by C C Dowling
I put my hand on Creed’s arm, because, well, I like touching him. Screw this fucking Council and their archaic, backward-ass system. “I’d like to see them fucking try to take my head.”
Creed sighs and drops a hand to my forehead, just above my eye. He brushes away the bangs I’ve let grow too long. “They’d try, and they’d succeed.”
The deep dark of his eyes locks on mine. Behind them is an abyss of sadness. A never-ending well of disappointment. They’re the eyes of someone who sees people at their most desperate and is forced to bring them to justice anyway. But there’s hope in there, too. Compassion. It’s Creed’s saving grace. At least one of us has something worth saving.
His thumb traces along my cheekbone. My lips part in want and need. The space between my thighs coils tight. I know that if I push him hard enough, eventually he’ll crack. For what purpose, though? To what end? To feed my ego? To win some imaginary game where the loser forfeits his head and everything he cares about?
Fuck. As much as I want him, even I’m not that selfish of a bitch.
“Come on,” I say, breaking the moment. Pulling away from him, I walk back to the passenger side of the car, a lot less strut in my step. “We should go. I don’t want to be late for my last night of work. I promise, after my shift, you can take me to my father.”
I pull the Charger into the last spot in the undersized staff parking lot. Nightingale’s, located near the Gateway District, is a hole-in-the-wall between a pawn shop and a check-cashing joint.
As soon as I stop, Dhru slings her bag over her shoulder and hops out of the car, not giving me a chance to say another word. I’d argued with her the whole way here. Fucking stubborn dragon. When I’d tried to explain how her safety is more important than a job, that her father has enemies everywhere who are more than willing to assassinate her, all I got was a middle finger and a year’s worth of curse words.
Staring at my crotch, it’s my turn to curse. There’s definitely something wrong with me. I’ve been hard since the first fuck out of her mouth.
I give myself a minute to pull my shit together before joining her. My overpowering desire doesn’t make sense. I’ve been attracted to women before. Granted, they were all women I could have, but the fact that she’s forbidden shouldn’t drive me to be reckless. I’m not the rule-breaking type. Until now, says the brain between my legs.
Dhru pulls her shirt down in the front and hikes her shorts up even further, then combs her fingers through her short hair, using the tinted windows as a giant mirror.
By all the Fae, lesser and greater, I swear she’ll be the death of me. Of us both.
I adjust my crotch, again—because damn if I’m not in a constant state of arousal around her—and push open my door. The perfume that’s unmistakably Vegas hits me like a gauntlet to the face. Broken bottles, crumpled up newspaper, and superheated piss and vomit coat the alley behind the bar.
The heat is what I hate most—guess that’s what most people hate—but the physical temperature doesn’t bother me the way it does the humans and the more delicate Outer Realm visitors. No, what I hate is how the sweltering air makes everything smell like heated, stale rot.
Dhru walks over to a graffiti-covered, half-rusted metal door. “This is the employee entrance. I need to know if you’re staying or taking off so I can grab my duffel.”
I click the button on the keyring that locks the doors and sets the alarm, and stride over to where Dhru is. I love technology. It’s not something we have in the Undying Lands. Too much magick in the air, I suppose.
When I reach her, I cross my arms and answer. “You’re good. I’m not going anywhere.”
I want to say that I’m not letting her out of my sight, but that’s not true. In that outfit, I won’t be able to look at her much at all.
Dhru knocks on the door. Three times. A pause. Then two more. It creaks open. A large man, with muscles threatening to rip the sleeves off his uniform, stands in the doorway. His bulk is impressive. For a Satyr. He’s wearing human legs instead of goat, but I’d know his kind anywhere. Their musk perfumes the air, making most Outer Realmers, and all humans, drunk on lust. Lyra’s a genius for having Satyrs work her doors.
“Hey, Max,” Dhru says. He grunts. “Lyra in?”
“Yeah, and she’s in a mood.” He gives Dhru a once-over. I stop the jealous rumble in my chest that wants to claim Dhru as mine. It’s the same annoying behavior that makes me avoid Destined couples. What’s wrong with me?
“Great,” Dhru says under her breath. “That’s the opposite of what we need. Another moody bitch.”
