Beneath the Sleepless Stars: Cataclysmi, #1

By Charisse Nicolle

Will a love thought lost to the endless gaze of sleepless stars awaken once more?

 

By daylight, I'm a design school grad trying desperately not to end up in the family antiques business. Until an encounter with the seductively suave billionaire-about-town, Linc.

 

By starlight, I now find myself amorously entangled in Linc's fabulous world, stitching cashmere creations and sleeping on silken sheets. Yet the closer we get, the more I am haunted by cryptic dreams of an emerald-eyed stranger warning me that I am courting danger.

 

When a marriage proposal goes spectacularly diamond pear-shaped, not only does it rain all over my dignity, it also unveils an ancient power lying dormant within my blood. (And, I didn't even get to finish dessert).

 

Seeking the truth about my heritage, I pack my bags for London. It is here on the frosty rooftop of a rundown hostel that a misunderstanding with a ladder lands me in the arms of Declan, a beguiling barman with green eyes that could drown your soul. Eyes that I know far too well...

As our shared dreams collide with reality, it awakens an immortal feud that lays claim to the enigmatic Declan's heart.

Now we find ourselves pursued by a Hunter who has returned from the darkness to enact a centuries-old revenge. For Declan is his prey, and I am his prize.

Beneath the endless gaze of sleepless stars, will dreams be all we ever have?

 

♥ A swoonworthy, humorous and unique urban fantasy romance! First in a series, Beneath the Sleepless Stars features a fresh take on sexy immortals, a sassy sidekick, witty banter, unexpected twists plus a slow burn love for the ages ♥

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charisse Nicolle
• Release date: Apr 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201829988

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE ~ RUNNING

Present Day

All I wanted was to look into his eyes.

Just one time...

Or was it just once more?

I couldn’t detangle the fresh feelings mixed with familiar desire.

I was running down a darkened street. Blinding rain lashed at my face, icy pinpricks numbing my cheeks.

I had no tangible concept of why I was running, only that I was attempting to somehow elude the darkness threatening to engulf me.

Then, at last, I caught a glimpse of him in the dim glow cast by a lonely streetlamp. He was tall, and broad, with a black leather jacket that seemed to absorb what little light there was.

He was walking away.

I called out, hoping to be heard above the pelting rain. ‘Wait!’

He continued walking away from me, shoulders hunched against the intensifying storm.

I ran faster, harder, my bare feet slipping along the stony pavement beneath me. I reached for him, struggling to bridge the gap between us, but knowing somehow I never could. ‘Wait, please, wait!’

He was a handful of steps ahead of me when he paused, and turned, his face concealed by the shadows, the night cruelly keeping his secret from me; a secret I was desperate to uncover. I came to a skidding halt, my skin bristling with fear and anticipation.

I sensed he was slipping away. I was desperate. I fought against it, wanting to be stronger than the darkness that sought to draw me into its glacial grasp. I channelled my anger, my fear, surprised when my determination won out. The gathering darkness unexpectedly abated.

I held my breath. He remained before me, like a statue standing watch from a safe distance.

‘Wait? For what?’ His words formed a mist in the shrouds of rain between us. His voice was hard as flint, daring me to ignite his pain, yet it was I who scorched to life at the sound of it. I had yearned to hear him speak, only to find now the sound was so achingly familiar.

I stood drenched and shivering, my black hair clinging to my cheeks in waterlogged waves. I opened my longing lips to whisper, ‘Me.’

For a heartbeat, I could sense his hesitation and I dared to believe; until he squared his shoulders proudly, restoring his steely resolve. ‘You have made your choice.’ The disdain inherent in his every syllable proved the mere arm’s span between us would remain an insurmountable chasm.

I wavered, uncertain, long enough for the dreaded shadows to sense my weakness. A black cloud began seeping into the edges of my vision as I struggled to reinforce my crumbling barriers.

‘What choice?’ I cried, tears mingling with the rain on my face, his words leaving me desolate and afraid.

