Chapter Two Monika #2
That was my last assignment in active combat zones.
After that, I started working for an American newspaper covering mostly riots, protests, and the occasional political event.
That’s also how I was reconnected with South Korean Ambassador Min-hyuck.
A close personal friend of my mother’s, the two women worked together when the ambassador was stationed in Germany almost two decades ago.
The moment I decided to leave combat zones behind me, much to my parents’ collective relief, my mom contacted Ambassador Min-hyuck, who started hiring me exclusively for all her major events—an agreement we still have, though now I only accept when her events don’t interfere with my work at the COE.
“Schei?e,” I whisper, and the memory of that smell in that tunnel of our collective stink drags me back to another place, another time.
I hear gunfire, the explosion of the IED that took out our truck in the first place.
I flinch. My bones all lock. My heart slams against my sternum.
I feel the pressure start to close in and can hear Vanessa speaking, but only at a distance.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, but my fucking throat is clogged.
My mind is clear. Rational. Knows that I’m not where my body feels that I am, but when the elevator next lurches and Vanessa screams, I can feel that sinister drag, like the drag of a mutilated body through sand, still unfortunately breathing—click click, I take his picture, and with his remaining energy he looks at me like I’m a viper.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I drop the phone.
It dangles from the coiled black cord uselessly like a corpse hanging from a telephone pole in Gaza.
The body is Palestinian, hung there by Israeli troops after a broken ceasefire.
I don’t know much behind the politics. I just stand beneath the swinging sandaled feet, looking up through my lens, and shoot.
“Let me see if I have service and try to call—” Vanessa starts, but before she can finish her sentence, and before I lose myself entirely to the mist, the massive elevator doors start to crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch open.
Light.
I blink against it. Yellow mingling with an even brighter blue. I look toward it like it’s salvation.
We’re halfway between floors and, like a good millennial, all I can think about is Final Destination 2, until the blue light fades and I can actually see our savior. Then I can’t think of anything at all. My brain is stolen right out of my skull, all the juicy bits and thinking parts gone.
Crouched there on the floor above, head ducked so he can look in at us, is not the fire-breathing-almost-Mr.-Vanessa-Theriot-superbeing I expected to have found us. Instead, my heart is arrested and my budding panic attack is crushed by the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen in real life.
Since the Forty-Eight Hour Festival shoot, I’ve seen him only one time, and in passing in the lobby of his apartment building—and mine.
We damn near collided with one another, but he elegantly sidestepped me, while I lost my balance and crashed into our doorperson, Taylor’s, desk.
Even though he’d seen me just a week before, there was no recognition in his eyes at all.
But he sees me now. And it’s rearranging my insides.
His vivid purple eyes stare straight into my soul, picking it apart, finding and rooting out all the loose strands holding it together and pulling.
Hard. I’m so glad I’m already on my knees, hanging on to the wall for dear life, because when he winks at me and says, “Hey, beautiful, you need saving?” my soul simply dissolves.
“What?” I say, reduced to my mushy parts.
“Taranis,” Vanessa spits, sounding decidedly less enthusiastic than I feel.
“What?” I repeat, this time to her, even though I’m utterly incapable of breaking Taranis’s gaze. It’s fixed on me, so soft and sweet it feels depraved.
“Taranis is the one trying to steal your contract.”
“What?” I say for the third time. I turn to see her moving up into a standing position, but as soon as she’s upright, the entire elevator car lurches again. She stumbles, knocking the back of her head against the wall.
“Sorry about that,” Taranis says.
“Ssi-bal.” I glance at her feet. Crap on a stick, she’s not even wearing heels. I tsk. “Roland is gonna freak out when he sees your face. Stop hurting yourself.”
“The fuck?” a gravelly voice roars, lacking all the smooth, silky edges of Taranis’s voice. A pink shadow appears behind Taranis. “You hurt Vanessa?”
Claws appear on Taranis’s shoulder, the charcoal gray clashing with the subdued colors of his clothing. Taranis rolls his eyes. “I did no such thing. You’ve been with me the entire time.”
The elevator lurches down another inch. Vanessa falls again. “Stop messing with the elevator!” she groans, rubbing her back where she slammed into the rail.
“Taranis is helping us, Roland, calm down! Without him, we’d still be stuck, slowly going insane.” In my case, rather quickly.
