Sounds like he has a traitor in his midst, then, I think. I consider the masked man who tried to buy Roze at the auction. Who was so upset when I outbid him.
Could he have anything to do with it?
“What happens if I refuse? Since I made it my duty to protect these women, and if I sell Roze back, it’s highly likely she’ll be placed in danger.”
“She won’t be,” Gentleman says, but we all know he’s lying. He also doesn’t know that we’re aware the bone belongs to The Morrigan. Hopefully no one’s going to blurt out that little distinction and make it obvious. “I can even sign a contract to prove that she will be kept safe and alive, if you wish.”
“No means no,” I answer. Tensing and preparing to shift, I keep an eye on Gentleman, waiting to see if he’s going to snap his fingers and summon people to take us out. Or if he has a kind of magic I’m unprepared for. My only awareness of their magic comes from contracts.
But there could be far, far more I haven’t seen.
“Well, if you do change your mind…” He places a piece of paper in my hand, containing a cellphone number. If I did go to the police with this, I would breach my own contract – but I also suspect that this number isn’t directly his, either. “I will appreciate a more frank talk.” Gentleman regards Roze with what I suppose is meant to be a kindly smile, but it appears sinister and twisted on his angular face. Roze just glares back, at the man responsible for disrupting her life.
Gentleman leaves, and the potential assassination Beron and I anticipated doesn’t come.
“We’re going back to the estate,” I say immediately. “I don’t feel safe.”
We agree and leave, while speculating on how Gentleman could have messed up so much that The Morrigan’s bone ended up in Roze.
“He was likely intending to sell it for a much higher price,” Beron says, as we flag down the taxis I ordered to take us back. I don’t feel much like shifting into my dragon form right now. “Whoever’s collecting her bones is clearly putting pressure on him. I doubt he’s going to let her happily walk around free.”
I wish now that I’d pressed Gentleman harder. Tried to force him somehow to revoke the contract. But I didn’t have those thoughts at the time.
“If he’s got someone in his organization who deliberately had it implanted, why go through all that effort?”
To buy the person wielding it, I can see. To smuggle it inside a human, perhaps – if they receive a tattoo like the one on Roze’s back now, it all but conceals the magic. The bone would be hidden.
But did they, whoever was behind this, did they expect the carrier to die? Did they think they would buy the carrier, and kill them after, or wait for the carrier to do the job themselves with the call of the void?
I don’t have an answer. But I do think that I should be watching the shadows. Not just for Gentleman and his kind, or the people determined to fail our campaign to abolish slavery: but to the stranger who infiltrated a demon’s shipping ring in an attempt to smuggle out a valuable bone.
Halberg is the least safest place for Roze right now. Yet I can’t take her out of it.
Only solution left is to deal with Gentleman by myself.
Chapter 8
Roze
Somewhere along the line, we change our decision.
Instead of heading back to the estate, we elect instead to drop off at a four star hotel. It’s not quite as glamorous as others seen along the way, but it does have a small alcove where we can drink and sit out on a balcony to watch the snowfall. The night is young, and for once, I’m able to take a breather. I’m not stuck in a dragon’s basement wondering if I’m going to be let out. I’m not brooding about my power, or about Tiffany and knowing that I’ll have a year and a half to wait before she has a chance to return to us again. Meanwhile, an imposter holds her face, one who is hard to have any warm feelings towards, simply because it feels like she makes a mockery of Tiffany with almost any line she speaks.
To start liking her in any form is akin to a betrayal.
I’m sat with Beron and Cato on either side of me, and we’re all drinking together, dancing around topics while Alex and The Morrigan are elsewhere, trying out the substantial menu the hotel has to offer, and the arcade locked within its ground floor.
Those two have been talking more and more, since Alex’s initial outburst. Alex went from refusing to contact The Morrigan entirely to “keeping an eye on her in case she tries something,” to digging for knowledge from The Morrigan’s ancient brain. In the meanwhile, The Morrigan wants to learn a little more of technology and what the world is like today.
