Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 139076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Near the back of the art gallery, they came to a series of smaller rooms with little gold plaques next to the open doorways, listing the name of the artist whose work was displayed. They’d passed a room dedicated to Monet already. There was a Renoir, a Matisse, and a Cézanne. Outside the room marked Delacroix stood a vampire dressed all in black with wide shoulders and stern expression. Obviously one of Damon’s bodyguards.
Winter and Aiden ignored him completely as they stepped into the small room containing a low marble bench in the center and large paintings on all the walls. Eugène Delacroix was a French painter who was seen as a leader of the Romantic school of art during the nineteenth century. Winter had only a passing awareness of him, but he recognized several of the pieces that filled the room with the lush colors and images.
Delacroix was a very interesting choice for Damon. Winter had to wonder if it was a conscious one or if he was unaware of Delacroix’s work completely.
There was just one man standing in the room, his hands shoved into his pockets as he stood in front of a painting entitled The Death of Sardanapalus, which featured a king reclining on a bold red bed while all his possessions were destroyed around him and his people slaughtered. It was a chilling depiction, and Winter had a feeling it showed more of where Damon’s mind was than anything he might say to them.
Damon was willing to burn everything if he couldn’t get what he wanted.
A chill swept down Winter’s spine and he took a step back, remaining just behind Aiden’s shoulder as he approached the former Ministry member.
“Did you know that I met Delacroix once while I was in Paris?” Damon said by way of greeting.
“I never had the pleasure,” Aiden replied as he stepped up to view the painting beside Damon.
Winter took the opportunity to look at the man who was plotting the demise of his family. There was no denying Damon James was a handsome man. He stood at nearly six feet with stark white hair cut short and a strong, hard jaw that ended in a pointed chin. His nose was almost a knife blade on his face while his eyes were an extraordinary pale blue. It was like they glowed with an insane inner light.
His voice was cool and cultured, but there was something affected about it, as if he were trying to mask more humble beginnings.
In truth, Winter had never paid much attention to it. He’d been more concerned with Damon’s plans and schemes against his family. But there was no missing it now that he was seeing him stand next to Aiden.
His father was a sharp contrast with his alabaster skin and shoulder-length brown hair. His father had warm, golden eyes that reminded Winter of old coins. There was an inner light glowing from his eyes and a smooth patience in his tone.
There was no need to put on affectations. He might not know for sure, but he was confident Aiden was descended from royalty. It was in his regal bearing, cultured speech, and loving heart. It had to be true.
“Delacroix had a calm, reserved manner about him, but there was a fire and passion within him. There was no hiding it in his work. You can see it in the bold colors and the lush lines of his subjects.” Damon waved his hand at the painting, following the subject as she was preparing to have her throat cut by a soldier.
Aiden nodded. “Quite a talented artist.”
Damon smiled, but there was a calculated coldness to his eyes. “I knew we could agree on that. I’ve heard you have a keen eye for art.”
“I enjoy the visual arts, but my heart has always been turned more toward music.”
Damon hummed. “Julianna.” He paused, muscles ticking in his face before he said, “It was a shame to hear of her loss.”
“Yes, no one should be murdered in their own home,” Aiden said. There was only a hint of tightness in his voice, but otherwise he controlled his anger when Winter wanted nothing more than to rip Damon’s throat out with his fingers for even speaking of her. He might have his own personal troubles with Julianna, but she would not be disrespected or devalued by this shit stain.
“But that is the end we are all racing toward, isn’t it?” Damon countered. His face formed a look of concern, but Winter was not convinced. Something in his eyes, possibly, that spoke of other plans and emotions. “And it doesn’t need to be. We can find a common ground despite our disagreements and little squabbles over the past weeks.”
“My sons and I have kept to ourselves. We kept Julianna from other vampires and safeguarded the humans when necessary. We started no wars between clans. And yet, we have been targeted and harassed. Our blood has been spilled.”