‘You let yourself be seduced by the darkness, let its inky tendrils swirl so tightly around you that you’ve started to fade away. Tell me, when you look upon the night sky, do you still see the stars?’

‘I don’t understand, what do you mean?’ Reflexively I glanced upward to the sky, but the pummelling rain stung my eyes. When I looked back, he was already walking away. ‘Please, I need you,’ I pleaded, not realising the words were true until I spoke them aloud.

He spun back to face me, fury emanating from his imposing presence, his face remaining a blackened mask. ‘Need me? I grow weary of these endless games. To think she entrusted that fool Gabriel with her life, only to be betrayed like this centuries later. Why don’t you find him instead, I’m sure Gabriel will still do your bidding,’ he said with finality, stepping away, his jacket moulding into the blackness around us.

Terrified by his words, I instinctively reached forward to seize his arm, but as I connected with his well-worn sleeve I was struck by a violent jolt, the force of it flinging me back. I thudded hard against the pavement.

‘Gabriel...’ I whispered, the name triggering something long forgotten in my mind as my lips formed the word.  My futile struggle ended, my vision blurred, and the night closed in around me.

My thoughts were in darkness as I felt the sunlight streaming through the window, warming my eyelids and drawing me slowly from my slumber. I could feel the tangle of sheets wrapped tightly around my legs, encasing me in a one thousand thread count cocoon. I could hear the leaves uplifted by the morning breeze scraping gently against the balcony door glass; could smell the faint scent of salt carried on the air from the ocean outside. And as I lay perfectly still, I could hear him breathing beside me, feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.

He was awake.

I was overcome by a disjointed feeling, as though everything was not as it should be. Something was missing, something was out of place. I kept my eyes firmly shut and breathed in deeply, trying to sort through my flickering thoughts in an attempt to quiet the rising feeling of panic. I was caught in that one moment between sleep and sentience when the body is awakening but the mind is still clinging to a blurred reality.

‘So... who is Gabriel?’

In that instant reality crashed down and overwhelmed me. My eyes snapped open, expecting somehow to see a rainy street, disappointed to see a familiar elegant bedroom. His bedroom. I sat up too fast, making my mind spin even further. I took several sharp breaths hoping oxygen would clear my fuzzy thoughts. A cold sweat formed across my brow and I gripped the sheets tightly for support. A sudden clamouring noise drew my eyes to the bells of the old fashioned alarm clock on the bedside table, sitting beside the perfectly framed photo of Linc hugging me to his side. A shared moment from a ball we had attended last Christmas, the two of us trapped together in a six by four inch gilded bronze rectangle.

And then my eyes fell on Linc himself, propped back against the oversized pillows, looking curiously at me.

‘Good morning my fleur. That must have been quite the nightmare to get you so worked up.’ He frowned. ‘Do you remember it this time?’

Seeing as they were a regular occurrence, Linc was used to me having intense dreams. I often woke bound mummy-like in the sheets, with my hair sticking out in a very unattractive way.

‘Bits and pieces...’ I was staring down at him, his dark ebony eyes twinkling in the light of the morning sun; his perfect bleached white teeth almost reflecting it.

‘So, should I be worried?’ He ran a hand through his impeccably bed tousled, chin length jet black hair. Seriously, whose hair looked that good this early?

‘Worried about what?’ My mouth felt dry and scratchy. As though I’d been screaming...

‘This Gabriel guy?’ At the sound of his name, the pieces all clicked into place. In a rush of emotion I knew what was missing, and I knew what was out of place with these surroundings.

I was.

‘This is a mistake,’ I breathed, as I desperately scrambled my way free of the sheets and dashed toward the bathroom.

‘Sapphira, are you alright? What do you -.’  I locked the door against the sound of his suave voice and grabbed the glass that sat on the vanity, chugging down several mouthfuls of water before sliding onto the shaggy bathroom mat and leaning back against the cupboards.

