by C C Dowling
My lips tilt up. I don’t feel even a little bad for thinking that’s funny. Especially now that I know Dhamyan hasn’t been completely honest with the Council in regards to his daughter. Dragons don’t get pregnant. Not full dragons, anyway. They lay eggs.
“No, I’m not your father. But as long as I’m on this assignment, I am your protector.”
Her tongue flicks between pursed lips. I stifle a groan and the impulse to lick them, too. “Is that all I am? An assignment?”
Something about the way she says it is like a unicorn horn through the stomach. “That’s all our kind is allowed to be.” If she only knew how much I wish we could be more.
She flinches as if I hit her. “What does that mean?”
I step out of the closet to put distance between us. Being in a closet full of her clothes, all I could think about was how to get hers off. I lean against the wall and cross my arms. She should know our rules if she’s expected to live by them.
“Dragons are from the Shadow Lands, as I’ve said. That means you’re a Dharkling. Fae are from the Undying Lands. We are Lightlings. Any relationship other than a political or professional one is forbidden between our kinds.”
“That’s shit,” she says, her stance mirroring mine.
I never thought I’d admit it, but I’m starting to agree.
“Is that why you pushed me away? When I kissed you earlier?” she asks.
The noble part of me says that I should lie. That I should tell her I pushed her away because I’m not interested. Protect her. Protect me. I nod yes instead. Guess I’m not as noble as I thought.
She crosses the space between us, her hips swaying with every step. When she reaches me, she presses her length against mine. I wish she wouldn’t, even as the hardness between my legs proves me a liar.
Her fingers flutter over my chest, then stroke my arms. My biceps flex at her touch, straining with my need to be inside her. My mind’s at war. Take what I want, what something inside says is mine, or uphold the vows of duty and honor that have defined me since the day I became Called.
“You know what I think?” she asks, her eyes glowing in a way that makes me want to push her down on the bed and take her.
“I bet I can guess.” My arms snake around her, though I swear I never told them to. Wrapping her hand around the back of my neck, she pulls herself up, her legs straddling my hips as if she’s climbing me, like I’m foreign soil to be conquered.
With her eyes now level with mine, and her lips a few torturous inches away, she gives me her answer. “Sounds like a bunch of rules and restrictions.”
She digs her fingers into the skin at the nape of my neck. I sound my pleasure at the temporary pain. Dropping my glamour, I let her feel the full length of my hair, not the shaved head of my human illusion. There’s something deeply satisfying about her seeing me as I truly am. As a warrior, the lines of battle carved into my skin with the melted blades of fallen enemies.
Her eyes fall to the intricate talisman of a Called. Her finger traces the pattern from my collarbone to navel. White-hot passion pulses through me, engorging me to painful lengths. If she keeps this up, no amount of vows, or promises, or threats will keep me away from her.
“Wanna know what I do about rules?” she says.
I know better than to answer. I don’t trust my words not to betray me.
Bringing her lips to my ear, she bites the lobe, drawing blood. “I break them.”
Something inside me almost breaks, and it’s all I can do to hold on to the semblance of who I thought I once was. Her hands explore my chest, caressing every crease and muscle. My body is hard earned, forged in the heat of battle. It’s tempered by the heat of other things.
My hands cup her ass and squeeze, pulling her legs further apart, pulling her into me. Inch by inch, every part of me bound by the Council of the Nine comes undone.
She doesn’t hesitate at the waistband of my trousers. She plunges her hand lower, taking my hardness in her grip. I growl again, this time through gritted teeth, as every muscle in my stomach and thighs clenches and unclenches with each stroke.
I swear in Faeryn, and offer up a prayer to the Great Mother for the strength to resist her. So far, no answer.
She brings her mouth dangerously close to mine, smirk and all, like she’s so damn proud of herself. It takes thousands of years of trained patience and discipline not to kiss that look off her face. Not to tear every piece of fabric from her body. Not to shove my cock deep inside, to feel her from every angle, to claim her. Not to break our laws, my vows, and damn us both.
