Marked By Fire (Dragons Of The Darkblood Secret Society Book 2)

by Meg Ripley

  “You don’t want Yann or Christophe to have anything to do with her, but you want her to meet random guys on Tinder?” Pascal shakes his head. “I think you’re afraid you’ll end up liking her.”

  “Whatever, man,” I say. “She’s hot; I’m sure she’ll have plenty of people to talk to. If someone tries to go over the line with her, I’ll step in to help, just like I would with any woman. I’ll talk to her here and there, but that’s as far as it’ll ever go.”

  Pascal laughs and shakes his head. “We’ll see how you do. I don’t think you’ll be able to help yourself, though.”

  “That’s twenty for today,” I tell him, recording it in the computer.

  Pascal takes out his wallet and gives me thirty. “Rehearsal the day after tomorrow? Does that work for you?”

  I nod. “Message me with the time to meet everyone.” I grab Pascal’s hand, we shake and give each other a quick half-hug, same as always, and then he’s out of the shop and I’m back at my station, disinfecting it for the next client.

  Maybe I’ll chat with the girl. It might be interesting to learn about what things are like in America from an actual American, instead of hearing about it in the news. Of course, I think, grinning to myself, that’s assuming she knows enough French to get the ideas across. I have to admit, her little errors and fumbles were cute; any guy interested in having sex with her is going to have a hard time explaining what he’s looking for. I snicker to myself, picturing the whole thing going down.

  After a while, Christophe comes in, and as soon as Julienne tells him I’ve seen Claude’s new tenant, he’s practically on top of me, asking questions.

  “She’s hot, right? How’s her French?”

  I clench my jaw and work on tweaking a design for another client coming in after lunch.

  “She’s able to form sentences,” I mutter. “But obviously, it’s going to be slow going with whoever she talks to for a while.”

  “But she doesn’t need to know much to be able to say ‘yes’,” Christophe says with a leer.

  “Think about it, man,” I point out. “If she doesn’t know how to ask for what she wants, how are you going to get her off?”

  Christophe wiggles his eyebrows and grins even broader. “She can show me,” he suggests.

  “You’ll have to brush up on your English,” I tell him. “She doesn’t speak very much French, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be comfortable saying ‘yes’ to someone when she can’t talk to them.”

  “All she needs to know is ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘right there,’ and ‘harder’,” Christophe says with a laugh.

  I shake my head at him, giving him a dismissive wave and go into the back for my lunch break while Christophe’s next customer comes in.

  “I’m beginning to see why you don’t want Christophe anywhere near her,” Julienne remarks. “You know what? I’ll bet you five hundred euros that you’ll end up dating her,” she says, grinning.

  I hold out my hand to shake on that bet and laugh. “You have yourself a deal, Boss. This will be the easiest five hundred euros I’ve ever made.”

  Julienne smiles again. “If you say so, Jacques.”

  Chapter SIX

  Nora

  I fumble with my keys and teeter a bit as I try to focus on the lock of the door to my building. I should have known better than to let another American—a friend I’d met on an expat forum for France named Jess—talk me into spending the night drinking. But after being in Rouen for almost a week, surrounded constantly by the French language, I’d been hungry for the sound of English-speaking voices—outside of Netflix.

  “Tu as besoin d’aide, ma petite?” I blinked a few times and looked around. Do you need help, little one? Behind me stood a guy who was maybe half a foot taller than me, who I’d never seen before.

  “Je ne suis pas la tienne,” I mutter, hoping that I’m at least getting that right. “Et...je n’ai pas besoin d’aide.” It takes me a moment to work through that one, remembering the way that you’re supposed to put the negation around the verb. I don’t belong to you, and I don’t need help. Technically, the last part was kind of untrue; but I am pretty determined not to take help from a random stranger standing outside my apartment building at midnight. I might be drunk, but I’m not that drunk.

  “T’es sûr?” I blink again and find the right key on my ring. Are you sure?

  “Oui, je suis sûre,” I reply. I’m sure.