The leather jacket clad stranger still haunted my mind. I felt certain somehow, that if I’d seen his face I would recognise him at once. If only I’d seen his face! I had been experiencing different iterations of this one dream on and off for the last few months. It was like seeing an exciting trailer for a film that never gets released. I had ached for him to speak to me from the very first dream, and finally now he had. Yet instead of uplifting me like I thought it would, I felt inexplicably shaken. When a voice so contorted with pain warns you that you are surrounded by darkness and fading away, it’s not something you can wake up and forget. Dreams are not meant to leave you feeling like this; they should be about riding off into the sunset with masked heroes named Westley. Either that, or a half-price sale at Prada.

And not to mention this other new matter - who is Gabriel? I tried to breathe steadily but it felt like the walls were closing in around me. I ran my fingers along my throat, seeking reassurance in the angelus custos. I had worn the necklace constantly since that day Cassie and I stumbled upon it, just over a year ago now. At first it was because my dormant antiques gene sensed it was valuable and I hadn’t figured out a safe spot in the flat to stow it. But then something unfathomable had happened. The one time I relented and removed it to avoid clashing with some strands of multi-coloured love beads I was wearing to an 80’s party, the energy it resonated in me had abruptly faded, leaving me feeling somehow... less connected to the world. As I had returned the chain to my neck, I knew, for some undefinable reason, it belonged there - and so I had worn it ever since. Right now though, it felt like a shard of cold ice against my prickling skin. I pulled it up to hang free of my old comfy U2 tee, the one I’d left behind last time I’d stayed here. As I did so, I noticed the angel’s wings had left tiny indents where they had pressed into my flesh all night.

Linc’s knock on the bathroom door broke my reverie. He tried the handle but I knew he wouldn’t be surprised to find it locked. Sometimes I just needed space. My temples were pounding and I felt groggy, from both the lack of peaceful sleep, and the aftereffects of what had turned into a cocktail fuelled night on the town with Cassie. That would teach me for trusting a drink called Under the Kilt, poured by a barman who was clearly not Scottish and had no business knowing what should be under any kilt, least of all mine. My one saving grace was that today was Friday, which meant tomorrow I could sleep in well into the double digit hours. I’d never, ever been a morning person - in stark contrast to Linc, who had usually been for a surf and done a full weights work-out before I even reached for the orange juice on weekends.

Linc cleared his throat. ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but I can’t be late for work. I’ve got the meeting with the board this morning. I would use the spare bathroom, but, well, all my hair products are in this one.’

I debated between saying, You own the company, I’m sure they would forgive you or asking Has anyone ever even seen your hair in its natural un-sculpted state? Instead I stood up and groaned inwardly. ‘Sure thing, I’ll be fast.’ I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and sighed. My normally rosy bee-stung lips were dry and lifeless. My elbow-length, naturally wavy hair hung in black knotted clumps around my pale face (eerily reminiscent of my dream-state). There were shadows beneath my dark blue eyes which betrayed that I’d tossed and turned half the night.

‘Sapphira, are you okay?’ Linc asked tentatively, in that tone guys use when really, they are secretly hoping to avoid any discussion that even remotely involves emotions. Plus, it grated me yet again that he was the only person who adamantly refused to call me Ally (‘isn’t that where the common people go bowling?’ he had once mocked).

Linc was also the person who I just as adamantly refused to fall in love with.

I had tried valiantly to keep Linc and his dark beguiling eyes at arm’s length this last year, determined to focus on getting my fledgling fashion label up and running. I remembered back to the day after that fateful party, when a vintage couture dress in elegant cerise tones had been delivered to me via my mother’s store. Attached was a cream note card embossed with a gold fleur de lis. In true Linc style, the card simply read: You, me, this dress, my bar, tonight, L x. My mother had disapprovingly phoned the flat I shared with Cassie to request I come and collect it.