That thought is worse than a cold shower. More than that, there’s no way out of this situation that isn’t going to suck. She’s hurting from everything that’s happened. I’m a distraction. I know that. Part of me doesn’t care. Part of me needs a distraction, too. There’s no way that what I’m about to do won’t feel like rejection. Maybe I should hurt her. Push her away. For both our sakes.
“Dhru.” I grab her wrist, the one attached to the hand around my cock, and pull it from my pants. “I don’t want you.” The lie tastes like death in my mouth. “Get off me.”
A flicker of something worse than pain passes through her eyes. Only for a second, before she shoves it down like everything else. No wonder she’s addicted to drugs and alcohol. They’re the only things in this world strong enough to dull what she feels. They’ll never be enough. Not for her. Not for a dragon. Dragons experience emotions on a cellular level, and those emotions drive their impulses and fears. No other race is capable of experiencing life in such an excruciating way.
Except Fae.
Mental note: Fae are giant dicks. Who have giant dicks.
Goddamn. I don’t know what they feed their Called in the Undying Lands, but I’ve never met a man on Earth half the man Creed is. And I’ve known lots of men.
Still, I fucking hate him. I hate him for making me want him, and I hate him more for turning me down. I doubly hate that he knows my father and knows about my past. And I triple hate that I now know about dragons and Fae, and fuck knows what else.
Sure, somewhere inside, I know that none of this is his fault. Don’t kill the messenger, blah, blah, blah. But he’s here, and it’s so easy to blame him for every shit thing in my life. I have tons of practice in the blame game.
Get off me. His words bang around in my chest. I refuse to let them hurt. I’ve had enough hurt for one day. My ego wants to rage, and scream, and kick him out. Tell him I never want to see him again. But the beast inside, the thing underneath the beast, doesn’t want him to go. Never wants him to go. I’m beginning to hate that bitch.
Tough shit, sweetheart. He doesn’t want you, I remind her of Creed’s lie. And it is a lie. A big fat one. Like his big fat one.
I’m a master liar. I know a lie when I hear one. Creed sucks at them. Goody Two-Shoes probably doesn’t get much practice. I mean his dick, for sure, as well as every other inch of him, practically screamed “FUCK ME!” despite what his mouth said. Maybe that’s the problem. His brain cells were dying of hypoxia while his blood was occupied elsewhere.
Whatever. If he wants to play this game, I’ll play. He can be the good little soldier who always follows the rules and lives by a code. Snore. If I have to live in this fucked-up life, and turn into a dragon, and deal with a deadbeat dad, I damn sure ain’t going to let it be boring.
I shrug, then climb off his massive frame, sliding right down his hard-ass erection, and feign indifference. “Fine. Your loss.” I turn toward the closet and grab the bottom of my shirt. With one swift movement, it’s over my head. With another, my jeans are on the floor, along with my—shit, must’ve left my underwear at Becca’s. Oh well.
I bend over to get my work shirt off my closet floor, giving fairy-boy an eyeful. He says something in another language, then in English says, “W-What are you doing?” He stutters. Not such a badass, warrior rule-follower now, is he?
“Getting changed for work.” Shifting my hips, I ang
le my head so I can see him around my knees. He doesn’t even notice. His eyes are glued to my girly bits. Doesn’t fucking want me, my back door.
If I have to suffer about Helen, about not being human, about not getting what I want, then I’ll make good and damn sure he suffers with me. Misery loves company, and this bitch likes to throw a party.
“Dhru, I’m not taking you to work. I’m taking you to your father. You don’t understand how dangerous it is for you to be here now that the spell hiding you is almost gone.”
“Dangerous for you,” I mumble. Standing to face him, I give him the full frontal. “I have a shift in less than an hour, and I’m not leaving Lyra to find a last-minute replacement. Getting me to my father is important to you. Working is important to me. Deal with it.”
For some reason, Thursdays are our busiest night. I can’t ditch work, not after everything Lyra’s done for me. I need the money—now, more than ever. Especially if things don’t work out with Daddy Dearest, not that he’s ever provided anything other than deep-seated abandonment issues.