With a few final grumbles, the Wyvern backs off, claws slowly uncurling from Taranis’s shoulder. In the meantime, I amble to my own feet, trying to be graceful because I can still feel his eyes on me.
“Thank you, Ms. Neumann.” Ms. Neumann. He knows my name. Holy shit. “And stealing is a harsh word, Ms. Theriot. I’m only requesting we share her.” There’s something so deeply salacious in the way he says the word share, it leaves my stomach cramping. I should just lie down.
Vanessa doesn’t seem to have the same reaction. She scoffs, impervious. “You don’t share. Not according to any of the contracts you have with the COE.”
“I’m willing to learn new things.”
“Since when? You’ve been filing complaints with Mr. Singkham against the Wyvern ever since he reverted—”
“That’s only my PR team. And can you blame them?
Your team has been making them look awful,” he interrupts with a laugh, and I jolt at the sound.
Deep and smooth, with just the slightest smoky-whiskey edge.
It’s not possible for a man’s laugh to be that attractive.
Like a long-dead composer scribbled out his most beautiful score in the margins of this man’s voice—this being, this superbeing.
It shouldn’t be allowed. Yet here he is, laughing again as he holds on to the jammed door, leans across the divide into the elevator, and offers Vanessa his hand.
“Roland can help me,” she says, surprisingly rudely—for her, anyway.
“So little trust. I did just save you from going insane, didn’t I?” He winks at me.
Vanessa still hesitates.
Taranis rolls his eyes. “Considering the Wyvern’s powers aren’t exactly helpful here, I encourage you to see reason. I can either get you out safely, or he can help by turning the elevator into a kiln.”
“Ugh. Fine,” Vanessa mumbles.
“Wait!” I hiss, lunging to intercept Vanessa just as Taranis grabs her wrist. “Haven’t either of you seen Speed?” Both of them stare at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “Or Final Destination 2? Come on, you have to know what I’m talking about. Don’t get split in half!”
Vanessa’s hand is locked in Taranis’s, and they both give me a funny look.
“I . . .” I start, but no other words come out as Taranis’s brows suddenly soften and his perfect, blemish-free light-brown skin smooths. So perfect he could be carved from stone, he makes Michelangelo’s David look like a pox-riddled Pilgrim.
“Actually, maybe she has a point.” Vanessa extracts her grip from Taranis’s and glances at the opening around his body. “Maybe we should wait for maintenance.”
“As you wish, my ladies.” Taranis’s eyes flare, and he winks at me again.
He has naturally thick, curly eyelashes.
Perfect eyebrows. I feel weirdly self-conscious of my unplucked brows, and rub the heels of my hands over them before carding my fingers through my hair.
I remember I haven’t washed it in two weeks.
It’s greasy at the roots and dry at the ends.
What a splendid combination. Also, if I was warm before, I’m sweating now.
Sweating sweating. Like I just ran laps.
Taranis smiles wider, his head slightly cocked.
The elevator lights suddenly turn back on, with no bright flares or concerning adjustment period.
Just off . . . then on. The sound of machines working whir to life, and with one short jolt down, followed by a smooth rise up, we’re suddenly at the floor Taranis is kneeling on.
The elevator dings to announce our arrival.
Taranis is still on the ground on one knee, a dangerous position for me to see him in after having spent so much time reviewing engagement photos this past week.
I stuff my sweaty palms into the pockets of my cargo pants, unable to break his gaze, even as Vanessa skips past me into the open and waiting arms of her giant pink monster.
His horns almost touch the high ceilings, and when he catches her against his chest, which is so thick that it looks like he’s smuggling barrels, she looks half his size.
It’s kinda hot. I’ve never felt particularly dainty at five nine, size 16, and usually end up sleeping with women smaller than me or dudes who weigh as much or less than I do, but I imagine that it might be fun to be tossed around by arms that thick just once.
“Does the dress fit, Monika Kim?” My mom always calls me by her last name whenever speaking with me.
My dad finds it adorable, like a pet name, since in Korea we don’t have many of those for parents to use to refer to their children.
But I always felt like it sounded scolding, even when I was a child.
Now even more so as I remember an unanswered text on my phone.
My mom sent me a dress to wear to the event.
Size 6. Burn. Burn burn burn. Even with his powers over fire, the Wyvern doesn’t touch my mother when it comes to fire.