by T. S. Ryder
“Can we talk?” He asks, slowing down to match my pace. I clench my fist, mutter a “cloud of dust” spell into it and blow into his face. blinding spell wouldn’t have worked, so my options are limited. He spins around, temporarily blinded and his tail suddenly appears out of the cloud like a lasso and it hits merit knocks the air out of my lungs and pushes me off my broom.
I close my eyes as I fall back to earth like a shooting star, ready to die. But my fall is cushioned as I land firmly, not hitting the ground. I open my eyes and see the blue sapphires of Dell’s eyes looking at me. I gasp, my heart hammering in my chest and I faint in his arms.
***
I wake up with a start, drawing in a long breath, my body suddenly tensing up as my head pulsates with ache. I know I am fucked. I pretend to be asleep as I try to gauge the surroundings with my eyes closed, planning my escape. I open my left eye slightly, just enough to see where I am. There’s a mirror in front of me in which I see a shirtless Dell, sitting by the window, reading.
“You can stop pretending,” he says. “I can hear your heartbeat.”
I drop the act and get up, propping a pillow behind my back. I study him for half a minute but he doesn’t look up from his book.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“What was I supposed to do,” he says in a matter-of-fact way, “leave you on the street?”
“Is this your bedroom?”
“Yes,” he says, finally looking at me. I realize I am naked, my dress crumpled on the floor.
“Did you fuck me?” I look him straight in the eyes, anger rising in my voice.
“I am not a necrophiliac,” he says, looking disgusted.
“Then why’d you take my clothes off?”
“You really don’t remember anything, do you?”
I ignore his question.
He gets up, closes the book and puts it on the floor. “You passed out. Woke up. Puked on me and on yourself, then passed out again. I cleaned you up, didn't have any clothes for you so I just covered you with a bed sheet.”
“You are an asshole, you know that?”
“What, for not raping you?”
“For knocking me off my broom. I could have died.”
“You blinded me with a cloud of dust, I couldn’t see,” he says. “Besides, you were being a bitch to me. Who pulls off someone’s hair and runs away?”
“You won’t understand,” I say. I wrap the bed sheet around myself and get up to leave.
“Where are you going?” He asks.
“Back home,” I say, picking my dress up from the floor.
He starts walking toward me. I drop the sheet and clothes and make for the door, whistling for my broom. He catches my wrist and pulls me back, pushing me against the wall as he grabs my other hand.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asks, studying my face. I am aware of my nakedness against him. I glower at him and then look away. He is incredibly hot. His arms are toned, biceps strong, sparsely haired body and he has a thin line of hair receding into his groin from his six-pack. But I also know he is dangerous. Dragons can easily kill witches—they can’t do spells, but their blood has strong magic in it.
He shakes his head, letting me go. I pick up the bed sheet again, covering myself, gather my dress and heels and begin to walk toward the door. Then I remember I still need dragon hair. I turn around and see him walking to the balcony, arms on the railings, basking in the sun. I want him suddenly and it is confusing.
“Dell,” I call out.
“What?” He doesn’t turn around.
“I am sorry,” I say. He turns around, frowning sarcastically—or maybe he is confused as well. “I still need dragon hair.”
He plucks a few strands from his head and puts them in my hand. “Here, now you can leave.”
“All right,” I say.
“You could have just asked last night. Not everyone is out to kill or rape you. People can be nice, but your cynicism doesn’t help.”
“I didn’t know you were a Dragon Shifter,” I say, still hungover, unable to properly keep up with this broken conversation.“Why are you being so nice to me?”
He breaks into a tentative smile, “Because I think you are cute.”
“I guess I have already screwed this up,” I shrug as I turn to leave. His face remains expressionless. A part of me wants him to stop me. I know it is nothing more than physical attraction, that I am drawn to this bronze-skinned hunk standing in front of me in gray sweats, his chocolate brown hair, matted and swept back. His face is loosely V-shaped, softer around the chin, his jaw chiseled, his lips pink—two thin lines, his nose erect, slightly turned up. His eyes have a supernatural glow. I now realize that it is the glow of dragon’s eyes.
Every part of me wants him to stop me. As I walk out the door, ready to turn around and run to him as soon as he calls my name, my heart sinks deeper with every step I take—from his bedroom, back to my apartment.
Chapter Six - The Crushed Butterflies
Dell
I can see it now, the way she acted was a reflection of her inner turmoil. I know why I have taken a liking to her. She reminds me of how I was a few centuries ago. Back in my own youth, when I was trying to find my place, my identity. It is a silent, rambunctious rebellion that almost everyone goes through: humans, witches, dragons, etc.
In the 732 years of my life, there are only a few things I have done that I would label as “difficult.” Not looking at her as she sat in my bed was one of them. As she stood at my door, ready to leave, I looked away. I didn’t call her back. I know she would have stopped if I did, but it would be a passing fancy for a girl of her temperament. If I gave her what she wanted, it would make it easier for her to leave me, to go away and never turn back. I remembered what my grandfather had said to me:
“If you really love someone or something, let it go. If it returns, it is yours to keep - if it doesn’t, it was never yours in the first place.”
