by Alisa Woods
But in a good way, for once.
So many bad things have turned my world upside down. Why would the first good thing in a long time have to be part of all the crazy? The last time something seemed too good to be true, I let someone inside who didn’t deserve it. Who wasn’t what he seemed. And I can’t afford that kind of hit right now—or anytime soon.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Oh, my God, it’s Grace. Jayda, Hey! Just checking in. I have so much to tell you!
What the hell? Just checking in? I’ve been sending her relentless texts since I was back in the gallery, and she’s just like Hey? And what about the fucking Vardigah? Dread fills my chest—her hot boyfriend, Theo, is part of this. And the last time I trusted the wrong person, I lost a best friend because of it, too.
I text back. How could you do this to me?
Ree returns with my juice refill, and the alarm on my face registers with him damn fast. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just Grace.” I purse my lips and ignore his concerned attention. If all this is some massive house-of-cards lie, and that’s about to become obvious, then I need to keep it cool until I can find a way out.
Grace’s text comes back. Niko says you should be safe with Ree. What’s wrong??
Some of the tension in my body drains out. I reply, What did I tell you about answering my texts? Because this would have been much easier if Grace had texted back even once in the last twelve hours. And the Vardigah?? In the alley?? I add. I’ve been on my own with this. Just typing it out makes me feel better, but it also feels like a lie—especially with Ree watching me like I’m a bomb that’s about to explode.
OMG I’m sorry, Grace texts back. Be right there.
Wait, what? I’m in fucking France, I start to text then Ree jerks into motion, drawing my attention—
What the hell? Grace is standing next to the couch, and Ree’s got a gun trained on her. “Holy shit,” I breathe.
Grace’s hands belatedly go up, but Ree’s already lowering his weapon and shaking his head. He points a finger at Grace. “Don’t do that again.”
She looks sheepish. My brain is imploding. “Did you just… Grace.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she gushes as she scoots around Ree to slam a hug into me. “I shouldn’t have sprung the whole teleportation thing on you!” She’s jabbering on about something else, hugging me hard as she kind of vibrates in place, but my body is going numb. My mind is blanking out. This isn’t real. None of this is real. It can’t be. Which means some time in the last twelve hours, I had a brain aneurysm or something, and all of this has been some wild-ass dream—
“Jayda?” It’s Ree, his laser-focus on me even as Grace is still excessively hugging me.
She pulls back. “Oh, no. I’ve freaked you out.”
I just blink. “I’m okay.” There’s a ringing in my ears.
“Oh, shit. Jayda… come sit down.” Grace guides me to the couch. I’m still in my pajamas. I curl up in the corner, and it flashes me back to when our positions were reversed—Grace still recovering from her panic attack on the set, and me trying to make sure she was okay. Now she’s on the couch with me, holding my hand and peering earnestly into my eyes.
I look at her hand in mine. “Tell me you’re okay, Grace.” That was always my anchor—get Grace through the nightmare, through the torture, and we’d all make it out the other side. She gave me a reason to make it through.
“I am so good.” She wraps her other hand around both of ours. “I know it’s crazy, this whole dragon business, but it’s good. I’m in love. I’m mated. And now I’m a dragon, too!”
That draws me out of the haze that’s crowding my mind. “I’m sorry, what?”
Ree’s standing behind the couch now, gripping the back, close yet not interfering, but there’s fury on his face. Like he wants to tackle Grace to stop her from talking, but that invisible force field is up again.
“That’s how I can teleport!” Grace’s smile is crazy happy. At least in this wild dream I’m having, she seems to have found some bliss. “Theo and I are soul mates. When we made love—and holy shit, Jayda, you are not going to believe the sex!—we mated and…” She releases me and makes jazz hands. “Magic! Honestly, I have no idea how it works. But Theo and I are connected now in a way I can’t even begin to describe. And I can shift into a dragon! And teleport! It’s fucking amazing.”
I’m just staring at her, mute. No idea what to say.