My fists curl around whatever scrap of clothing is in my hand. “This is my life. I’ll do whatever I goddamn please with it. No Called fairy, or pompous dragon diplomat, gets to tell me what to do.”
His shoulders tense at the word fairy. “Spoken like a true, stuck-up, self-important dragon,” he mumbles, but my hearing’s excellent. “Why don’t you put some clothes on and we can talk about this?”
“Nothing to discuss. I’m going to work. End. Of. Story. You can get the fuck out if my nakedness offends you.” I stick my ass back in the air to rummage around for shorts that don’t smell like a distillery, or vomit. “Though, I can’t officially kick you out, since this is no longer my room.”
The next time I walk out Helen’s door, it’ll be for good. Sure, I’ve walked out lots before, but I always knew I had a place to come back to. Now, I’m on my own. Pain blooms like a blood rose in the place my heart should be. Well, a human heart. Fuck if I know where a dragon heart lies.
Creed moves behind me. I tense, ready for him to grab me, throw me on the bed, and fuck me six ways to Sunday. Or maybe straight-up kidnap me, over-his-shoulder caveman-style, and drag me to my father kicking and screaming. And naked.
Instead, my bedroom door clicks shut.
My ego perks right the hell on up. He just walked out on me, on my bare ass in the air. There’s only one appropriate response to that.
Challenge accepted, motherfucker.
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and have on clothes that mostly pass the sniff test. Would’ve only taken me fifteen, but I needed to rub one off. Thinking about Creed’s ginormous cock put an ache between my thighs. I’d be worthless tonight if I didn’t do something about it, and since Creed wasn’t offering, good ole Right Hand Rita had to do.
Besides, I’m already on thin ice with my boss, so I need to be at my best. Sure, bartending jobs are a dime a dozen in Vegas. But no other bar splits profits on the night’s take and lets you keep your own tips. Lyra takes care of her girls, and we take care of her business. Well, the other girls do. I mostly try not to fuck up too bad.
Stripping for Lyra’s private clientele is where the real money’s at. She’s only ever asked me to fill in once. Some CEO-type had a fetish for Asian chicks. She swore I wouldn’t have to fuck him, and the gig paid two grand, so I’d agreed. I’d been up for thirty-four hours on the hard stuff when she called. I’d shown up late, definitely wasn’t sober, and wasn’t to the client’s liking.
Apparently, Vietnamese wasn’t his flavor. He preferred his Asians meek, submissive, and Japanese. The innocent school-girl thing. I have too many hard edges for innocence.
“Newsflash, asshole. I’m a person, not a prejudice,” I’d said after I grabbed him by his very expensive shirt. At least, that’s probably what I’d said. It was slurred and all jumbled together, but my point was there. I thought Lyra would kill me. She didn’t, and for some crazy-ass reason, she didn’t fire me. She’s also never asked me to strip again.
Creed’s eyes widen, and his luscious lips press into a thin line when I saunter out of the house with nothing more than my work uniform, my purse, and a duffle bag. Turns out, most of the shit I own isn’t that important. Or was Helen’s.
I breathe a sigh of relief when it doesn’t hurt to think about her. I’d taken a few minutes in the shower to cry, but I thought I’d fall apart the moment Helen’s words became reality. Turns out, I’ve never felt such a sense of relief. I’ve been getting over Helen, over what we lost, for the better part of a year. She’s right. It’s past time to move on.
Turning to face the house one last time, I smile. Actually fucking smile. When I lived here, I suffocated under the memory of what happened to me. To us. Now that I’m leaving, I have the space to remember the good stuff, too. There was lots of good.
Flinging the passenger door on Creed’s Charger open, I stuff my bag in the back and stand to face him. I can barely see over the roof of the car. He towers over it.
“You’re seriously wearing that? To work?” Creed says with what he probably thought would be an emotionless tone. He failed.
“What?” I stick my hand in my bra to perk up the girls, and pull the already ridiculously low-cut tank down even further. “Should I wear less?”
Creed rolls his eyes. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Big, badass warrior throwing a hissy over my clothes. Get with the times, Grandma.
“Dhru, there isn’t any less you could wear.”
