Page 9 of Sinful Skulls (Rebel Skull MC #9)

Chapter Nine

Daisy

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, with the folder tucked safely under my pillow.

I’ve spent the entire night analyzing every moment of my life. I knew there was something different about me. I knew it.

A few years ago, my parents both did one of those online DNA tests. I wanted to do one too, but they told me my results would be similar to theirs, and it would be a waste of money. I didn’t think anything of it, because it made sense. Their ancestors were mine.

But how did this guy, my biological father, get my DNA? Did he have access to my medical records? Did he bump into me and steal one of my hairs? The thought makes me shiver.

Dean Baxter said my mother was his student. That in itself is creepy.

I looked him up as soon as I got back to my room. I prayed my search was going to bring up that he was at least a college professor. That would have made this a little easier to wrap my head around. Unfortunately, that’s not what I found. He taught high school.

My roommate’s alarm goes off, and I realize it’s already morning.

Fuck.

She yawns and stretches in her bed. “Another day in paradise,” she says, hopping up to get ready.

“Yeah,” I agree, shoving my blankets off.

“A couple of the girls invited us to go to Versailles with them this weekend. I think it will be fun. Do you want to go?”

“Um, yeah, sure.”

She pauses. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think I’m just struggling with the time change.”

“Ugh, I hear that. Anyway, I’ll tell them we’re in.”

The rest of the day moves at a snail’s pace. My head is so fuzzy, I can’t concentrate.

I wonder if my biological father is the reason I’m here. Did I get the scholarship because Dean Baxter is my uncle? Or maybe my father paid for everything.

Is this why my parents were hesitant about me coming here?

I rub my temples. God, I have so many questions.

After my last class, I mindlessly wander the halls, heading to the Dean’s office. I bump right into him.

He grabs me by my arms. “Whoa there.” He tips my chin. “Are you okay?”

Why does everyone keep asking me that? Do I look that bad?

“Yeah. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Why don’t we head over to my house? It’s just a few blocks away. I’ll fix you a homecooked meal.”

“That’s okay. I have plans …”

“I wanted to show you some of my paintings,” he interrupts.

He’s got me there, because I am curious to see his art. I wonder if it’s like mine.

“Sure,” I say on a sigh, giving in.

He smiles wide. “Let me grab my bag.” He quickly steps inside his office.

I wait patiently in the hall, excited to see his art. Maybe it will help me understand myself a little better.

The dean locks his door and then guides us out of the building. We’re both quiet as we walk to his townhouse. When we get there, I smile. It’s beautiful inside and out.

“We’ll eat first,” he says, leading us toward the kitchen.

He points to a chair at the counter, empties his pockets, and then rolls up his sleeves. I listen to stories about him and his brother while he prepares our meal. “Our parents were artists too,” he tells me.

“So, it’s safe to say it runs in the family,” I joke, finally beginning to relax a little.

“You can say that.” He pours each of us a glass of wine and hands me one. He leans against the counter as we wait for our supper to finish cooking. “I’m really glad you agreed to join me tonight.”

“I guess I’m curious about my biological family.”

He nods. “When we’re here at home, you can call me Henry.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess it would be a little weird to call you Dean Baxter when it’s just the two of us.”

I notice he said here at home like it’s my home, too. But maybe he comes from a family where my home is your home is common.

He continues to fill me in on their childhood. It sounds like they were really close. They were both born here in Paris.

“How did my father end up in the United States?”

“He was trying to run from his true calling.”

“What was that?”

“Art.”

“But you said he was an artist.”

He pushes away from the counter when the timer goes off. “Oh, he was. He left France and became a science teacher, but eventually his appetite for creativity returned.”

We move to the dining room table to eat and continue our conversation.

“I can’t imagine not being an artist. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

He touches my hand. “It’s in your blood.”

I’d be lying if I said his touch didn’t make me feel a certain way. It’s nothing I’ve ever felt before. Henry feels like family, but I don’t know if I can trust it … it’s strange.

“I Googled him last night. He looks exactly like you,” I tell him, dropping my gaze.

He chuckles. “That’s because we’re identical twins.” He places a finger under my chin, lifting my face. “Go ahead, stare at me, touch my face. I’m the closest thing you’ll have to your father,” he says quietly.

Why is it so hard for me to look him in the eye?

“I know you want to. It’s the artist in you.”

I reach out and run my fingers over his face, following the sharp lines of his jaw. “Did he want to keep me?” I ask, dropping my hand abruptly.

“He did, but it just couldn’t be. I want you to know he was really looking forward to meeting you. He loved you.”

My heart squeezes painfully, and I turn away from him.

“It’s true. I have something to show you. Come on.” He stands and waves for me to follow him.

He leads me to a beautiful library. I walk around, looking at the books on his shelves. “It’s amazing in here …”

My words stick in my throat when I notice a painting on the wall. My eyes trail across the room. Oh my god, it’s filled with my artwork. Not the works I’ve shared with the world, but the ones I tossed in the dumpster.

My heart begins to race, and my cheeks heat before turning into flames. This is utterly humiliating.

He walks past me, brushing his fingers lightly over my stomach as he passes. “This one …” Henry runs his hand along the bottom of an elaborate gold frame. “This one is my favorite.”

I’m frozen in place. “How do you have these?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“We come from a wealthy family. He’s had someone watching you from the time you were born.”

I don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.

“It’s a shame you thought these were garbage.” He proceeds to stroll around the room, stopping to admire each disgraceful piece of my soul.

He clasps his hands behind his back. “This one is exquisite. You can see the inner turmoil on her face.” Again, his fingers trace the frame. “Her lips are parted enjoying her ecstasy, but her brows, those are pulled inward as she fights against it.”

His words slow the beat of my heart. He’s not judging the woman in the painting. Henry is reading her mind.

“If you would have painted her simply giving in to the pleasure, it would have turned out like any other piece of exotic art. If you would have painted it with her winning the fight and not enjoying what was being done to her, that would bore the viewer.” He turns to look at me, and I swallow hard.

“But this,” he points with two fingers, “this is real. It’s raw.

It’s reflection. This is how masterpieces are created. ”

He walks toward me and places his hand on my shoulder. “The stuff you’ve been sharing with the world is mediocre at best, and I don’t say that to be mean. It’s only mediocre because it isn’t you. It’s not coming from here.” He presses his hand to my chest.

I don’t know what to say. I’m in shock.

“If you’d like to explore your art in greater depth, meet me again tomorrow.”