Warrior Fae Trapped: A DDVN Book

by Breene, K. F.

  “I could’ve left you in that tiny dorm room. Remember that place? Peeling paint, weird smell, probably mold in the closets. I could’ve let you huddle up in the corner, with all the other nerds, and listen to someone snoring all night. I could’ve, but I didn’t. Do you know why?”

  “You secretly loathe me?”

  “Because you can be cool. That’s why. You need to have friends, Charity. You need to be reminded to file your nails. And you need to get your ass to a few parties once in a while. Let me help you. Get up, get dressed, and let’s go!”

  Samantha stomped from the room with hips and breasts flying, making a counterargument impossible.

  Charity blew out her breath and leaned heavily against the desk. When Sam had decided the dorm rooms were too filthy, noisy, and cramped for her to contemplate staying there, not to mention the horror of the communal bathroom, she’d cried to her daddy to fix the situation. He had rented this modest house in downtown Santa Cruz. He could’ve afforded something much nicer, but the low-budget accommodations were supposed to teach his daughter a little humility.

  Yeah, right. She’d used his credit card to deck out most of the place with quality and trendy furniture the likes of which Charity had never even touched before, let alone used.

  Surprise of surprises, Sam had asked her assigned roommate, Charity, if she wanted to move with her. And while Charity hadn’t minded the size of the dorm room, its faded and peeling paint, or even the communal shower, she had minded the incessant buzz of conversation and drunken laughter, which had proven a distraction from her studies. Charity had promised her mother that she’d make something of herself, and by God, she would fulfill that promise if she did nothing else in the world.

  Too bad the good fortune came with a price tag.

  Samantha hadn’t only wanted Charity along because she thought she was cool. Not even because she was quiet, respectful, and cooked and cleaned like she was hired help. No, Sam had insisted on Charity’s tenancy because she was fascinated by a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. “Ethiopian poor,” Samantha had said as she glanced over Charity’s belongings, contained neatly in two thirteen-gallon garbage bags. Samantha just could not believe someone could live with empty closets, empty cupboards, a couple of pens, and a computer she got out of the lost and found.

  Ultimately, how she’d gotten here didn’t matter. Charity was in bliss with her luck. She had a bedroom mostly to herself (guests used it, too), a big backyard to practice martial arts (which she’d always been strangely great at), and a clean kitchen.

  Samantha knew all this, of course, and used it as her secret weapon when she really wanted something.

  Damned foul play!

  “Seriously, though,” Charity shouted, picking at her threadbare jeans and putting in a last-ditch effort to get Sam to relent, “I do actually have a test on Thursday. Plus, I don’t drink. How fun could I possibly be?” Into the ensuing silence, she yelled, “Spoiler alert: not fun at all!”

  “There are plenty of other things to do besides drink…” came the disembodied reply.

  “Like what?” Then it dawned on her. “I don’t do drugs, either. Super not fun. Happy with a pocket protector. Best left at home.”

  “Donnie’s going to be there.”

  Charity’s shaking head jerked to a stop. Fizzy excitement she couldn’t help bubbled up her middle.

  First the big guns, then the low blow. That crush was so stupid, too. She couldn’t even talk to the guy. She stammered with a red face every time he said two words to her. God forbid he try for a conversation. He was too pretty for his own good. Too suave by half.

  So why was she now contemplating going to a party she wouldn’t have any fun at, with a girl who would ignore her as soon as they got there, just to see him? She might as well pour paint on her head and label herself a social pariah.

  Sam’s head popped into the doorway. “And he always looks good when he goes to parties,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “Fine, I’ll go,” Charity grumbled, hating herself for uttering the words. Hating Sam for making her.

  She looked down at herself. One knee looked back up through the hole in her jeans. It wasn’t a trendy hole, either. It was a Kmart special hole in a pair of jeans so old they should’ve been shot and buried in the yard.

  “What am I going to wear?” Charity called as Sam ducked away again. “Earlier tonight you called me a hobo tramp.”