“Do you want me to show you my dragon?” Grace asks, eyes alight.
“No.” Ree’s voice is strung tight. He’s going to rip holes in the couch with how hard he’s gripping it. “Grace, how about we give Jayda a chance to—”
“I’m fine.” I carefully unfold my legs and work my way up from the couch. One step at a time, I slowly, methodically, put distance between me and the two of them. I don’t know how to escape this. How do you break out of a dream? How do you know if you’ve lost your mind? A deeper horror ripples through me. Maybe I never left the torture cell. Maybe all of the time since I’ve been back has been one long dream—
“Jayda.” The voice is soft but masculine. Ree.
I’ve been staring at the wall. I narrow my eyes and focus on him. It seems strange that my mind would conjure someone like Ree. I’ve never known anyone like him. He’s powerful but reserved. Strong but gentle. Sexy in a way that slips under every resistance I have. Maybe that’s it—he’s too perfect for me because he’s not, in fact, real.
Grace scoots up next to him. “Jayda, I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m fine.” I feel like a robot, repeating the same lie again and again.
Grace frowns and looks hurt. Which I would care about if she were real. Real Grace would need me, not the other way around, anyway, so obviously things are even worse than I thought.
“I can take it from here,” Ree says quietly to her.
“But can I just—”
“It’s all right.”
I turn away from them. The food is still sitting on a tray on the coffee table, but I’ve lost my appetite. My laptop is sitting open on the floor, tables of numbers waiting for my analysis, but that’s probably part of the dream, too. My feet are the only thing that feels something, the soft squish of super-luxury carpet on my toes as I drift to the end of the couch and stare at the abstract painting on the wall. Why would my delusion bring me to France? I’ve never been that drawn to Europe. It’s always been New York. The big apple. As far from my hometown Georgia roots as it felt I could go. And yet, I’ve always worked so hard that I’ve never had time for a play. Or the art museum. Business was where my head was always at.
None of this makes sense.
Four
Ree
I finally convince Grace to teleport back to wherever she came from.
Fuck, Jayda’s a mess. She’s staring at the abstract painting I purchased from a Parisian art gallery fifty years ago. I’ve long ago forgotten the artist. She’s examining its broad swirls like they hold the secret to coming out of whatever fugue has gripped her.
“Grace has left,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
“She teleported back to her dragon soul mate.” Maybe I can jolt her out of this. Every muscle in my body tenses, willing her to shake it off.
Jayda slowly turns her head to me. “You’re trying to annoy me.”
“Is it working?” I give her half a smile.
She frowns. “This isn’t a game.”
“Isn’t it?” I prod. “What did you call it? A fucking cosplay gang war, I believe.”
The frown grows darker. She turns to face me fully. “None of this is real.”
“You’d better hope it is.”
She grits her teeth. Her fists curl up.
That’s right, fight it, mon trésor. “Because if none of this is real, then you’re not safe at all. And nothing I can do can protect you.”
Her eyes widen a little, the fear claiming
them, and it runs a chill through my heart. But I need her to accept the unacceptable, not shut it out or shut down or whatever trick her mind is playing on her to reject what her eyes have seen plain before her.
“I’m a dragon.” I hold her gaze so she can’t look away. “And a man. I’ve lived for two hundred and ten years as such, and I can tell you, most humans are weak. They cannot endure the things you have. They can’t accept things they don’t understand. But you’re not like them. You’re dragon spirited. It’s why you were taken by the Vardigah. It’s why they tried to destroy you. But there’s too much fire in you to be put out by the likes of them. You’re too strong.”
“I’m not.” It’s a whisper. Her lips tremble with it.
God, I want to take her in my arms. But she’s not there yet. “Don’t lie to me.”
“It’s true!” Her eyes are glassing with tears, but they’re angry. Her fists rise, and she shakes them in front of her. “I can’t do this… this is crazy...”
I grip her shoulders. “It’s real. Accept it.”
