by Starla Night
He blinked.
“I read about you in a magazine.” She sat as straight as possible, as if good posture and correct answers would get her out of this mess. “You’re engaged to be married to a female dragon on your home planet, and the marriage will take place in a few weeks.”
His mouth twisted to the side. “You’re well-informed.”
“The magazine said so.”
“Hm.” He rolled his knuckles on his desk as if he wasn’t sure what to do with her. “And you have no connection to the Onyx Corporation, Mal Onyx, or Pyro?”
“I’ve seen pictures.”
“Of course it wouldn’t be so easy.” He scratched the back of his head. “You really had nothing to do with tonight’s events?”
“He told me it was a date.”
Sard growled a string of syllables that might be curses in his alien language; he didn’t bother to translate them into English.
His desk console beeped and lit up. He pressed the lit button. “Speak.”
“We found her clothing, sir. No identification.”
He glanced at her.
“I left my ID at the bar,” she explained swiftly. “In my book bag. You can come with me. I’ll show you whatever you want.”
He returned his attention to the console. “Bring her clothes here.”
They sat in absolute silence. Her, petrified. Him, staring at the ceiling and holding what appeared to be imaginary debates with himself.
Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t call the police.
The police wouldn’t call her school. Her mentor wouldn’t call her parents.
She’d escape back to her real life and never, ever get in trouble ever, ever again.
Another suit brought in her clothes. Sard permitted her to change in an adjacent office in privacy. She wiggled out of the incriminating dress and boots and back into her safe, rumpled, everyday clothes.
The Victorian dress was too nice to fold. It wasn’t even too badly wrinkled. She returned it to his office and rested it on a chair. “I’m so sorry about this dress.”
Sard still seemed to be debating what to do. He was distracted. “It’s historical.”
“It’s beautifully constructed.”
He glanced over her. “How are you leaving here?”
Then … maybe he wasn’t calling the police. This ordeal was almost over.
Her knees trembled. Relief. She sank into the chair again. “I have no idea. I don’t even know where I am.”
“No.” He hit a button on his desk. “You’ll drop Ms. Adamson off at the nearest bus stop. Prepare.”
“Sir.” The impassive voice replied in the affirmative.
Oh. Thank goodness.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Thank you,” she gushed.
Sard released the button. His gaze narrowed on her bracelet. “What is that?”
“This?” She untied the plastic friendship bracelet from her wrist and handed it over. “The midwinter break craft for sixth grade. I wore it to show my art certification classmates. It doesn’t go with my outfit but I was afraid to take it off and lose one of the charms.”
He fingered the attached plastic charms. “These lines … these patterns… How do you know them?”
“They’re modified Zentangles.”
He looked up.
“A Zentangle is a doodle with a purpose. It started as a method and a kit.”
In fact, the classroom kit came with no eraser — the message was to let go of mistakes and think of errors as alternate paths to creativity. It was a philosophy Amy still struggled to practice.
She tapped the plastic. “These charms were our capstone ‘friendship’ project drawn on Shrinky-Dink paper and baked. I incorporated an introduction to meditation practices as part of the lesson. It’s a great craft for kids.”
“This is a human craft?”
“Doodles are ancient. Everyone can doodle. Making patterns using the Zentangle Method is newer, but it’s still been around.”
He picked up the phone and barked orders. “Cancel the Victorian. I don’t care how close we are to launch. I have a new product. ‘Zentangles.’ It’s exactly what we were looking for.” He hung up.
She worried the plastic. This was getting out of hand.
“May I?” He lifted the charms as though inspecting fine jewelry. “This human craft is fascinating. Can I have this?”
A mafia king — er, dragon shifter CEO — wanted her friendship charm bracelet? Um … okay. “Sure.”
“Can I have it to sell?”
“Sell?”
He closed his fingers around the bracelet, hiding it away, and leaned forward again. All business. “I’m going to duplicate it and sell it to the rest of the universe. Will you sign a contract stating that is an acceptable use of your art?”
“Does this mean you’re not going to call the police?”
“Police?” His teeth gleamed with metal. “Ms. Adamson, we’re negotiating business. I see no need for police. Would you like a sandwich?”
“No, um, thank you. Can I go?”
“Just as soon as I secure your agreement…” He carefully thumbed through a file of paperwork. “…must have the correct copyright for mass producing these ‘Zentangles’…”
“Copyright is outside of my expertise,” she said. “And anyway, every Zentangle is unique.”
He paused and looked up from beneath his brows. “Every one is unique?”
“Grab a pen and let your imagination flow.”
The door of his office opened and Syenite stepped inside. He must be her guide to the bus stop. The wonderful, pitch dark, middle-of-nowhere night bus stop.
Sard stopped her from rising. “How would you feel about creating a large number of unique charms? Say, ten million?”
Uh…
“I’m happy with my current job. Teaching rocks. I get summers off.” She edged forward on the seat. “I mean, I will once I’m permanent and not just a substitute.”
“I will make you happier.”
