Romancing Paris (Warwick Dragons #3) - Milly Taiden Page 0,1

Warwick Banks, the most known financial institution on the world. People loved to think that with all of that wealth at his disposal, Paris had it easy. That he could just waltz up to any gallery and demand that they exhibit his art.

He didn’t want that.

Paris wanted his work to speak for itself. If it wasn’t a real success, he didn’t want it. That’s why he had always—always—used artist names. Draco, his latest artistic persona, was a nod to his dragon. He was a shifter, after all, and he was proud of his heritage, even though it chafed sometimes. He couldn’t just be. There were too many expectations, and too many binds to being a Warwick. It was suffocating.

Having an artistic identity, a fake name, gave him the freedom he needed to truly be himself.

And himself? Well, he was a quiet, reclusive artist, who didn’t want to be in the club to try and find a woman to fuck. Women only complicated things. He had seen what love did. To his parents, then to his brothers. He didn’t want the hassle. He wanted his art and only his art.

His paintings couldn’t necessarily keep him warm, but they sure as hell didn’t complain that he spent too much time in his studio. Even his family and Pascal were always on his case for working so much on his paintings and other pieces.

He didn’t need his focus split even further.

“Stay for another drink,” Pascal pleaded. “Find a nice girl to bring home.” The wink his friend shot him was the final nail in the coffin.

Paris was getting the hell out of the club before he got himself into trouble. He didn’t want a girl. He wanted to go back to his place and finish the painting he had started. It was giving him a serious hard time.

That was an understatement.

Everything had been hard in the past few weeks. His most prolific year was going to end and sputter if he didn’t get his shit together. He couldn’t wait for his muse. He had to keep on keeping on to make his reputation as one of the foremost artists of his generation.

Again.

It was the third time, in his long life, that he was gaining popularity, but this time, he wanted it to be different. He wanted it to be on his own terms and not with all of the artist's rules he had to follow. Paris wanted to create something that wouldn’t just stand the test of time.

He wanted to create something that was new.

Transcendent.

It was 2020, for fuck’s sake.

It was damn well impossible to come up with something entirely fresh. Especially because he had been creating art for a couple hundred years. It was hard not to let himself get stagnant.

“I’m going to leave!” Paris shouted. He was starting to feel a headache. He needed a painkiller and a nap. Then maybe he would be able to tackle his painting.

Pascal rolled his eyes, but turned his back, his attention zeroing in on two young women who were dancing to the beat of the music with such enthusiasm, it made Paris smile at the silliness of it all. Mortals and their booze. He left his friend to his own adventures and made his way to the exit, once again thankful for his height.

Paris was so intent on reaching the door that he didn’t much care who he walked into. The wall of dancing bodies was no concern of his.

“Hey! Watch it,” a soft voice squeaked as he continued on. “Jerk!”

The sound of the voice was so beautiful, it seemed to melt away everything around him. Paris stopped and turned to face whoever had shouted to him.

Everything stilled.

There was no more music.

There was no more crowd.

There was only her.

Mate, his dragon roared.

Paris barely heard the beast over the blood rushing in his head and down south.

All he could do was focus on the beauty in front of him. She was nearly a foot shorter than him, with her long blonde hair curled around her heart-shaped face. Her blue eyes were clear and captivating. The low cut of her top and painted on black jeans stole his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I bump into you?”

She nodded, gesturing to her spilled drink.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

Why are you apologizing? Tell her she is our mate. Kiss her, touch her, do something. We want her. We need her.

“It’s just as well,” she sighed, looking down at her empty glass. “I don’t even like drinking. Or dancing where other