32. Ecco
32
ECCO
I sashay onto the red carpet, the flashing cameras igniting the night like a storm of lightning.
Reporters shout my name, their voices a cacophony against the backdrop of chattering onlookers and fans. The scent of expensive perfume hangs heavy in the air as excitement and anticipation rolls off the crowd in waves.
I'm a vision in azure and silver, at least according to Natalie—she never fails to pump me up. The sequins of my gown capture every sparkle of light, and the sleek lines of the dress whisper along my generous curves, clinging in all the right ways. My blue hair cascades down my back in glossy curls, each strand obediently in place, while my violet eyes are ringed with smoky shadows.
Thank the gods for stylists.
"Smile, Ecco!" someone calls, and I comply. I hope nobody can tell that beneath the camera-ready exterior, my heart's doing a frantic drum solo.
Graeme's text has been repeating in my mind all evening. " I can't do this anymore. " It loops in my mind, relentless as the paparazzi's flashes.
I dissect his words over and over, searching for subtext, trying to guess what he means.
Is he breaking up with me? The thought stabs at me, a pain so sharp I nearly stumble in my designer heels. It's a familiar fear, built on disappointment after disappointment.
But no, Graeme is different.
Isn't he?
"Love your work, Ecco! Who are you wearing tonight?" a reporter interjects, breaking my spiraling thoughts.
"Espa Fringe," I reply, voice steady though my world's shaking apart. I straighten my spine, lift my chin—actress and pop star rolled into one—and flash them my best chart-topping grin.
"Can't wait to hear the new single!" another reporter shouts.
"Thanks! You're gonna love it," I say, the words automatic, bright as stage lights.
"Stay strong, girlfriend," I murmur to myself as I stride toward the event's entrance, the contrast of my outward effervescence and inner turmoil a dance I know all too well from these past few weeks.
It's going to be a long night.
What feels like years later, I finally walk into my apartment and kick off my heels, for once relishing the silence of this cavernous place. I pause, the air pressing against me, thick and heavy with anticipation of… something. The usual hum of the city sounds muffled, and my breath seems too loud in the quiet.
"Minx?" My voice sounds small, hollow. There's no answering jingle of her collar, no excited meow or flashing neon green as she pounces on mysterious adversaries that only she can see.
My heart rate ticks up. This isn't right. She's always here at the door, ready for a midnight snack, whenever I get in this late.
I check the usual nap spots—under the couch, on the window sill, on top of the refrigerator—but nothing.
The apartment is suddenly too big, every shadow a hiding spot for danger. The old fear from when I thought I had a nefarious stalker rears back up.
My palms are slick as I head down the hall toward the bedrooms, hoping I'll laugh this off, find her curled up on my bed, paws twitching as she chases mice in her dreams.
Pausing at the door, I brace myself for... I don't know what.
But when the door opens, it's as if it's into a fairytale.
"Whoa." The word slips out, a whisper lost among blooms and candlelight. The scent of roses and lilies wraps around me, sweet and heady, chasing away the remnants of unease.
And there he is—Graeme, my gargoyle protector, my love. His eyes reflect the flickering candles, and there's an openness in his gaze that makes my chest ache.
The normally muted room is alive with color, petals strewn across the floor, bouquets bursting from vases on every surface. Candles adorn every surface, twinkling like the fairy lights in Elderberry Falls.
Everything blurs at the edges, reality turning soft and dreamlike. Is this real? Or am I caught in some sort of waking dream?
Then, laughter bubbles up from my chest because there, nestled among the sheets of my bed, is Minx. A crown of tiny flowers sits askew on her fuzzy head, making her look like a creature from a storybook—a mischievous fairy queen surveying her court.
"Minx, you traitor," I say with feigned indignation, though relief floods through me at the sight of her. She blinks lazily, entirely unmoved by my concern.
Graeme steps toward me and I'm drawn in, unable to resist the pull of his presence. My heart hammers, not with fear now, but with something much more dangerous—hope.
My pulse surges as Graeme's large, cool hands close over mine. He pulls me closer and I can barely catch my breath.
"You were right," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "About my uncle, about the clan. There's nothing for me there, not anymore." His eyes, glowing in the candlelight, lock onto mine with an intensity that anchors me to the spot.
"I told my uncle that I had to leave. That I have another responsibility now, something precious to me that needs guarding far more than some dusty old mountain pass." His words wrap around me like a vow, a promise etched in stone.
"Don't ever leave me again," I manage to say, though it comes out more like a plea than a command.
Graeme's laughter is a rich, joyous sound that warms me to my core. "Never," he promises, and his arms envelop me, pulling me against the solid fortress of his body.
When his lips meet mine, it's a collision of worlds—the softness of siren song against the unyielding strength of a gargoyle's devotion.
We fall together onto the bed, a whirlwind of limbs and scattered petals. Minx darts off with a startled meow, abandoning her fairy queen throne.
I hardly notice, lost in the sensation of Graeme's hands exploring, claiming, reacquainting themselves with every inch of me. The flowers cushion our descent, their perfume mingling with the scent of us, creating a heady, intoxicating blend that makes my head spin.
I arch into his touch, a moan slipping from my lips as he worships my body with his hands and mouth, as he claims me inside and out. It's reverence in its purest form—every caress a prayer, every kiss an offering.
Afterwards, my fingers dance along the contours of Graeme's stony face. He's solid beneath me, his chest a grounding rhythm with each measured breath he takes. The quiet of the room hums around us, filled only by the soft symphony of our intertwined breathing.
"I think we should move in together," I whisper into the silence, my voice barely louder than the beat of my own heart.
Graeme hums, a low vibration that resonates through his granite form and into my bones. His hand rises to brush a strand of my blue hair away from my face, lingering on my cheek in a stroke so full of tenderness it makes me want to cry. Or maybe sing. Maybe both.
"Sounds like a plan," he replies simply, the gravelly texture of his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket.
I prop myself up on one elbow, enthusiasm igniting in my chest. "And I'm thinking a change of neighborhood might be in order," I say with a smile.