She sincerely doubted that. “Ten million charms are more than a single person could ever produce.”
“No.”
“Actually, yes. One drawing takes about fifteen minutes, so that’s two and a half million hours, which is a little over a hundred thousand days … let’s simplify and divide … so we estimate producing ten million charms would take one person, working without breaks or sleep, over two hundred … two hundred eight-odd years.”
He frowned. “You reached that conclusion too quickly.”
“Basic math is an elementary teacher superpower,” she assured him. “If your heart is set on getting ten million finished Zentangles, you should approach the creators of the method. They could divide up the work. There are hundreds of certified teachers and way more students.”
“So many copyrights to secure,” he grumbled, rubbing what appeared to be a burn mark on his large desk. “I would rather pay only you.”
“Why not pay for me to become a Certified Zentangle Teacher? I could teach the method to all of you.”
“You cannot teach dragons how to produce these ‘doodle’ patterns.”
“Teaching is what I do.”
“Dragons do not have human creativity.”
“Well, actually, the whole philosophy behind Zentangles is to empower ‘uncreative’ people to discover and nurture their own inner—”
“What is your current salary?”
Argh. Freedom was so close. She could taste it. “Uh … it’s a little late…”
“Are you hungry? I can offer…” He picked up a dish of candy. “You’re not pregnant?”
“No.”
“Brimstone candy.” His business-like smile sharpened. “Let’s discuss your summers off.”
“I’m a little tired.”
“This won’t take any time at all.”
Empty promises were how Pyro had started this so-called evening.
She clenched her fists in he
r lap.
Pushy, arrogant dragon shifters. Just because they were hot alien billionaires who could transform into dragons and fly, they thought they could do anything.
Then again, she was still inside Sard’s warehouse. Which she had broken into. By accident. And vandalized his company’s clothes.
Ugh. If only she hadn’t given in to temptation…
At the end of the day, this trouble rested on her shoulders. Her bad decisions. She’d stepped off the straight-and-narrow to see the sights. Well, now she’d seen them. They resembled the inside of a principal’s office presided over by a mafia king suddenly so nice now that he wanted something from her.
Was it possible to decline without offending Sard? Perhaps she should just agree. Promise him she’d think about it. She wanted this nightmare to be over.
But Amy didn’t make false promises. It wasn’t honest.
“Can we please talk about it another time?” she asked finally. “I’d really, really like to go home.”
Sard’s eyes gleamed and his mouth began to form what was certainly some form of “No.”
From the doorway, Syenite cleared his throat.
Sard’s smile froze for an instant, as though being forced to remember something unpleasant. But his tone conveyed nothing but solicitude. “Of course! You’re tired. We’ll reschedule. Syenite, see Ms. Adamson to her residence. Borrow that parka she was wearing. We don’t want our future artist getting cold.” He rose. “Would you like to keep the dress?”
She shook her head violently, standing as well — dismissed! — and nearly falling over with gratitude. “Thank you so much for your understanding. I’m so sorry about tonight. I’ll never come here again.”
“Of course you’ll come here again.” He enveloped her hand in his fist and shook firmly. “Syenite will return you to produce these unique Zentangles. Ten million.”
“Ten million,” she repeated, still shaking his hand.
“Sometime soon, when you feel less ‘under duress.’ You don’t feel under duress, do you?”
“Oh, no.”
“I can keep this bracelet, right?”
“Please. I want you to have it.”
“Wonderful.” He finally released her.
She stumbled backward, out of his office. “Thanks. You’re too kind.”
He sat at his desk. “Until we meet again, Ms. Adamson.”
But when in his deep, ominous voice, the simple farewell sounded like a threat.
Chapter Five
Pyro watched the Carnelian office building from deep within the cold, wet grass. He’d thrown off his pursuers — without killing or badly injuring any of them — and had doubled back.
His brother, Kyan, assured him Amy was still inside. Now they strategized how to break in and steal her back.
His ear bud hissed. His brother’s soft voice announced, “Movement on the fifth floor.”
He trained his gaze on the offices. Sard wouldn’t dare injure a human. That violated the treaty and Sard had no reason to antagonize his suppliers any more than Pyro did.
But he wouldn’t put it past Sard to come up with some excuse to keep Amy.
She was sweet. Innocent. Desirable.
Why hadn’t she jumped?
He gritted his teeth. She should have trusted him and jumped out the window. He would have caught her long before she hit the ground.
But she hadn’t trusted him. She hadn’t jumped.
She’d looked terrified.
Recriminations stabbed him. He knew she was different. Impetuous risk-taking wasn’t in her nature. Unlike him, she was careful. Responsible. Trustworthy.
A good girl who had no business looking at, much less agreeing to date or kiss a damaged male like him.
Unfamiliar shame sliced into his heart.
He sucked in a breath and shook it off. He had no reason to regret what had happened here tonight. No way. It was her fault.
She had no business getting close to him, but since she had agreed to date and kiss a damaged male like him, she shouldn’t have suddenly balked. She should have trusted him. She should have —
There.