Hence the arcade. I guess that’s a prime example of modern technology.
Neither the bear or the dragon seem to be scared of those two running off, but that possibility lies in the back of my mind as I survey the snowy gardens belong, before letting my eyes scour over the men’s faces. Beron is more solemn than usual, and I catch him checking me out a lot, curiosity plain in his face. It’s the kind of checking out I’m used to before someone flirts with me, except if he has that intention, he’s not making any moves about it.
Cato, in the meanwhile, I know has been interested from the start. But we did have that unfortunate interruption of being kidnapped. I’ve mostly forgiven him since, but I’ve not told him as such out loud. Since a part of me still keeps thinking, if only I didn’t come here. If only we just chose somewhere else to make our vacation, rather than Halberg. Though it’s undeniably a beautiful city, counteracting natural earth physics with its magic. When the rest of Arizona has car tires melting into the asphalt, Halberg stands as a shimmering beacon of icy magic, with its own unique fashion of winter wear, and methods of travel involving shifters, ice skates, skis and boards. There are cars, but not nearly as many compared to those on foot.
But there’s something about Cato and Beron that keeps me here, more than the contract. If it was removed right now, I’m not completely sure I would get up and leave in that same instant.
Cato stretches and rolls his neck to crick out tension, and Beron holds his glass close to his lips at all times. “You won’t believe the amount of times I’ve had to protect this idiot,” says Beron, while Cato smiles innocently. “I was assigned to him when he was just twenty years old. I was twenty-five, even more big and strapping than I am now. Age’s shrinking me.”
“If you’ve shrunk, it’s probably on a microscopic level,” says Cato, pinching his thumb and forefinger together to indicate the amount. “You’ve always had that unfortunate tendency to be almost twice the size of everyone else.”
“Bear genes. If we’re already big, we don’t have that much to transform when we do merge with our bear. Anyway, what was I saying? – right, this idiot here is lucky to only have about three assassination attempts a year. First time, some political protester had been sending threatening letters through the mail for weeks, before turning up at a World Peace gig with a sawn-off shotgun. Took the buckshot right in the chest. Even my healing couldn’t get rid of the scars.” With a grin, Beron puts down his glass and tugs at his tunic, buttoning it down until it reveals a broad, muscular chest with a smattering of thatched brown hair. I hold my breath for a moment, cheeks flushing as I pretend to be entirely unaffected and merely curious. But damn, I wasn’t expecting that flash.
I have to get closer to see his battle-scars, and getting close makes it very hard for me to hide my sudden interest. Which flares up as if someone’s lit kindling inside me.
This is what it means to lust, I think wildly, reminding myself to breathe as my eyes trace over white spots on his skin, almost like the cigarette burns I’ve sometimes seen on patients in our hospital. I’ve witnessed a few gunshot wounds as well, but not so many concentrated over a single chest. “I’m surprised you didn’t die,” I say, resisting the urge to reach out stray fingers and brush over the skin. I could pretend it was just casual, but it’d just be an excuse for me to touch him at that point.
“We take more ba
ttering than humans,” says Beron, his eyes wide and glittering, irises almost black from his pupils. “So people like me make good bodyguards.”
Curiosity bleeds into me. “Wait, do you think you could recover from a C4 fracture?” There are quadriplegics that suffer immobilization of all their limbs. “Or is that something that can’t be fixed?”
“What’s a C4 Fracture?”
“Uh, it’s damage to the vertebrae that ends up in paralysis. Severe enough to make someone quadrileptic. Which is, uh, when both the arms and legs are paralyzed,” I add, at another questioning look.
Beron nods. “Oh. We can recover from injuries that paralyze people, yes. But it does take us longer. We do, however, die. It just takes a lot to take us down.”
I can believe it, examining him. I can believe he’d survive a rocket launcher to the face, if I was honest. I just wouldn’t want to test it out. What amazing powers these shifters have. As a human, I feel meek and fragile in comparison. One bullet is all that’s needed to take us out. Poison. Some undiagnosed medical illness that lies dormant for years until one day it just slaps us in the face.