  I manage to get the key into the lock and turn my back on the guy, hoping that if I just ignore him, he’ll move along. In the past few days I’ve been in Rouen, I’ve noticed that catcalling doesn’t seem to be as frequent as it was back home, but people coming up to talk to you—whether it’s to ask you to sign a petition, or for a few euros, or to proposition you for a date—is way more common. I’m not sure why, but it’s still a little off-putting.

  Before I can get the key turned, though, I feel something on my back, and the guy I’d just turned away is pressed up against me, turning me around to face him.

  He murmurs something that I think he intends to be hot and sexy, but the fact that I don’t know any of the words beyond the odd “tu,” “toi,” and “faire” just makes me afraid. I struggle against him, trying to get my wobbly-drunk legs to work, and he’s pressing up against me harder, still whispering in my ear.

  “Eh! Tu fais quoi, alors?” I recognize the voice a little bit but I don’t know from where. Hey, what are you doing? It’s a moment of relief—someone might actually have seen this guy ambush me.

  “Laisse-nous tranquils,” the man still pressing me against the door calls back over my shoulder. Leave us alone. He followed that with something else I don’t understand. No, that isn’t at all what I want, and I don’t even care what the guy said after; I know I don’t want that, either.

  “Non! Non, s’il vous plait, aidez-moi!” No, no, please help me! It’s a little startling how easily I remember how to say that, but I’m glad for it. I have no idea how to tell whoever is coming to my aid what’s going on in French, so I go into English out of sheer hope that the man will understand something of what I’m saying. “He just came up behind me and grabbed me! I don’t know who he is!”

  “Elle ne te veut pas!” the second man blurts out, and I kind of want to laugh because I’m still a little drunk, and the flat tone of his voice, telling the guy who’d grabbed me that I don’t want him, is—in a way—funny. “Laisse-la tranquille.” Leave her alone.

  “T’as un problème? C’est pas tes affaires, mec.” You got a problem? This is none of your business, man.

  I finally get some control of my own legs and bring my knee up hard against the man’s groin. He shrieks loudly and pulls back, and I look to see who it is that came to my rescue.

  I hear them arguing, and the darkness of the street makes it hard to see who came across me and my attacker, but whoever he is, he’s big; broad across the shoulders and tall. Just the kind of guy you’d want rescuing you. I hear the noises of a scuffle, and see the guy who attacked me tumble onto the ground before shouting some cuss words I barely recognize, stumbling to his feet, and walking off.

  “You are okay? ‘E did not ‘urt you?” I blink as the big man who came to my aid speaks to me, and I finally recognize him as he steps into the light.

  It’s my neighbor from across the alley, Jacques.

  “You speak English?” If I’d known that, I would have made more of an effort to talk to him before.

  Jacques shakes his head, and raises a hand to tip it side to side. “Un petit peu, et pas trop bien,” he tells me. A little bit and not very well.

  I nod my understanding.

  “Je...je vais bien,” I say. “Il ne m’a pas blessée,” I add. I’m okay, he didn’t hurt me. I try to think a little harder. In some ways, it’s easier to dredge up the words I want, but in other ways, it’s more difficult. I can’t for the life of me remember all the grammar rules. “Il m’a fait peur.” He just scared me.

  Jacques no
ds. “Tu veux que je t’aide?” I take a second to translate that, frowning, and he looks concerned. Do you want me to help you? “Tu veux que je t’aide à entrer dans ton appart sain et sauf?” I try not to frown as I work through the more complicated sentence. Do you want me to help you...get into your apartment...safe and sound? I think that’s what he asked, anyway. I look him up and down; he has, after all, just probably seriously hurt a guy who’d attacked me with intentions that I’m sure were pretty bad. Besides, I should be able to trust my next-door neighbor, at least a little, right?

  “Oui, si tu veux,” I say. Yes, if you want to. Jacques takes the keys out of my hand and gets the door unlocked, stepping ahead of me to press the button to light up the hallway.

  “Tu as passé une bonne nuit? Avant que tu l’as rencontré?” I take a few seconds to translate that: Did you have a good night? Before you met him?

  “Oui,” I reply. “Et…” I press my lips together, trying to parse out how to say what I want to say. “Je ne l’ai pas rencontré, pas vraiment. Je ne sais pas son nom.” I didn’t meet him, not exactly. I don’t know his name.