He picked out the movement from the roof of the building. Amy was wearing her flowery skirt and pink blouse; also the parka. She put her soft arms around one of Sard’s employees and they rose into the air.
Pyro fought his urge to rend the other male to shreds. What was his name? Syenite?
“Don’t fight,” Kyan warned.
“I wasn’t going to,” he snapped, rising and skimming over the fields like a distant shadow.
“Your heart rate is increasing.”
He fought his inner reactions. Of course Kyan could hear his heartbeat; probably vitals were built into the black ops earbuds he was borrowing.
Pyro continued talking himself out of his fury.
He’d just met Amy. He refused to let her be important to him. He barely knew her. Right? She must put her hands on many males. Just like all the females he spent time with.
But thinking that only made him tense up to fight all the possible males who might try to enjoy her sweet touch. Fury crackled under his skin.
“Pyro. Stay low.”
He swerved closer to the grass.
Think.
The aristocrats were likely to dump her at the most efficient location such as a transit station. He’d forgive her for not trusting him, swoop in, and pick her up. They’d continue their wild night with less dangerous talking and more silent seduction. Easier to love and leave her that way.
But Syenite didn’t turn toward the nearest station. They flew on into the night.
“Where’s he taking her?” Pyro asked, lifting above the ground and shadowing.
His brother, Kyan, hissed in his earbud. “Back to Portland.”
“Why?”
“Giving her a ride home?”
Sard would only do that if he found Amy of value to him.
The itchy sensation of her betrayal scratched at him. What had she given to Sard? Her observations? Had he given her any secrets worth sharing?
His shame disappeared in the fire of rightness. See? She’d betrayed him somehow. Just like everyone did. No point in getting upset. How stupid of him to feel disappointed.
Pyro should just leave. Fly off, find another female, forget this night ever happened.
But he didn’t.
He followed them into the city. Syenite released her in front of an old apartment building. She spoke to the male as if they were good friends. And the emotionless dragon actually responded.
Pyro’s fingers elongated into sharp claws.
He wanted to rip Syenite’s spine out. Amy was his.
No, no, no. He shook his head to clear it. Amy was not his and never would be. She’d made new friends with the aristocrats. Who wouldn’t? They were everything a low caste dragon like Pyro would never be.
He watched her walk into her apartment and then he shoved off the roof and flew into the night.
She was just like the rest. No one to get upset about. No reason to feel possessive or hungry or shamed by his own behavior. Those pointless feelings would go away as soon as he drowned them in new stimuli — a new bar, loud music, a dance party.
He was fine. Totally fine.
Completely carefree.
Chapter Six
Syenite dropped Amy off on the steps of her apartment. It was like being dropped off by the police — if the police had personal jetpacks instead of squad cars.
He’d held her impersonally, if such a thing was possible, and she did take them up on the offer to borrow the parka. It made the trip considerably more comfortable. And, unlike Pyro’s heart-racing swoops and swerves, Syenite flew sedately in what was essentially a straight line.
She handed him the parka and hugged her elbows in the early June chill. “Thank you.”
“I will pick you up tomorrow.” He started to leave.
“Wait! Tomorrow’s, uh, I’ve got work.”
“The
day after tomorrow, then.”
“That’s also bad.”
He waited.
She bit her lip. Mostly she wanted to put tonight and everything associated with it away from her. Forever. “How about I call you?”
He gave her the number and then asked her point blank. “When will you call?”
She tried not to wince. “Later?”
He was silent for a long moment. Only her worried face reflected in his dark shades.
This night. Would not. End.
Just like one bad decision would come back to haunt her over and over and—
“Do not fear Sard Carnelian,” Syenite finally said. “He is kind.”
She coughed. “Kind?”
“You said so yourself.”
What? Oh. You’re too kind. She’d thrown away those words as she’d scrambled out of Sard’s office. She hedged. “Yeah, well, he asked if I was ‘under duress.’”
“There was a misunderstanding with our last artist.”
“Uh huh. I don’t want to have a misunderstanding either.”
“You have no misunderstanding. Your judgment is accurate. Sard is very kind.”
How bizarre to hear such heartfelt words in a flat tone from a male who’d shown zero emotion even when breaking up a fight between fully fledged dragons. “You seriously think Sard Carnelian is kind?”
“Very.”
Dragons, in general, were unfathomable.
Well, Sard hadn’t called the police on her. In that sense, he was kind. But she felt an uncomfortable sensation of blackmail whenever she remembered his last words.
She scratched her head. “What makes you say so?”
“I am his head of security. My role is to remain at his side day and night. Yet, he chose me to fly you to your home and dismissed me for the night. He did this to allow me to spend the rest of the night in the city with my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend?
She had to pick her jaw up off the apartment steps. “You have a girlfriend?”
“Our relationship is recent but strong.” He showed Amy the background screen of his cell phone. A curvy, giggling woman with glittering gold eyeshadow and purple hair kissed his stone-faced cheek. “She saved me from an undesirable marriage.”