  Metallic black material flew into the room. It shimmered and sparkled before landing on Charity’s desk, washing across the surface, and then slinking down to the floor. Samantha popped her head back in, shooting Charity a pointed stare. “Don’t you dare spill anything on it.”

  “Why do all of your going out clothes resemble something a cross-dressing rock star would wear?” Charity mumbled, picking up the dress. “Besides, I can’t wear your clothes. What if I do spill something? I can’t…”

  She cut the sentence short, not wanting to admit that she could barely afford her hoodies, let alone an extravagant, fashionable dress. Some things were too awkward to voice, especially around people who didn’t understand the value of money, or how lucky they were to have it.

  “Hurry up,” Sam called. “We need to be fashionably late, not late-late.”

  Knowing a losing battle when she saw one, Charity lugged herself out of her chair and faced the smudged closet mirror. The shimmery fabric twinkled, light reflecting off the disco-ball material. She put the dress to her body, the fabric cascading over her baggy clothes, and took in her appearance.

  A little color in her pale face would make her look like less of a vampire. A wider set to her flat brown eyes would definitely give her more wow factor. Maybe a curl to her mop of brown hair, or a highlight or two. Did they have time for a nose job?

  She smirked at herself, moving away. Plain but perky. It could certainly be worse.

  A shoe torpedoed into the room, smacking off the edge of the bed. Another shot in as the first was bouncing around the floor.

  “Hurry up!” Sam shouted.

  Charity fingered the dress and sighed. “How bad can this party be?”

  Chapter Three

  “Oh my God, he’s here?” Sam stomped on the brake, making the seatbelt dig into Charity’s pronounced cleavage.

  “I already regret this dress,” Charity mumbled, pushing back in her seat.

  “That is who I think it is, right?” Sam sounded giddy as she leaned heavily over the steering wheel to see through the darkness.

  The one-lane dirt road surrounded by thick redwoods flared out for several feet before a private road branched off to the left. Two cars were parked before the turn-off—a Range Rover and another SUV. Dim light spilled out from the open car doors, illuminating a few people standing around the vehicles. Other lights peeked through the branches of trees beyond. The house clearly sat at some distance.

  “Is that the driveway? Because there’s no more room to park down here. Jeez, why would someone live this far out?” Charity looked through the rear window of the Porsche. They’d traveled a half-hour to Scott’s Valley, a place generally known for wealth, only for GPS to guide them off the two-lane road onto this deathtrap. “I mean, if someone is coming in, and someone else is going out, one of them has to back down this skinny freaking driveway to let the other pass. That’s crazy. Fire season must make these people awfully nervous.”

  “Shh,” Sam said, her gaze rooted to a guy with his foot on the bumper of the expensive SUV. A few people stood around him, all of them looking up at the ladies’ approach.

  “That guy has no respect for fancy cars,” Charity whispered, trying to pick out their various appearances in the moonlight. “I like that.”

  “That is him. That’s Devon!” The lights from the dash highlighted Sam’s smile as she inched along, the Porsche moving impossibly slow. “When I showed him the invite earlier, he didn’t say anything. It makes sense that he’d be invited given…who he is, but he never goes
to parties. I mean, obviously he couldn’t say no to this, right? I wonder why he didn’t say anything, though? He is so incredibly hot. Mm, I love bad boys.”

  Charity leaned forward to try to get a better look at the guy who had so completely captured her roommate’s attention. He projected lazy boredom in a stylized sort of way, as if he’d rolled out of bed, taken a shower, primped, and then used gel and hairspray to emulate the look of someone who’d rolled out of bed. But it was clear from the ripped jeans, raven stubble, and tight white shirt that he was definitely going for a badass vibe. James Dean of the modern age.

  If he’d wandered through Charity’s neighborhood growing up, he’d have gotten his wallet and his shoes stolen.

  “I take back what I said earlier,” she said, her mouth twisting in distaste. “I don’t like anything this guy is selling.”

