Read Online Goddess Rising by Alexi Lawless - Free Book Online Page B

across the student center. She was headed toward a dark-haired young boy who stood, bouncing, clearly thrilled to see her.
    “The journalist is setting up over there by the couches,” Professor Purcell’s TA was saying. “Hey, Wes? You listening?”
    He nodded distractedly, eyes fixed on the girl in front of him. He watched as the boy gripped her hand, pulling her over to the photograph Wes had taken of her.
    “The reporter will take a photo of you unless you want to submit a head shot of your own—”
    “Thanks,” Wes said, cutting the TA off. “I think I’ve got it. Would you excuse me a moment?”
    “But—”
    Wes strode across the room, right toward his muse. As he neared her, he heard the boy say, “And it won an award—see? Did you pose for the picture?”
    Wes watched her lean in, looking closely at the picture he’d taken of her, as if she were trying to discern if it was her or not.
    “I’m afraid she didn’t,” Wes said from behind them.
    Startled, the girl glanced up, and Wes watched her eyes widen in what seemed like recognition. Wes felt like a magnet snapped into place, the attraction between them nearly kinetic. If he’d thought the girl was breathtaking from afar, she was an absolute stunner up close. He admonished himself for staring, though he couldn’t seem to help himself.
    “I’m glad you’re here,” he told her with feeling. “I meant to thank you for the shot. It’s getting published in the paper tomorrow.”
    He watched with fascination as surprise, then bewilderment, chased themselves across her features.
    She glanced at the photo again. “It’s a beautiful picture, but are you sure it’s me?”
    “Absolutely,” he answered readily. “You were the most interesting subject I’d seen all afternoon.”
    A distinguished-looking man stepped toward them, clearly their father. Wes instantly saw the family resemblance in the sharp blades of their cheekbones and the hellfire dark eyes. They had Native American blood; that was for certain. But there was something else to his children’s features; some additional element was softening the angles, making them more clement, a shade subtler than this older man’s harshly-defined face.
    “What’s this about you being in a photo?” the man asked, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulders as he kissed her brow gently. Wes watched high color hit the girl’s cheeks, and he caught the bruise she’d tried to hide on her cheekbone. Wes wondered immediately who had hurt her.
    His eyes returned to her father.
    “I should introduce myself,” Wes said, watching the man. “I’m Wes. Wes Elliott. I’m a junior here, majoring in communication and journalism,” he told Sam’s father in a good approximation of affability, though he wondered briefly if he’d been the one to mark his daughter. The very idea of it got his back up, and he unwillingly recalled his own mother’s bruises before his good-for-nothing father finally skipped out.
    “Robert Wyatt,” the man responded, his handshake firm, his gaze direct and unflinching. Wes noted the expensive watch, congruous with the dress clothes but an odd contrast to the obvious callouses on the man’s hand. Wes understood immediately that this man had come by those callouses honestly, despite the obvious wealth.
    Robert Wyatt radiated the personal confidence and powerful demeanor of a self-made man—and the inquisitive acuity of a protective father. The same intuition told him Robert wasn’t responsible for the mark on his daughter’s face. Robert’s grip tightened fractionally around Wes’s hand just before he released him, and Wes felt like he’d been granted some sort of reprieve.
    “This is my son, Ryland, and my daughter, Samantha,” Robert Wyatt said. “Sam’s a sophomore here,” he added with a distinct note of pride in his voice.
    Wes’s gaze rested on her. Samantha . The name suited her. “How have I not seen you around before?” he asked her.
    Samantha