“No!” She slams her fists into my chest.
It loosens my hold, so I release her.
She cradles one hand like it hurts. “Goddamnit,” she mutters. But it sounds clearer.
“Am I a little too real for you?” I tease.
“You’re really fucking annoying!” she snaps.
The tension in my body eases. “Hit me again,” I say.
“You’re a SEAL or some shit,” she snarls. “I’m not going to fight you.”
“I didn’t say fight. I said hit me.” I put up my hands, palms flat to her, like sparring mitts. “You look like a woman who knows how to throw a punch. Aim for the center of my palm.” I’ve seen her work out at the kickboxing gym she likes to frequent. I know this is how she vents all that time at the office, dealing with the assholes of the financial world.
She’s glaring at me, but then she growls and winds up to throw the punch. I catch it, gently, letting my hand give just enough resistance, so it’s not like she’s slamming her beautiful hand into a rock. I want those hands on me, someday—they need to not be broken.
She’s breathing hard now, but not like before—this is controlled. Angry, but real. She throws a punch at the other hand. I catch it, softly, open-handed, then ease off.
“That’s it,” I say. “But harder. Hit me like I’m the fucking Vardigah.”
She sets her teeth and punches again. One-two. Right-left. I step back, so she has further to reach, but she comes closer again. One-two. Growling with each throw. Fuck me, this is turning me on, and that is not my intent.
“Harder,” I say through my teeth.
She groans in frustration and punches again. One-two. One-two. But they’re cleaner shots with more power. Her hair is wild around her face. Her knuckles are reddening with the impact. I can go like this all day—that’s a lie; I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her—but she needs to vent this and be done.
“Come on, now,” I goad her. “They fucking tortured you. They’re real, they’re bastards, and they took everything from you. If they were standing here right now, you would not play patty cake. Put all your anger into it. Give me all of it.”
She growl-groans again and pummels me, a flurry of punches that has me stepping back because she’s leaning in so hard. Then there’s something under my foot—her laptop?—and I’m off-kilter just as she screams out her rage and whirls and catches me with a full-on, spinning back kick. It knocks me square in the chest, and I’m afraid I’ll wipe out her computer, so I take the fall.
Somehow, I forget the coffee table and manage to smash it to pieces on the way down.
“Oh, shit.” Jayda’s hands un-fist and fly to her mouth. Then she leaps forward and kneels down. “Oh my God, Ree! Are you okay?” Her hands are on me—just light on my chest, but I reflexively reach up, both hands in her hair, cupping her cheeks as she looms over me. She’s freaked and concerned, but it’s all about me, which is perfect. She freezes at my touch, lips parted, breathing hard.
I’m aching to pull her down into a kiss. “Does that feel real to you?”
She doesn’t move away. “Yes,” she breathes. Then she shivers and pulls out of my hold, rocking back on her knees, then standing up and peering down at me. Her eyes are still dilated. I know it affects her. “You okay?”
I smirk. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
She steps back, and it’s a little unsteady. As I’m picking myself up out of the coffee table debris field—complete with destroyed breakfast and splattered orange juice that will be a nightmare to clean—Jayda turns and stumbles toward the kitchen. I brush myself off and follow. The kitchen is good sized with a center island and professional appliances, for when I’m in the mood to cook, but she’s just after a glass of water, which she’s chugging as I enter. She sets the glass down and braces her hands against the counter, breathing heavily.
Everything about her is enticing, from her cloud of silky curls to her bare feet on the floor. Her pajamas are loose and rumpled. Her pulse has to be elevated already. She’s pumped from the fight, the fall, and now whatever conclusion she’s coming to about all of this.
And I want to cement in her mind the reality of this situation.
I ease up behind her, one hand skimming her waist, the other threading up into her hair from below. She sighs like she expects it—she doesn’t pull away, but she’s not melting into my touch, either.
“I don’t need a man.”
I massage her scalp a little, nudging her head to the side so I can brush her ear with my lips. “Didn’t say you did,” I whisper along her skin. I feel the shudder that runs through her.