  Samantha leaned back in her seat, and her boobs popped, cut through with the seatbelt. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “He’s a junior, I think.” She eye-goosed him. “Or maybe a sophomore. He is the available bachelor. Well, you know, if you like the dangerous type…”

  She said it like she might’ve said, “If you like gold…”

  “What sort of danger? Does his dad’s secretary wave a sharp pen around?”

  Sam tsked. “He carries a gun for one, smarty, and so do his friends. For two, he’s in a gang. He’s the leader.”

  “A gang?” Charity couldn’t help the disbelieving smirk.

  She’d seen gang members. Guys so hard their eyes screamed murderer from twenty yards away. Brutal killers with the smarts to stay out of jail. They’d gun down a kid to get even on a drug score.

  This guy was not in a gang.

  Except…

  Her gaze frisked the crew as they drew closer. There weren’t any telltale bulges in the usual places street thugs hid weapons, at least none she could see in the dim light, but the way these guys (and one girl) held themselves, with their shoulders pointed her way, loose and easy, their posture screaming readiness, it was clear they could handle themselves. There’d be one helluva tussle if she met one of them in a dark alley.

  Or a dark, one-lane road deep in the trees…

  “We should keep going, probably,” Charity said.

  Samantha stopped just before the rear end of the Range Rover and rolled down her window, her chest still pushed out prominently, which looked really awkward in the car.

  “This is the opposite of what I said you should do,” Charity murmured.

  “Hey,” Samantha said as Devon straightened up.

  He walked closer with a swagger born of infallible confidence. Broad shoulders sported lean muscle, and his white T-shirt stretched over a flat stomach. He stopped by the car but didn’t lean down toward Sam, something not many men would have passed up, given all the boobage on display.

  “Why are you guys down here?” Samantha said in her sex-kitten voice. “Isn’t the house up there a ways?” She pointed to the private road ahead.

  “It is, yeah,” he replied, sounding unimpressed. “We’re not going. I hear those parties can be pretty dangerous. You should head back.”

  Sam laughed, breathy and overdramatic. She was laying it on a little thick. “Dangerous?” she asked, “For you?” She laughed again. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  His large hand touched down on the side of the door as he finally bent toward the open window. His intense gaze came into view, banging into Samantha. “Dangerous, even for me. I hear those guys spike drinks. If you go, you should stay away from the punch. I’d get out of here, if I were you.”

  Sam leaned toward him, her lips curling in pleasure. “Don’t you want to come and keep me safe?”

  “Good Lord,” Charity murmured, half wanting to cover her face so it was clear she wanted no part of this.

  That was when his gaze darted toward her, as hard as steel and just as ruthless. Wildness lurked in those eyes, coiled and ready to be unleashed.

  Charity’s chest tightened, and a cold trickle worked up her spine. For the second time that day, one word slithered through her thoughts.

  Predator.

  Pretty boy had teeth.

  “You should turn back,” he told Charity directly, his voice rough. “That party is no place for you.” His eyes darted from her clothes to her shoes, which should’ve been hidden by the darkness, then to her wrists and her neck. Her face. A furrow creased his brow as he took in her lack of jewelry and her dusting of makeup. All Sam had lent her was the dress and shoes, asserting that no one would notice or care that Charity didn’t have bling. Given that Charity preferred not to be frosted like a cake, she hadn’t pressed.

  But Samantha had been wrong—this guy noticed, and with his not-so-subtle gaze, he was telling her that she didn’t belong. She was a hobo tramp in an expensive outfit.

  Usually she didn’t care what douchey rich kids thought. She laughed it off. Why not? She was proud of how far she’d come. But for some reason she didn’t understand, his intelligent gaze poked her uncomfortably. It cut through her defenses and jabbed at the core of her. The real her, where she hid her secrets and vulnerabilities. The place without any armor.

  “You should go,” he said again, his tone commanding. Urgent. “Turn around. Trust me. Go home.”

  “Oh my gosh.” Sam brushed his fingers with her own. He flinched back. “You’re so silly.” She pouted, complete with a protruding lower lip. “I RSVPd that I’d go. They’re counting on me.” The pout turned into a sexy smile, and Charity had to applaud Sam’s facial gymnastics. “But I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “They’re not going to change their minds,” one of the guys near the Range Rover said.