Upon arriving, I’d fully expected a lecture on my choice of inappropriate suitors. However, my mother’s protests silenced the moment she noticed I was wearing the necklace she’d gone to such great lengths to conceal from me. Her eyes turned glacial when I asked who Aunt Francie actually was.

‘Someone who gave up on this family a long time ago,’ was all she would say. ‘Francie is nothing to me and no one to you.’

So I had stormed out of the store with the priceless dress in tow. (Weeks had gone by before my mother and I had spoken again. Things had remained somewhat tense ever since, and stubbornly neither of us ever mentioned Francie nor the hiding of the necklace).

Spurred on by my mother’s scorn, wanting to get back at her somehow for having ever kept the necklace from me, meant there was no way I was going to decline Linc’s invitation - even though I sensed that no good could ever eventuate from encouraging his arduous advances. The inescapable black hole feeling had coursed through me again.

Expecting an evening of mindless banter and awkward attempts to parry his flirtations, I had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Linc was serious about investing in my designs. His own bespoke business attire was tailored for him in Versailles. With an uncanny eye for fashion, he had over the years gleaned extensive contacts within the industry. True to his word, he had inspected my portfolio, given insightful critiques and arranged meetings with various buyers.

By winter, I had sold my first line of dresses to a well-known local boutique, with an order for two more design ranges in time for spring racing season. Cassie had ecstatically made it her personal mission to build my online following. As a side benefit of once dating a professional photographer, she’d picked up some techniques on how to ‘light a frame to make an outfit truly pop’. He’d unfortunately been picking up quite a bit more on the side, so things had ended before she fully mastered aperture, but I appreciated her efforts nonetheless.

The online followers gradually came rolling in, as did the orders, to the point where I made the leap to quit my day job and throw myself wholeheartedly into the project. I started working round the clock in an empty apartment space Linc had provided within his building. He’d even given me the alarm code to his penthouse, cheekily telling me I could stop by any time I needed ‘a pick-me-up’. One rainy night when I knew he was safely out of town on a business trip, taking the elevator to the top floor to catch some rest had seemed more appealing than fighting off exhaustion to make the drive across seven suburbs to get back home.

At first I’d tried using his couch, which turned out to be rock hard (I often wondered if this was intentional). Instead of guest bedrooms, Linc had a spare room just for his suits, whilst the other was fully equipped as a gym. Given he had no family to speak of and rarely indulged in friendships of any kind, he had no use for spare beds when the only overnight visitors that would ever enter his penthouse would be the random female kind sharing the master suite. So that night, the lure of his feather-topped mattress over the cement couch became too great, and I had guiltily crawled into his bed. A bond of familiarity had grown between us by that stage, to the point where it felt comforting to lie on masses of pillows tinged with traces of his cologne as I drifted off to sleep, tucked up in silken sheets he’d likely imported from Morocco.

I should have known I was starting down a slippery slope. But after waking up feeling like I’d slept on a cloud all night, the temptation of repeating my sneaky sleepovers when he was away travelling became irresistible. Until five months ago, when I’d been caught out. Flying in a day earlier than planned, Linc had arrived home at three am to find me comatose within his liquid silver sheets. Without a word to waken me, he had slipped into the huge bed, lying his body beside mine as he collapsed from jet lag. In the morning, when we’d both awoken groggily in surprise, he’d simply smiled wickedly and remarked, ‘Couch isn’t that good, is it?’

Boundaries continued to be crossed one by one after that as I slowly let my guard fall. Friendly pecks on the cheek turned to a brushing of lips; heady kisses turned to occasional night-long embraces, where he held me like a piece of delicate porcelain, as though one wrong move and what we had would shatter apart and become forever unfixable. Neither of us spoke of it, yet there had long ago come a point when the random females had stopped hanging off of his arm; when I’d become the only person he allowed in his penthouse.