“I can take a few hits as well,” Cato says, sounding almost defensive. “And endure most poisons.”
“Except dragonsbane,” Beron points out. “There’s no coming back from that.”
I smile and stare at the both of them as they start bickering on how strong their shifted forms are, and who’d be able to endure the most injury – but my interest is more in their bodies. Faint stirrings of lust has me wondering what it’d be like with either of them. Both would offer entirely different experiences, I think. In my mind, I imagine Beron to be gentle and considerate – a mountain of muscles hesitant to use too much strength. He likely has to be careful in his day-to-day interactions, to not accidentally bowl people aside. I think Cato would be more likely to experiment with different things – more open to the kinds of suggestions that are best saved for later on in relationships.
Not that I’ve experimented much, myself. I’ve had interests, sure. Who doesn’t? I’ve imagined celebrities in interesting positions. Beron wouldn’t be winning prizes for his features anytime soon, but there’s something magnetizing about the way his face moves, and the gruffness of his words as they leave his mouth. Cato would make it onto one, but I think if I saw him posing, I’d believe him too arrogant for my tastes.
He certainly has personal confidence.
It hits me then – realizing how much of my life I’ve suddenly wasted. Years pumped into my career – fighting for a job that paid well and enable me to eventually mortgage my own house and pay off my university debts.
But I never spent any of that time getting close to anyone. No relationships – I’d shrugged myself out of them, second year of uni. I needed to – I was falling behind in my work and ambition. Now it seems like I was lonelier than I believed. Or a part of me always knew, but just refused to acknowledge it.
Damn.
“What happened to that last girl you were dating, anyway?” Cato directs to Beron, which instantly yanks my attention right back on the conversation.
Even though I’d never heard him even breathe about another girl, he must have some time off to do things.
“You forgot already?” says Beron with a hint of irritation. “It didn’t work out. She moved to Canada, and I didn’t want to come along. As it meant abandoning my duties here.”
“Oh. Right. I think I do remember you mentioning that.” Cato rubs the back of his neck in an adorably awkward way. “Did I thank you for that?”
“Many times,” Beron says. “But if you forgot, maybe you should look into getting your memory checked.”
“My memory’s just fine. What about you, Roze,” says Cato, and I stop blinking as he examines me, as if I’m staring into the headlights of a car about to crash into me.
“What about me what?”
“Do you have someone waiting for you at home? I’m afraid I never thought of asking. With everything you’ve said, I assumed not, but...”
“I don’t.” My tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth when I say this, because it does feel like a declaration that I’m single and therefore interested in them.
But haven’t I been indicating that, anyway?
The chill night air spirals all of our breaths in opaque clouds, and I shiver.
“Right,” Beron says sympathetically, cutting across Cato before he has a chance to reply. “With your work in the hospital, you probably found it difficult to make any time.”
“Mm.”
Beron steps a little closer to me. “You ever thought about looking for someone?”
“N-not really,” I squeak, silently wishing I hadn’t drank any of the stout, because it’s infecting my system. I’m sure it is. I should change the subject, perhaps, or make my excuses and go to bed, but I’m also having fun, and feeling bolder than usual.
“Sometimes. But where would I find the time? It’s as Beron said. Mm.” I stare at my own fingers, imagining holding a syringe, or scalpel. Anything to distract me from the intensity of this. Since it seems now I realize I’m alone in their presence, that they’re both intrigued by me… I want to chicken out.
“If you ever want to get back into healing, you’re welcome to do so here,” Cato says. His eyes twinkle with ideas. “We could disguise you so no one need think you a human. Set up a small private practice in my district and let patients pay you for the healing. You could charge thousands.”
“I wouldn’t want to charge thousands,” I reply, angry at the notion. “If I ever went into business, I’d want fair prices.” It’s another thing I’ve found despicable within my line of work – the way corporations stick their hands into the money pot when it comes to other people’s lives. The way they insist that if you want to make sure you don’t end up on the bottom of the heap, then you better pay a lot of insurance. Fuck your health if you’re poor. Just hope the hand of God doesn’t accidentally fall upon you.