“But if I did, I’d want a grown-ass man. Not someone who plays dress-up.”
I nuzzle her neck. “I’m a grown man.” My cock is hard enough for her to feel, but she’s still resisting, still holding away from my body. I slide my hand across the top of her pajamas, my palm flat against her belly, my fingers dipping below the waistband. “I’m very good at precisely two things,” I whisper against her neck, dying for the first taste. “Killing anything that would hurt you and knowing how to make you come.” She sucks in a breath as I pull her back against me, the hardness of my cock pressing into the softness of her rear. “Tell me to stop,” I say as I slide my hand down between her legs. The downy softness of her mound, the slick wetness below. She’s pulling air between her teeth now, arms rigid as she presses her hands into the counter. I dip a finger into her folds, stroking slow and steady, while my other hand is fisting and pulling her hair, slowly bending her head back, bringing her more strongly against me, so I can have full access to pleasure her body. My cheek is pressed to hers. Both of us are breathing hard now. “Tell me you want this.” I stroke her nub. She squirms against me. “Tell me you need this.” She lets go of the counter with one hand and grabs at my arm, the one halfway down her pants, but it’s not to stop me. I use my teeth to rake across her cheek. “Say it.”
She shudders in my arms. “I need this.”
Fuck yes. I let go of her hair and wrap my arm around her chest, the heavy globe of her breast full in my hand as I pull her hard against me. She arches up, on her toes, legs spread as she leans back into me, giving me more access, and I use it all. My hand works that sweet, hot wetness, thrumming her nub, stroking her long and hard, thrusting up and inside with two fingers and then three. I’m working her hard, and she’s squirming and moaning, racing there so fast, she must have needed it bad.
“Oh, yes,” I breathe, the jostle of her body against my cock exquisite.
She’s pushing against the counter, against me, jolting as I stroke her, but she’s hardly making a sound. Only a humming sort of whimper that’s climbing higher and higher. Then she gasps and convulses, both the shudder of her sex and the shaking of her body. She cries out, “Fuck!” just once, and then a soft moaning whimper as she comes down the other side. Slowly, she melts into me, the pleasure making her soft and pliable,
a goddess in repose against my body.
Oh, the things I want to do with her.
I pull my hand from between her legs and turn her around to face me. Her eyes are beautifully lidded, nearly closed in her post-orgasmic haze. She leans back against the counter, her hands lazy against my shoulders.
“Holy shit, Ree,” she breathes. She fumbles for my cock like she thinks she’ll return the favor.
Not even close.
I lean in fast, pressing my body against hers and burrowing my face into her hair. “Did that feel real?”
She laughs a little, in a breathy way. Then her breath hitches as I pull her slightly away from the counter. I slide my hands down the gorgeous round of her bottom, taking her pajamas and letting them fall once they’re past her thighs.
“Oh,” she says, then, “I have protection.”
“That’s nice.” I grab her under the arms and hoist her up on the counter.
She makes a noise of surprise, and her eyes fly open. Then I don’t see her expression as I bury my face between her legs, but I hear the gasp of surprise, the clutch of her hand against my shoulder. I fling away the pajama bottoms and continue my feast on her blossoming sex, hooking her legs over my shoulders and holding her fast in place.
“Oh God.” I hear her bang into the cupboard as she arches back. “Ree… yes,” follows as I add my fingers to the mix, thrusting hard as I flick my tongue in a way that has her gasping and squirming. “Fuck, yes, God, just like that, oh please, Ree, God, please.” Her babbling is an elixir. I lap at her and thrust and work for every word, every gasp, every exclamation as she builds to a climax that has her shrieking and shaking and digging her fingers into my shoulder. I keep going until every tremor has worked loose. Then I ease up the torment, come up for air, and wipe my face clear of the sopping wetness that’s literally making the floor slick.
“Jesus, Ree,” she says as I boost her down from the counter.