I knew what I had to do. I let her go. I had to let her go and not think about it, like setting a bird free. There is no point in hoping it will come back, but if it does…. I wish she comes back.
I had better control myself. Everything seems too cliché, this sudden love, this aching for her. It’s like a romance from a third-class novel. But it only takes that one person to shake your foundation to the core. I know now that she would either make my life heaven or destroy it.
“Control, Delindor,” I tell myself. “Control.”
At nights, I smell her in my bed. Her outline on the bed fades, but her scent remains. In my sleep, I reach for her, only to find I am reaching for a phantom. I see her standing in the door, laughing smugly as she points a finger at me. One moment she is there, the next she is gone.
Then I remember that she forgot her broom. I start waiting for her to show up, to ask for her broom. All I want is to see her just one more time, take in her serene beauty. Cyrene—how can a person with such a calm name harbor such storms inside. I block her out of my head, but my heart never stops aching for her. I sneak into Greystone Manor everyday to find her, to get her to pour the love potion down my throat and take me out of the club and run along the streets. But she is nowhere to be found. I wonder if her love potion has actually worked, if dragons are not as immune as they believe they are. Is it love, lust or infatuation? Only she holds the answer.
And then she suddenly appears at my door at two in the morning, beating the door with her bare knuckles.
“Who is it?” I ask, groggily getting out of bed.
“It’s me,” she says. “Cyrene.”
I recognize her voice instantly and walk calmly to the door. I can’t have her know that I am on to her game.
“What do you want?” I ask gruffly.
“I just came for my broom,” she says. She is wearing black pajamas—Black, the witch favorite. They don't choose it, it is in their nature. She looks tired, her eyes droopy like she is straight out of the bed.
“Come in,” I s
ay, hoping she would come in.
“I have to be somewhere,” she says, tapping her foot impatiently. I fetch her broom and hand it to her.
“Anything else,” I ask, yawning.
“No,” she says. “And thanks,” she smiles, her teeth small, tiny, perfectly aligned. “Actually, yes,” she says, reaching into her purse.
“Eh?”
“There’s this fashion show, my first show,” she says. “Here’s a pass, come if you like,” she presses a pass into my hand. I caress the back of her hand with my thumb. “It’s my debut, actually.”
“I will try to make it.”
She turns around to leave and takes two steps, then pauses. I stand still in the door frame.
“Oh heck,” she says, turning around, her arms wide open as she runs into me. Her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my back. She clings to me with the same ache as I have for her. She parts her luscious lips and fixes them on mine.
I carry her easily and turn back around, kick the door shut and take her to my bed. She is still clinging to me as we fall on the bed. She sits on top of me, my tongue exploring her mouth, her long fingers reaching under my tee, pushing it up. She breaks the kiss and tosses my shirt on the floor, then plasters a hard kiss on my lips again. She gets up, still straddling me and smacks her lips. I hook my finger into her tee shirt and pull, revealing the half moons of her beautiful breasts, heavy and pressed together, a sliver between them.
She smiles. I grab her shirt and pull it over her head, then push her on her back and get on top. I know what she needs. She arches her neck and bites my lip. I grab her breasts, my fingers caressing her skin, my thumb twirling around her hard nipples. A moan escapes her lips.
I kiss her on the mouth, on her neck, going down slowly, from her breasts to her stomach. I bite her pajama bottoms and pull it down. She pulls down her panties.
“Whoa, easy there,” I say, pushing her hands back.
Chapter Seven - Every Nook, Every Cranny
Cyrene
He plays with my knockers, his thumbs rubbing on my tits, as he hovers over me, exploring every nook and every cranny. His tongue sinks into my collarbone as he tastes my skin, breathing in my scent deeply. I want him inside me. He pulls down my pj's and I push down my panties.
“Whoa, easy there,” he says, grabbing my hands by the wrists. He wants to be the alpha here. I just want him inside me. I want him to take me. I don’t care who is dominant right now. He pushes his finger into my mouth and I suck on it, my eyes closed, my body tense. Then he pushes the finger inside me, thrusting in and out gently. One finger, two fingers, three big fingers as my juices begin flowing. He lowers his head between my legs, exhales on my slightly haired pussy, then descends. I feel his wet tongue flicker around, tasting me again, making out with my pussy. He tongue-fucks me softly, devouring my pussy hungrily. I arch my back, my body pulsating as I open my eyes and see him going down on me. My eyes wander to the wall behind him, to the clock, to the time.
“Holy fucking shit!”
He moans without stopping.
“Stop,” I say. “Shit, fuck, shit, shit, shit.”
“What,” he looks at me, his head still between my legs.
“I have to go.”
“What,” he looks bewildered. “Now? Right now?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you have to?”
“It’s the coven meeting. I forgot. I…I just—”
“It’s okay,” he says, his disappointment visible in his eyes.
“I…” I begin.
“Just go,” he says, looking away.
I hurriedly put my clothes back on, grab my purse, hop on my broom and kick it. Leaving my heart behind, I head high up into the air, above the clouds, to the coven meeting.