  Devon bent once more, looking at Charity. Appealing to her. He must’ve known, hell or high water, Samantha would go to that party, but he clearly thought Charity might heed his warning.

  She didn’t understand why he cared.

  “Why are you skulking around down here if you’re not going?” Charity asked him.

  His stare intensified, and he shifted his weight as though he had something to say.

  “Exactly. He’ll go.” Sam swept her hair from around her shoulders and set it to draping down her right side, giving him a better view for one last look at her breasts. “Won’t you?”

  When he didn’t comment, Sam smiled and wiggled her fingers.

  “See you inside,” she said, and rolled up the window.

  “Maybe we should listen to him,” Charity said as the Porsche passed the small gathering of people. “I mean, he’s camped out down here on Killer’s Highway, warning people away. Clearly he thinks this is a bad scene.”

  Samantha scoffed. “He’s just hanging out with his boys before heading to the party the rest of them weren’t invited to. He’ll go. Anyone invited to this party would be stupid to decline. The host is an internet mogul or something. He’s really well-to-do.”

  That meant insanely rich.

  “Okay, but does this internet mogul have a basement he likes to chain people in? Because swank party or not, that’s not an awesome way to spend a few months, you know?”

  “You are so weird,” Sam said, her gaze flicking to the rearview mirror as she pulled up the drive. “Devon’s probably trying to manipulate us. But you can’t shit a bullshitter.”

  “I don’t think that’s a saying.”

  “He’ll show up, don’t worry. He’ll hang out with his guys, like I said, then bounce and hit the party to pick up the drunk girls.”

  “There’s so much wrong with that statement…”

  “I’m ready for this moment. I will go home with him tonight.”

  “Okay…but you’re my ride.”

  “It’s fine,” Sam said, although Charity wasn’t sure how it was fine.

  Around another blind bend that must’ve resulted in more than a few accidents, Sam rolled to a stop next to a keypad. She reached out of the window and entered the code.

  “You had it memorized
?”

  “Of course,” Sam said.

  A large gate decorated with what looked like arrows shooting into the sky shuddered to a start, swinging open. The road went a ways further, down an incline, before it opened up into a large driveway. High-dollar vehicles were parked along the side, and the house, glowing excessively, lazily stretched out fifty yards in front of them. The house looked so modern that it might pass for a spaceship. A path dotted with flowers wound toward the impressive front entrance nestled between columns, welcoming the wayward traveler—if that traveler happened to own an island and a sweatshop.

  Charity tried to melt into the Porsche’s bucket seat. She resented agreeing with that clown with the Range Rover, but it was clear that she didn’t belong here. This was a dozen steps above Sam, and Sam was a marathon above Charity. Charity would stick out in a very bad way. She said as much.

  “C’mon, you look great,” Sam said, getting out of the car.

  “What millionaire wants to live at the end of that death road, anyway?” Charity climbed out of the car. Her dress pulled down, nearly exposing her breasts, before cinching up, not far from giving a crotch peep show. “Why do guys get to wear clothes that cover their bodies, and fashion tells women to basically go nude? I mean, don’t guys usually have to pay for that pleasure?”

  “You’re so weird,” Sam said again—it was her favorite observation of Charity—and her hips swayed as she made it to the front of the car. “To answer your question, a millionaire that wants privacy.”

  Devon’s urgent tone resurfaced in Charity’s memory. He’d been so adamant that they should turn around.

  “Or maybe a millionaire with a lot of secrets,” she murmured, looking back the way they’d come.

  Chapter Four

  Devon stared after the Porsche as it disappeared around the bend. He should’ve tried harder to get his message across. Samantha never would’ve turned away, but he’d seen the wariness and intelligence in the other lady’s eyes. She had street smarts, he could tell. She might’ve listened. She might’ve let one of his guys take her back to the main road so she could get a cab.