My personal and professional life spectacularly collided the day an online clothing store specialising in hard to source local designers contacted me, seeking exclusive rights to my next range. After my joyous screams had finally subsided, he’d taken us out for a sublime gourmet dinner by the water. Later, in the giddiness of the moment combined with one too many celebratory champagnes, our lips and bodies had moulded together in the back of his blue town car, barely restraining ourselves behind the bulletproof privacy screen until we finally reached his building. After the longest elevator ride in history, we had left a trail of clothing strewn along the hallway floor before tumbling onto the cloud bed - where the final boundary was blissfully crossed. Several times, in fact... Even now I still blush at the memory of discovering first-hand just how completely professional he truly is in everything he does...

From that moment on our late night sleepovers developed into something more; an arrangement that continued well after the last dress had been shipped. As a joke he’d quite taken to calling me his fleur - his flower, a cheeky reminder of the night we met. Yet thankfully, we never spoke of love; Lincoln Scorpeone was not the type of guy you commit your heart to thinking it will never be toyed with, and for reasons I couldn’t explain I continued to keep my deepest feelings guarded around him.

That was until last weekend, when, as I was drifting off to sleep ensconced in his arms, he’d whispered those eight little letters that implied so much, as his lips brushed along my earlobe. I had panicked, left early the next morning whilst he was still asleep, and not returned his calls all week.

My thoughts returned to the present. I sighed and flicked on the shower taps. ‘Yes Linc, I’m... just peachy.’ I half smiled at the code phrase Cassie and I always used to indicate things were actually far from okay.

As I let the warm water refresh my muddled mind, I thought back to that very first encounter with Linc, that momentary flare of danger in his gaze. Cassie had always remained sceptical about him. She was looking out for me and was so sure I was going to wind up hurt. ‘A leopard never changes his spots, and I shall turn him into his very own beastly Belgian floor rug if he breaks my BFF’s heart,’ she had warned.

But so far she needn’t have worried. In fact, at times he was borderline possessive; my independent streak had given rise to a few clashes between us. I tried valiantly not to get drawn into the opulence of his world. There was a platinum credit card with my name on it for, as he put it, ‘industry research’; and the special delivery of a striking couture dress every month, for ‘inspiration’. I knew the lavish attention was his way of proving the strength of his affection, trying to break me down - he enjoyed the challenge I presented by not giving in easily.

I set aside my reminiscing and got ready for another day of work. Today fitting models were booked to enable me to tailor different size dimensions of a new evening gown concept I was exploring. The shower had helped to somewhat brighten my outlook on the day. I poured myself a bowl of his way-too-sugar-free cereal, dolloped a spoonful of his bland organic yoghurt on top, and stepped out onto the oversized balcony of Linc’s penthouse.

Whenever I was here I always missed the bright colours and random mismatched Ikea furniture at the old art deco place I shared with Cassie across town. Linc held an extreme dislike for perching uncomfortably on our sofa bed couch, strewn with my latest design sketches, some singing contest show playing on our teeny television that sometimes needed to be kicked to receive good reception. Everything in Linc’s life had order and structure, and he floundered amongst my beloved chaos. Here, everything was very white - from the sparkly kitchen to the leather sofas to the crisp paint on the walls where priceless paintings hung lifelessly. Linc called it modernist; I called it uninspiring. The only photos he had were, embarrassingly, ones of me. In the living area he’d hung a poster size block mount of my face turned to the side, laughing at something that caught my eye, my hair blowing across my face in the breeze. The image was black and white, except for a single shot of colour: the gold of the angelus custos dangling around my neck. I would think it a stunning picture, were it not of me. Linc wasn’t one for clutter either - claiming I was the first thing he’d ‘gotten attached to in a long, long time’.

Storm clouds were rolling in across the water. Their dark ominous appearance matched my mood. I toyed with the pendant at my neck as I leaned against the railing. By far the best thing about the penthouse was the view - eleven storeys up and overlooking Sydney’s northern beaches. Linc’s company Scorpitalius specialised in wealth management consulting. Even after a year I still wasn’t entirely sure what exactly this entailed - but as Cassie pointed out, it looked very impressive on a business