Max shakes his head before opening the door. “I like you, Dhru. You’re crazy, and you don’t let anyone give you shit. Try not to get fired.”
She throws him a half-assed salute and ducks under his arm. I move to follow her, without ducking. “Employees only.” Max’s posture says that he means business, but he doesn’t understand what kind of company he’s in.
I gather the magick surrounding me like a second skin, ready to drop it to show Max just who he’s dealing with, but I don’t get the chance. Dhru touches his bicep, and all his hard lines soften.
Murderous rage burns the lining of my veins. Or maybe it’s jealousy. The way he looks at her, it’s as if he knows her intimately. Wouldn’t surprise me. Dragons and Satyrs are both Dharklings. Both have sex drives that put the Fae’s to shame. By sheer force of will, I resist pulling his heart from his chest with my bare hands.
“He’s with me,” she says to Max. Turning to face me, she adds, “He won’t cause any trouble. Promise.” She says the last word like a threat. I know better than to be trouble in Lyra’s establishment, Dhru’s warning or not.
The door closes behind us with a thump. Max hasn’t uncrossed his arms. It’s entirely likely that he won’t. Shaking my head, I follow Dhru to the bar. It’s mostly empty, save for a few regulars and the staff getting ready for the busy night shift. Come to think of it, I’ve never been here when it hasn’t been packed. I’m usually not in the main area, either.
My eyes snake along the dance floor to the red curtain in the back. “Don’t even think about it,” Dhru says, resting her hand on my arm. “The back room’s for VIPs, and only by special invite from the owner. Hell, even I’ve only been back there once, and I’ve worked here almost a year.”
I rub my chin, trying to hide a smile. I wonder what she’d say if I told her that I’ve been back there lots of times. That there’s a reason she isn’t allowed behind the curtain—not that the reason matters anymore.
Dhru tugs me toward an empty barstool and practically pushes me into it. She isn’t strong enough to force me to do anything, but there’s something perversely satisfying about letting her. Damn. I really need to stop thinking with my dick. Especially around her.
“Stay,” she commands. I’m not sure if I should bark or not. “I have to put my things in the back and clock in. If anyone comes by and asks you who the fuck you are—because they will—tell them you’re with me. Be back in a minute.”
Throwing her purse over her shoulder, Dhru saunters toward a door marked Employees Only, the bottom part of her ass hanging out of her shorts. I cut my eyes to the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at her. Max smirks when my eyes meet his. Damn Satyrs. If there’s anything they know, it’s desire.
Fuck. This is going to be a long night.
Dhru
I push through the door to Lyra’s office and throw my bag into one of the lockers lining the wall opposite her desk. No one who works here is enough of an asshole to steal from other employees. Mostly. Every establishment gets a few.
“You’re late.” Lyra’s voice makes me jump.
“Fuck!” I slam the locker door with one hand and clutch at my chest with the other, willing my heart to calm the hell down. “I didn’t see you. You scared me.”
“You haven’t seen scary yet.”
Lyra stands. Her white dress—that somehow flows and hugs all her curves at the same tim
e—settles against her deep, rich tan, making her look like a partially wrapped candy bar I want to run my tongue across. Her dark hair, so black it’s purple, falls like a cascading waterfall over her shoulder and down her back. But my favorite feature, other than her hips, are her eyes. A sunburst pattern, starting with orange at the pupil, fades to deep ocean blue at the edge of the iris, with streaks of lightning-white. Her eyes always mesmerize the fuck out of me.
By far, Lyra Nightingale is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, but I stopped trying to get into her pants long ago. It isn’t that she doesn’t like women, because she’d fuck anything with a pulse. And has. It’s more that she doesn’t like me. Whatever. I can still drool, along with every other poor bastard who comes into this establishment.
Nightingale’s, the titty bar where your darkest, most perverse fantasies come true.
“Look,” I say, once I get my heartbeat under control. “I get it. My ass is fired. Fine. Just do it after my shift. Okay?” I run my hand through my hair, brushing my bangs to the side. I think about Helen, about Creed waiting to take me to fantasy-land. “One more night of normal. That’s all I ask.”
