ANGEL’S STORM MAGIC_An Alpha Alien Sci-fi Romance & Fey Paranormal Series by Meg Xuemei X

Author:Meg Xuemei X [X, Meg Xuemei]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-12-09T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THREE

TRANSFORMATION

Kai clears his studio, knowing I wouldn’t visit him while all the bugs, bees, and butterflies are around. He laughs upon hearing the analogy I used to refer to his friends, acquaintances, and models.

“It’s not easy to drive them away,” he says in a resigned voice. “They stick like glue.” But he has to be hard-hearted for my sake.

It feels surreal to step into his studio in person after spending a month watching it from behind the curtains.

I survey the art books on the shelves and extract one. The print quality of the world-known artists’ portfolios is excellent. Kai seems to love French impressionists. I do too, but I’m more into the cost of the books. They even smell expensive. I manage not to let a greedy glint into my eyes, for Kai is watching me. It’s a relief that he can’t read the thoughts coursing through my mind, as some of them aren’t very nice.

Suppressing a need to possess the painter’s art books, I slide the book back onto the shelf and let my eyes stray to the paintings on the walls. At least they’re too big for me to carry away.

“Some of the paintings are my works. Some are my friends’. The portrait of the Tibetan girl you’re looking at is my teacher’s work,” Kai says.

My eyes covet the beauty. I swallow, once again pushing the idea of possessing his books and paintings to the back of my mind. I move to a painting of a forest to distract myself.

I’ve never been to this forest. As the painted world draws me in, a wild wind passes through me. Suddenly I’m inside the forest, awed by its magnificence. I see what Kai saw; I feel what he once felt in a different time and space. Although I’m a street survivor, I naturally understand and appreciate the profound beauty of art, as if that ability was locked away deep within and has just been released from its prison.

“You love art, don’t you?” he says softly. “I’ve been right about you.”

“I’m not like those girls you’re with who are only interested in you.” My voice carries such a note of haughtiness and spite that I throw my hand over my mouth. I didn’t mean to let my thoughts out. He might get the wrong idea that I’m some sort of peeping Tom. The last thing I want is to expose myself as an amateur private eye.

But I’m not wrong about the girls. From my observations, eavesdropping, and lip reading, his models have never paid much attention to his artwork.

“I’m not interested in boys,” I say. Feeling the statement isn’t strong enough, I add viciously, “Any boy!”

He laughs, which sounds more like a bark. “You’re too young to be interested in a boy.”

“I’m not too young!” I declare. “I know what goes between a man and—” I stop abruptly. Flames burst in my cheeks. I recall those erotic romance novels I once smuggled out of the recycling center where my mother worked.

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