I raise my eyebrows. Is he really fucking challenging me?
As if he can read my mind, he holds his hand out. “I’m not daring you to try. It’s just, those shorts. Where’s the rest of them? I can see half your ass. And your tank top. You have it knotted so high up your stomach, the bottom of your bra shows.”
I laugh, because I’m sick, and perverted, and am enjoying this way too much. “It’s Vegas, baby. A hundred degrees even when the sun goes down, and I work at a strip club. What did you expect me to wear?”
“Nightingale’s is more than a strip club,” he says, all defensive and pissy. Why the hell should that strike a nerve?
“So you’ve been? I thought you were a duty- and honor-ridden stick-in-the-mud who didn’t know the meaning of fun. Jesus, you could be a thousand-year-old virgin for all I know.” That thought’s too ridiculous to actually entertain—there’s zero chance he has a dick like that and has never used it—but I know my comment will trigger him. If I can’t ride his cock, I’ll ride his nerves.
His brow scrunches together and his jaw muscle ticks. Yes! He’ll take the ego bait in three . . . two . . . one . . .
“Called soldiers are allowed to fuck,” he says. I open my mouth to lay into him about why he wouldn’t with me, but he doesn’t give me the chance. “Other Lightlings. The only real restriction is that I can’t be Destined.”
“Destined?” I say. That sounds like some bullshit soulmate thing that’s nothing but heartbreak and responsibility.
He rests his hand on the hood of the car. In this heat, his skin should burn. It doesn’t. Something behind his eyes burns instead. “Destiny is what happens when two halves of one soul, split at its creation and placed into two separate beings, find each other and become whole again.”
Yep. I was right. Soulmate bullshit. “That’s stupid. Why bother splitting a soul in the first place?”
“Because a soul has things it needs to learn before it can become whole. Two beings provide two different experiences and perspectives.”
I guess. But that sounds like a shit-ton of pain to go through to be something it already was. “So, you’re saying that everyone walking around here is only half a person?” That would explain so much about what’s wrong with the world.
Creed shakes his head. “Only beings from the Outer Realms are soul-split. Beings from the Inner Realms, like Earth, have a different, more primitive kind of soul. Or no soul at all.”
Ah, that actually explains t
hings better. Then a thought strikes me, one that makes me see Creed as a whole new level of bastard. “If you’re Called, and can’t be Destined, what happens to the poor asshole housing the other half of your soul?”
“It stays a half. In this lifetime, at least.” Guilt creases the hard lines of his face. It’s an emotion I know well, even if I pretend I don’t. “Theoretically, if I were to ever find my Destined, I’d be relieved of duty.”
“Huh. That doesn’t sound so bad.” Here I was, thinking all hellfire, and brimstone, and off-with-his-head type shit.
Creed grimaces. “To be Called is considered the highest honor for a Fae. Not many of us are granted the title. To have it taken away would ruin me. I’d be an oathbreaker. I’d be shunned. Effectively exiled. It would be worse than having my testicles removed to wear around my neck. Worse than being beheaded for fornicating with a Dharkling.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I know I didn’t hear him right. Not about the testicles thing, either. “Hold the fuck up.” Tossing my purse on the passenger seat, I walk around to his side of the car and look up into his face. Jesus, he’s tall. “You’re saying that if you fuck me, you get beheaded?”
He flinches, and his jaw works overtime. He can’t look at me when he gives his answer. “No. I’m saying we both would.”
Holy fucking fairy-on-a-stick. Just when I’d started to believe that maybe Creed prefers dicks over chicks, he drops this bomb. That’s why he lied about wanting me. He does. If his hard cock was any indication, he wants me big time. I’ve been torturing him. I still am, and he hasn’t touched me. That’s serious next-level, white-knight shit. No wonder he’s all duty and honor. It isn’t because he’s boring. It’s because he doesn’t want to see me without a head.
Suddenly, I hate this Council and their rules even more. I’ve managed to fuck up my own life pretty severely. Let’s see what I can do to destabilize an ancient conglomeration of pretentious jackasses who think they get to control who people love. Or at least who they fuck.