Something in the hard lines of Lyra’s glare softens. She stares at the security monitors on her desk. “I see you’ve brought company.” Her eyes flick to mine. “Is he part of your new normal?”
“Him?” I cross my arms, as if I can protect myself from her question, because damn if I know how to answer. “I don’t know what he is.”
She cocks an eyebrow before sauntering over to me, the curve of her thighs and ass pressing against the fabric barely able to contain her. Shit, nothing can contain her. I try not to stare, to not eye-fuck her like she’s an object put on this earth for my viewing pleasure. I don’t succeed.
She gets personal-space close. My breath catches in my chest as the warming sensation that is Lyra’s presence washes over me. The back of her hand caresses my cheek. Liquid-hot desire races directly between my thighs. I clench at the intensity, my breath coming in panting gasps. Fuck, there’s zero chance I’ll get through tonight without masturbating again.
Instinctively, I reach my hand between my legs and press against my clit to relieve some of the pressure. Only then can I concentrate on something other than wanting to fuck her.
This isn’t the first time she’s touched me, made me want her so bad I’d stab anyone in the eye for looking at her wrong. Nor am I the only person she has this effect on. Nightingale’s is the most successful bar in Vegas for a reason.
Her voice lowers to a seductive, sexy growl. It’s a voice I’d do anything for. Anything. “You get one last night.” Her words vibrate, as if there’s power behind them. As if there’s something hidden, something more to her that I can’t quite see. “Make it count.”
Lyra steps away, toward the door to the bar, and beckons me to follow. I shake my head to clear it. The buzzing sensation in my brain finally dulls, as does the pull of desire making me dry hump my hand. I need to steady my nerves, focus on my job. I can’t do that if I’m both sexually frustrated and sober. As soon as I get behind the bar, I’m taking a shot. Fuck Creed and his demands.
“Coming?” she asks as she opens the door, her voice back to normal.
If only I were.
“I need you set up for tonight’s rush, which should start”—she stares at her watch—“in less than an hour.” I follow her through the door like a collared dog follows its owner. I wish Lyra would collar my ass. I’d let her own me all night. “Besides,” she adds, bringing my thoughts out of the gutter, which sucks. I love the gutter. “I want to say hello to your new friend.”
Fire rushes through my veins, but it isn’t the heat of pleasure. It’s panic. I don’t know how Creed will react to Lyra, or what he’ll say to her about why he’s here with me. We didn’t go over a cover story. God, I hope he doesn’t tell her he’s a fairy warrior from the land of light, or whatever shit dimension he’s from.
Lyra walks toward the bar. I’m right on her heels. I try to catch Creed’s eye over her shoulder, to warn him, but he doesn’t take his gaze off her. The violent beast within rears its ugly head and flexes its claws. I almost trip over my own feet at the unexpected emotion. It feels an awful fucking lot like jealousy. The beast, and the whatever-something beneath it, are starting to act like Creed belongs to them.
Fuck them both.
Striding right up to Creed, Lyra extends her hand. I open my mouth to introduce them. Only, I don’t get the chance. Turns out, I don’t need to.
“Craediarrae Blaize. It’s been too long.”
Creed, or whatever the fuck Lyra just called him, takes her hand and kisses it. A smile tilts his lips up, and fuck if white-hot rage doesn’t make me want to rip Lyra to shreds.
Creed responds to her in that same language I didn’t recognize before. The one he sang in as I cried in his arms. And I’ll be damned if Lyra doesn’t respond back in kind. Actually, I am damned. Or maybe crazy. I’ll go with crazy. It’s easier to believe I’ve lost my mind than process the possibility that there are more of these Fae fucks in the world than I thought.
As if they forgot I was there, staring at them, Lyra turns to me. Her gaze falls on my parted lips. There’s no way I don’t look as surprised as I feel.
“Get to work, Dhru. I’m paying you to sling drinks and smile at customers, not to decorate the front of the bar with your open mouth. When you get off, I’ll have your final paycheck ready.”
Blowing me a kiss, she takes Creed by the arm and leads him across the dance floor to the back. Through the red curtain. Creed never once looks back.