  “Ah,” Jacques says, nodding. We start up the stairs. The building doesn’t have an elevator, but fortunately, I’m only on the second floor; he looks back to make sure I’m following closely enough.

  “Rouen c’est très sûr,” Jacques says. “Ne t’inquiète pas, d’accord?” I have to laugh at that once I figure out what he’s saying. Now that I’m not full of adrenaline, it’s a little easier. Rouen is very safe. Don’t you worry, okay?

  “Non, je suis…” I don’t know how to say what I want to say. “Je n’ai pas de souci.” No, I’m not worried.

  Jacques grins at me.

  “C’est bon,” he says. That’s good. We reach my floor and he gestures to my apartment door with one eyebrow raised. I nod and he unlocks the two locks, opening my door before the light goes out in the hallway.

  “Tu veux rentrer prendre une verre? Je veux te remercier,” I say, feeling a little shy. Do you want to come in for a drink? I want to thank you. One of the great things I’ve discovered about Rouen—about France, in general—is that there is an abundance of decent, cheap wine. My first trip to the grocery store, I overburdened myself with a good four bottles of wine that had cost me a little less than 12 euros. I feel a little weird offering the guy a glass of wine, but I have to express my gratitude somehow.

  “Si ça ne te dérangeras pas,” he says with a shrug. If you don’t mind.

  I step through the door and kick off my shoes, reaching for the light switch and gesture for him to follow me into the apartment.

  “Pas de tout,” I say. Not at all. “Now where are my glasses?” I mutter, looking around the kitchen, trying to remember where I put everything away.

  “Là?” Here? Jacques gestures to a glass-fronted cabinet on the other side of the kitchen, and I realize that he must have understood what I said. There they are, lined up neatly: white and red wine glasses, along with the juice glasses I’d bought, four of each.

  “Ah, oui, merci,” I say, smiling at him. Yes, thank you.

  Okay, so now, how do I ask him if he wants white, red, or rosé? My poor, already-drunk brain is having a hard time parsing through grammar, and in spite of the fact that I’m feeling more relaxed, now that I’m in my apartment and the guy who attacked me is safely away, I can feel a little flutter in my chest.

  Up close, Jacques is even more attractive than he’d been when I’d seen him across the alley. He almost seems too big for my kitchen, and in the light, I can see that he has crystal-blue eyes. He’s so much taller and broader than me that I should feel intimidated, but instead, I have to admit, I’m a little turned on.

  This is a guy who just came to my rescue, after all. And up close, I also find that he smells good: not the way that Ethan did, with a weird blend of some Axe-type body spray and deodorant, but like sandalwood and an old-fashioned sort of cologne I can’t identify. I’ve already learned that American-style deodorant isn’t really popular here, so underneath his scents, I catch just a trace of his natural body smell, but it’s not bad—not like the guys I’d accidentally ended up next to on the bus back from the bar with Jess, who absolutely reeked.

  “Tu veux le rouge? Blanc? Rosé?” That’s the closest I can come to formulating how to ask the question, and thankfully it’s good enough.

  “Comme tu veux,” Jacques says with a shrug. Whatever you want.

  I have a bottle of red open, and I show it to him for his approval; he nods, and I take two glasses down. Even though I’ve had a bit too much to drink already, I decide to have a glass with him to be a good hostess.

  I get the cork out of the bottle and fill the two glasses a little more than halfway, pushing one along the table towards Jacques. He picks it up and looks around my kitchen for a moment, and I’m at a loss for what to do while we drink our wine. If we were both equally fluent in the same language, we’d obviously talk to each other. But as I raise my glass and Jacques clinks his against mine, it occurs to me that I have no idea what to talk about, much less how to say anything worth talking about.

  I take my first sip of wine and try to think of something, anything, that I can say to this guy who might have just saved my life.

  Chapter SEVEN

  Jacques

  I sip the wine Nora gave me and think about what I should do. I don’t think she thought through inviting me up to have a glass with her, even if it was a perfectly kind—and very French—thing to do.