Half a dozen witches are already there. The other half joins in soon and then Minerva appears and smiles at me.
“Good of you to show on time for a change,” she says.
“Here,” I toss the dragon hair to her.
“See, that wasn’t so difficult now, was it? I told you I knew you could do it.”
“It almost cost me my life.”
“We all must take risks,” she says.
“Aren’t you the one who keeps telling us to be careful?” I counter.
“I am. Don’t be reckless, don’t take unnecessary risks, but don’t stop taking risks altogether. Life would be no fun without them.”
“What do you know about fun,” I murmur. Minerva looks at me questioningly. I shake my head.
Bats flies in. “Cyrene! You are here! I went to your place, couldn’t find you,” she pants. “I was so worried.”
I just shrug. Minerva begins the meeting, but nothing of importance comes up. Before dismissing us, she asks if any of us have questions or suggestions. I raise my hand.
“What happens if a witch falls in love with a dragon?”
Minerva narrows her gaze, a knowing look on her face. I hate her knowing looks. Another stupid witch mumbles, “It’s an abomination.”
“Take the risks you have to,” Minerva says. “We all do.”
“One more thing,” I raise my hand again.
Minerva nods with a jerk of her chin toward me.
“Can we have these meetings on Skype instead? That would be quicker, faster and more convenient for everyone.”
“Oh Cyrene, my child, when will you learn,” she says and flies away. All the witches disappear into thin air, leaving me with Bats.
“What, no rush to go back home?” She asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Is everything okay?” Bats looks concerned.
“I think I might be falling in love.”
“That is a good thing, Cyrene.”
“With a Dragon Shifter,” I add.
“I don’t know what to say,” she says.
“Yeah, neither do I.”
We both fly off in different directions, back to our homes.
***
I lie in bed thinking about Dell, unable to sleep. I know where he lives and yet I don’t have his number. I have my first show coming up, my schedule is filled with rehearsals and work and the more I try to make time for him, the less time I find.
I also have a meeting coming up with Erin Vam, the head of Glance Modeling Agency. I have only heard her name, never seen or met her. People rave about her like she is some kind of Goddess. I am told I will get to meet her after my debut, be the show opener and stopper for her new line of Fall/Winter collection.
In the days that follow, I see my life taking on a new dimension, splitting into two directions. The one I signed up for, the life of glamour and the one I didn’t sign up for, falling for Dell. I know nothing about him. What does he want? He didn’t seem too interested. Does he just want sex? Or does he want something more? Am I ready for more?
I get an advance paycheck and quit my remaining job to fully focus on modeling. Fred keeps calling me ‘raw,’ while Yael morphs me into someone I can’t recognize. Two days before the final show, I have a huge disagreement with Fred.
I sit in front of a mirror as Yael guides a stylist, suggesting my looks.
“You have to arrange her hair so she can be a show opener with one style,” Yael says in her thick Israeli accent, “but be the show stopper with a different one.”
The stylist, a lean guy with gray and black hair, nods.
I close my eyes as he works on my eyes, plumps my lips as he paints them and then Fred barges in.
“Listen,” he says, “your hair is beautiful. But you need to get it cut shorter so we can focus on the clothes you display.”
“No one touches my hair,” I say. “It’s non-negotiable.”
“It is in your contract,” he says. “We own you.”
Yael looks nervous, flitting about, trying to speak but remaining quiet.
“Like fuck you do,” I say, knocking my mug, spilling the coffee on the makeup table. Yael rushes to find tissue papers to clean up. The stylist
goes slow-mo in an Oh-My-God way.
“We will sue you, take you to court,” Fred yells back.
I ignore him and walk out, my make-up half done.
Chapter Eight - Take Me Away
Dell
The bell rings. I answer. She stands there leaning against the door. With a cigarette in hand, she is looking beautiful, dangerous and fragile. She looks like a bomb about to explode. Her face is red like chili, caked with powder, hiding her features with a plastic facade. Her eyes are brimming with tears, her head cocked up. She juts her lower lip and exhales lightly.
“Cyrene,” I say, happy to see her.
“I can’t do this,” she says.
“Can’t do what?” I ask. She looks away, not trusting herself to talk.
She raises her hands in resignation. “This, with you. Anything. Everything.”
“Come on, come inside,” I say. She follows me into the living room and leans on the couch, her legs on the table.
“Wine?” I ask. She nods. I get two glasses and pour red wine, hand one glass to her. She downs it in one go and pours herself another.
“You are the weirdest witch I have ever seen,” I tell her.
“Join the club,” she says through gritted teeth. “More power to you.”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
“What does it matter?” she says. “Everything I do always seems to go awry, blowing up in my face. I fuck everything up. I don’t know where my life is headed, what I am doing and nothing makes sense anymore. It never did.”
I refill her glass and sit next to her and put my arm around her neck. “I am not in the mood for sex,” she says. “Not everything is about sex,” I say. She remains stiff for a minute, lights another cigarette, takes a sip of her red wine and then leans back with her head on my chest.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” she says.
“Can you hear what it says?” I ask. She turns around, straddles me again and slowly pushes her cigarette into my mouth.
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