Walking away from Dhru is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, which says a lot—I’ve been a warrior for centuries. The look on her face doesn’t make it any easier. But I have to. It’s my only option, especially in Lyra’s presence.
If Lyra knew how I felt, knew that we’d already crossed a deadly line, and didn’t report it, she’d be charged by the Council as an accessory to our crime. I would never put Lyra in that position. Not after everything between us.
As soon as the red curtain closes behind us, I release the magick containing my true form and shake out the tension in my shoulders and jaw. Tension I didn’t know I had. I’ve probably been carrying it around since the sidewalk incident.
Familiar sights and sounds greet me. The room, extending far beyond the dimensions of the building, casts a shadowed glow the color of sin. Every chair, couch, lamp, and curtain drips in shades of red. The air is thick with the scent of flowers and spices. Scantily clad Lightlings and Dharklings strut their wares, tempting eager customers. Customers like me.
My cock hardens in response to my desire, to the promise of release, but all my mind can think about is Dhru. Her ass hanging out of her shorts. The bottom of her black lace bra. The exposed skin on her stomach. Her thighs. And what’s between them.
Lyra’s hand rubs the front of my trousers. She strokes my length, stoking my desire. I’m close already, as on edge as I’ve been. “You’ve neglected yourself, I see.”
How can she not see?
Lyra snaps her fingers. A demon with red skin, serrated tail, and wings to match her patent leather dominatrix outfit answers her summons. Leaning in, Lyra whispers something in her ear. The demon bows her head, then leaves.
With a final squeeze that sends me right to the edge, forcing me to clench my teeth, and everything else, Lyra says, “We’ll get this taken care of. Called are always taken care of here. You are always taken care of here.”
I want to tell her that I know, but I can’t speak. Only when she lets go can I breathe again.
“I take it our dragonling has started the early stages of her transition, and that the spell has almost completely faded,” Lyra says in my native tongue, distracting me from the throbbing ache between my legs. An ache that’s spread to my lower abdomen. Her accent is so perfect, she could pass for full Fae.
I nod. “I can’t imagine much of the original magick r
emains.” Which is why I didn’t want her coming to work. “Dhamyan would like to extend his gratitude for keeping an eye on her. He hopes his monthly compensation has been enough.”
Lyra sighs. It’s a deep, heavy sound. “I owed Dhamyan a favor. He did something big for me a few decades ago.”
I knew that, for Lyra to have agreed to look after Dhru, she must’ve been deep in debt with Dhamyan. I’ve never asked her what he did. She’s never told me. Told anyone, as far as I know. Just like neither of us have ever mentioned what happened between us centuries ago. For our sakes, and our lives, it must remain that way.
“Honestly, though,” Lyra scoffs. “There’s almost no amount or debt worth dealing with Dhru. Almost. Dragons,” she says like a curse word. I know what she means. Only, Dhru’s not full dragon. Lyra must’ve noticed by now.
I turn toward Lyra and stare into her eyes. Eye contact makes me susceptible to her, but I don’t care. What I have to say is important. I want to make sure she understands how much.
“I’d like to ask you something, and I’d prefer if you kept it between us,” I say.
“Craediarrae.” The timbre of her voice changes. The air vibrates, sending pins-and-needles across my flesh.
She could make me agree to anything with that voice. Make me do anything. Make almost anyone. Sirens have that type of power. I don’t worry about Lyra, though. We’d long ago established our boundaries with one another.
“You can ask me anything,” she says. “You always have my confidence and discretion. Our families go back too far for me to not offer that. We go back too far.”
Images of Dhru crying in my arms over her dead baby send shards of glass toward both my hearts, shredding them. “What can you tell me about Dhru’s mother? Dhamyan’s never said a word about her, and any record on the matter has either been sealed or destroyed.”
Dhru was pregnant, which means she isn’t full dragon. Why Dhamyan would want to hide that, I don’t know. Dharklings are allowed to interbreed with each other, just as Lightlings are. Sirens are a perfect example. Half-Fae, Half-Daeia. Interbreeding might be rare, but it isn’t unheard of. It wouldn’t be worth going to all this trouble to erase her past.