  “I hope you aren’t still afraid,” I say.

  She looks at me quizzically for a moment and then shakes her head.

  “No—no, I’m not...not too afraid,” she replies, hesitating over the words as she does her best to say them in broken French.

  “Do you like it here in Rouen?” I take another, bigger sip of the wine. It’s not bad; a middle-of-the-road red, the kind you can get just about anywhere.

  “Yes, I like it here very well,” Nora says, sounding a little more certain of herself.

  “Are you able to find everywhere in town okay?” I set my glass down, realizing I’ve already had more than enough to drink. When I ran into Nora tonight, I was just getting back from drinking with the guys after practice.

  Nora looks confused for a moment before her eyes widen with comprehension and she nods. “Yes—yes, I am finding everything fine,” she says.

  “And you like your apartment? The city?”

  Nora gives me a small smile and takes another sip of wine.

  “I like my apartment very well,” she says slowly. “It’s small, but comfortable.”

  “Claude seems excited to have an American tenant,” I say, and realize my mistake: too many words she doesn’t know. I slow down and repeat myself.

  “He seems very nice,” Nora says. She looks down into her wine glass, and I can see her thinking hard; obviously, she is having as much trouble figuring out what to say as I am.

  “So, do you…have a boyfriend back home?”

  “Um, no, not right now. And I’m not looking for one, either,” she replies. “I’ve...sort of…” she catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and for a second, I suddenly feel like I want to kiss her more than anything else in the world. “How-to-say...I’ve made an agreement with myself?”

  “A pact?”

  This is getting interesting.

  “Sure, if that’s the word,” Nora says, nodding. “I’ve made a pact with myself that I won’t date any men for at least six months.”

  My eyes widen. “Oh yeah? Any reason?” I ask.

  “It’s not important,” Nora says quickly, fidgeting in her seat. She drinks down some of her wine and I do the same.

  Up close, Nora is even sexier than I thought. She’s maybe 20 centimeters shorter than I am, with long, shiny dark hair and big, brown eyes, and the curves of her body practically scream to be touched. Looking at her in her tee shirt and skirt, it’s easy to imagine slipping my hands up her thighs, touching he
r; kissing her until she’s like warm wax melting in my hands.

  “We should get a coffee sometime,” I suggest, finishing off the wine in my glass.

  “Oh?” Nora drinks the last of her own wine and sets her glass down. “I think that that sounds...nice.” She smiles and inclines her head to me.

  I lean down a bit to catch her gaze. Nora is blushing, and I think about Christophe’s assertion that American girls are easy. I don’t know if they all are, but Nora doesn’t seem to be.

  Right now, my bet with Julienne is a million miles away from my mind.

  “Would you mind if I kissed you?” Between the booze I drank earlier, the wine Nora gave me and the adorable flush spreading over her cheeks, any inhibitions I might’ve had have gone right out the window.

  “You want to…kiss me?” Nora looks up at me wide-eyed, and I’m not sure if it’s fear or confusion that I see on her face.

  “There’s nothing I’d want more right now,” I tell her with a little smile.

  Nora’s lips are parted, and I take the risk that I might be making a bad choice. I lean in and kiss her, just lightly, barely touching her lips with mine. I pull back and her eyes are still open, the pink in her cheeks deepening.

  “Mmmm…that was really nice,” I smile at her, only centimeters away from her face.

  “So nice…I think we need to do that again,” Nora replies, breathless. I go in for another kiss. This time I’m a little more aggressive, letting my hands go to her waist, pulling her closer to me slowly. I slide my tongue along her lips and Nora opens her mouth, letting me in. I deepen the kiss, pressing her body against mine, hugging her tightly, and Nora starts to respond, kissing me back, her hands moving up to my shoulders. I love the feeling of her body against mine, and all I can think of is what it would be like to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom, pin her to the bed and take her.

  I hold myself back and stick with just exploring her body a bit with my hands. Her breasts are every bit as full and lush as I had thought, just a little bit more than I can fit in my hand, and I can feel her nipples beginning to harden through her clothes. I nip at her bottom lip, and nibble at her tongue, and Nora moans against my lips, trembling in my arms.