Cato seems to be looking at me with additional admiration in his eyes, and maybe even a little awe. I’m not used to someone regarding me in that way. Same with Beron. Something about those two gets to me.
I feel like I want to impress them, somehow.
“If you do feel up to it, then I wouldn’t mind helping you set up a practice,” Cato says. “But don’t feel under pressure to take up the offer. I know you were thinking of a change of career, too.”
Our eyes don’t move from each other for a while. I feel myself being sucked into them, lost in the intensity of that gaze, until Beron clears his throat.
“I have a question for you, actually.” He waits until we were both paying attention to him. “Do you… what you said before: would you... would you ever want to act upon it?”
“Uh,” I croak, now suddenly feeling exposed, and more than a little anxious. The moment Beron spells it out, embarrassment blooms in my cheeks, along with a sharp spike of arousal. Which is extra mortifying when I consider they might be able to smell my body’s reaction. Given their sense of smell is heightened compared to mine.
It’s the drink. That’s why I’m feeling like this. That’s why I’m seriously considering just giving into whatever this might be. Again, I try to think of my worst medical procedures, of the bullying I endured, just to wrench my mind and body out of the arousal.
But it doesn’t work. All I can think of is them. Cato’s silver eyes have a way of staring right through the soul, and Beron’s darker ones are warm, matching the color of his unruly beard.
Wordlessly, we choose to retire from the lounge, in case someone walks in on us. Equally wordlessly, we make our way to Cato’s suite, the whole time with my blood singing in me, the wildness inside expanding and demanding for release. The part of me that I’m not sure is completely me, or the alcohol, or the implant doing something to my emotions. Either way, the moment that door’s closed, I launch myself at Cato first, kissing him hard, recklessly, until he forgets how to breathe, and spots w
hirl in front of my vision. I then turn, on the surprised Beron, who almost looks disappointed – and kiss him as well.
It clears up the disappointment then. His beard is scratchy, but there’s a pleasant, comforting smell about him that makes me sink deeper into him, digging my fingers harder into his shirt. His kisses are softer than Cato’s, and when I draw away, my cheeks are burning, and a warm shiver’s traversing through my spine.
“I don’t really know what to do for something like this,” I admit. “I’m worried I won’t pay someone enough attention, or I’ll mess it up.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Cato assures me, and gives a small, eager smile at Beron. Cato gently steers me to the bed, taking a firm command, and gets me to lower. I see he’s conscious about giving me direct commands, because he knows that I’d have to obey, regardless of whether I felt like it or not. Another reason to appreciate him further.
I’m not the only one anxious to make this work, yet unsure of how the dynamics should be. But the wildness is in me now. The wildness, the blossoming desire play havoc upon my emotions, my soul. I want it rough, I want it soft, I want everything that can be offered. I want to see the glint of animal lust in their eyes, to feel that all consuming effect when you give yourself fully to something, in exchange for undulating, relentless ecstasy.
Perhaps being a little too eager, I already work on taking away my clothes, not giving them a chance to do the same. I hop stupidly as I tug my pants off, shimmy out of my underwear, and fumble for a few seconds too long when it comes to unclasping my bra. I’m doing this before I get any last thoughts about backing out. I’m there, standing in front of these two powerful men, still clothed, with nothing but bare flesh upon display. A red flush creeps up my skin, settling in my cheeks and beginning to stir a light, eager fever within. Cato devours me with his eyes, which have gone wide, the pupils dilating. Beron is the same, but he’s the first to move to me, the first to touch me with surprisingly gentle fingers under the chin, tilt my head up towards his, and place a heated, wet kiss upon my lips. Wet because of the way our lips part and our tongues duel, and when his hands start roaming, flowing over my skin, quick bolts of desire settle between my legs, as I think: this is it. It’s happening. It’s really happening.
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