up that way. I cleared my throat as I approached so as not to startle you, but you must have been so engrossed in the painting that you didn’t hear.”
The painting. She glanced at it again, her eyes riveted upon it.
“Why is there a picture of my mother in your childhood home?”
“Your mother?” He looked between her and the portrait with astonishment, then with what she could only describe as a measure of acceptance when he glimpsed the obvious similarities. Same topaz eyes, dark sienna complexion and ink-black hair. Rosalind Gowen’s cheekbones were higher, her lips fuller, her eyes slanted at the ends, but the stark resemblance was still there.
“Answer me,” she demanded, when Adonis simply stood there staring between her and the portrait in stunned silence.
His gaze finally settled upon her. “I have no answer.”
“What do you mean, you—”
“I think we should return to my chambers and talk.”
“No,” she protested. She would not let him derail her on this point as he seemed adept at doing with all the others. “Tell me why my mother’s picture is here and I will go downstairs with you. It’s that simple.”
His eyes, golden and fathomless, became cold, hard gems, anger and frustration swirling in their depths.
“It is not that simple, Selena—”
“Why not? For once, just tell me the truth.”
“That’s just it. The truth I know is that the woman you think is your mother is mine as well.”
Chapter Eight
Selena was nauseous and disoriented all of a sudden. She reached for Adonis, then thought better of it and shrank away, but her world would not stop spinning. Everything that anchored her, every truth in her fragile, sad life was revealing itself to be a lie.
“Oh, dear God. That’s impossible.” Her stomach lurched. “That would make us…us…”
She couldn’t say the words.
But obviously Adonis could. “Half-siblings?” He frowned. “Highly doubtful. My mother was a drug-addicted whore, my father a petty thief. They both died when I was nine.” He glanced at the painting above them. “Rosalina was my adoptive mother.”
“That is what you called her? Rosalina?”
He nodded. “Rosalina d’une Dieux.”
She bit back a snort, full of contempt and disdain. God’s Rosalina. As if she’d belonged to the man? How arrogant.
“My mother’s name was Rosalind Gowen. She died when I was fourteen.” Selena spoke to Adonis as if somehow her facts of her mother’s life would reveal that this woman, who he claimed to be his mother, was in fact not.
“My brothers and I came to live here when I was eleven. Rosalina died when I was thirteen.” His eyes sobered. “After that everything changed. She was the light that anchored my father’s darkness. He’d only adopted us to make her happy because she could not bear children. With her gone, he had no use for us—so he found a new one— several. ”
She knew of the cruelties of the man known only as Dieu and she ached for the man before her, who’d once been a boy who lost not only the woman he’d loved as a mother, but also the man he’d called his father.
Her empathy for Adonis did not prevent her from working through the deductions that plagued her, all of which suggested such a thing was an improbability. She sifted through her memories. There’d been no funeral. Only a memorial service and her father imparting to her and Serena that their mother had been cremated. She’d never questioned the location of her mother’
s ashes. It had never seemed important until now.
She looked up at the portrait, staring, but not seeing.
I watched my mother die—she died in my arms…
It was as if Adonis knew the moment she’d pieced together the puzzle inside her head because he reached for her, only to curl his hand back at his side when yet again she drew away from him.
“That woman in that painting cannot be my mother,” she began, surprised by how steady her voice was, given her inner turmoil. “The timing of her death and the death of your adoptive mother is off.”
“It would seem that way. But then that would make the anomaly that we apparently shared the same mother a coincidence and we both know it is not.”
Anger infused her skin. “What are you suggesting? That my mother lived some double life?” She swept her hand to encompass the portrait. “Yes, Rosalind and Rosalina are similar names but that means nothing.” she insisted.
“Selena—”
“That picture could be a fake. It means nothing as well.”
His expression was incredulous, furious that she was adamant in ignoring the truth that was so plainly staring them in the face. “I know this must be difficult, but you know none of this is just a coincidence.”
“I never said it was.” She spoke quietly, even as anger and helplessness roiled through her. She was desperate to understand, to make sense of this but she just couldn’t. Just as she could not accept that it was possible her mother was not the woman she’d believed her to be—how else would that portrait be in this home, when one identical to it had also hung in her own for many years. “This may not be a coincidence, but I refuse to jump to conclusions when I do not know the truth.
“Let’s say Rosalind was your mother,” she continued desperately, doggedly. “And Rosalina was a woman surgically altered to look like her.” Her eyes bored into him. “Or maybe it was the other way around—”