Bound to the Naga (Monster Mates #2)
1. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
The Bracelet, the Broke Girl, and the Cobra
Aubrey
The flickering kitchen light makes my phone screen even harder to read, but my negative bank account balance glares back at me anyway. It sort of reminds me of how Derek used to look at me—judgmental, with that hint of smugness that always made me feel two inches tall.
“You need to be more responsible with your finances, Bree,” he’d say, as if most of my income wasn’t going to the insane price of merely existing in a city like Houston. The last straw wasn’t even his biggest offense—just the final one.
Standing at his firm’s holiday party, glass in hand, he decided to use me as his cautionary tale: “This is why you need a proper financial adviser, everyone. My girlfriend here thinks job-hopping is a viable career strategy.”
Ex-girlfriend, as it turned out about thirty seconds later.
I’d felt so powerful walking out that night, leaving him mid-sentence.
Now, staring at my account balance, all the power is gone as I realize pride doesn’t pay rent.
He helped me a lot. Financially, anyway. I always appreciated that. But the demeaning comments got to be a bit too much.
Maybe he had a point, though.
My best friend Maggie and I aren’t exactly living our best lives, even despite splitting the bills and rent.
Our apartment’s ancient AC unit rattles against the Houston summer heat. From somewhere down the hall, music thumps through the paper-thin walls, mixing with the constant hum of traffic outside.
The salvaged kitchen table wobbles as I shift my elbows and eye our attempts at “adulting” around me: a dying succulent that even Google couldn’t help us save, takeout menus arranged in what Maggie calls our “cuisine filing system,” and a collection of inspirational magnets on the fridge that mock me with phrases like “Living My Best Life!” and “Hustle & Flow.”
My half of the rent is due in five days, there’s a quarter tank of gas in my car, and the entire apartment smells like the popcorn I burned last night while stress-watching reality TV.
“This is fine,” I mutter to myself, even though it’s definitely not fine. “Everything is totally, completely fine.”
The phone buzzes in my hand, making me jump. Mom’s name pops up, as if she has a sixth sense that goes off exactly when I’m at my lowest. The message, of course, is overloaded with exclamation points and emojis.
Aubrey-bean, just checking on you. Your old room is exactly as you left it ? You can come back any time. Room, board, and meals included!!! Call us! XO Mom
My stomach lurches at the mere suggestion of returning to some teenage time capsule of boy band posters and stuffed animals. The thought of moving back home, of being suffocated by my parents’ well-meaning but overwhelming presence, makes me want to crawl under my bed and never come out. I’d honestly rather live on the streets.
The couch springs creak as Maggie shifts position in the living room, the sound drawing my attention to where she’s created her usual nest of throw pillows and snack wrappers. Her newly dyed purple hair spills over the armrest as she scrolls through her phone, the late afternoon sun catching the metallic threads in her thrifted tank top.
“You’re making that face again,” she announces without looking up. Her tone’s light, teasing, but underneath it there’s the weight of someone who’s seen me at my worst—and knows when I’m about to spiral hard enough for gravity to break.
“What look?” I ask, playing stupid.
She puts her phone down as she glances at me over the mountain of pillows she’s hoarding. “The one that says you’re contemplating selling a kidney on the black market.”
“I’m not making a face,” I lie, even as I catch my reflection on the phone screen. Okay, maybe I’m making a face. “And besides, who says the black market wouldn’t be a valid financial move at this point?”
“Girl, no.” Maggie sits up, her expression shifting from playful to that particular brand of best-friend concern that always makes me feel simultaneously loved and called out. “Look, I might have a short-term solution. There’s this pawn shop down the street. I got an amazing price for those anime figures my ex left behind before you moved in. The owner’s super fair with his pricing, and…” A sly grin spreads across her face. “Let’s just say the view makes the negotiations even better. Tall, dark, handsome, scaled…”
I blink. “Scaled?”
“Mmhmm. He’s a naga. You know, a half-man, half-snake chiseled god sort of deal?”
My stomach does a little flip. “A naga,” I repeat weakly.
Even after five years, I still haven’t wrapped my head around the fact that monsters are real. That they’ve been here all along, hidden behind whatever magic kept us humans oblivious.
The Great Unveiling changed everything—suddenly your dentist might be a vampire, or your mailman could have tentacles under his uniform. And while I like to think I’m pretty open to stuff like that, somehow every interaction I’ve had with non-humans has turned into a masterclass in social awkwardness.
I cringe, remembering how I recommended a new sushi place to my mermaid coworker. She’d been nice about it, but still. There are some things you can’t come back from.
But then again, a fair pawn shop, in this economy…?
My fingers find my grandmother’s bracelet, its familiar weight on my wrist both comforting and suddenly heavy with possibility. The delicate gold links have survived two world wars, countless family dramas, and my entire awkward teenage phase.
I’ll always remember sitting on Gran’s lap as she told me stories about how it came from the old country, how it was lucky, how it brought protection. Back then, I thought she was just spinning tales. Now, with everything we know about magic being real… I try to ignore the pang of guilt as I twist it around my wrist.
Gran wore it through the London Blitz, through immigration, through every hardship life threw at her. “It will always bring you home,” she’d say, kissing my forehead as she fastened it around my wrist on my fourteenth birthday.
The guilt of considering pawning it sits like lead in my stomach, but I can easily imagine what she’d say now: “It’s just a chunk of metal, love. You’re what matters.”
She was the person who taught me that material possessions aren’t important. That sometimes you have to scratch and scrimp to get by.
It’s the slow season at work right now, but as long as things pick up, I should get enough tips to buy the bracelet back in a month or two. Then again, if I don’t…
I sigh. “I don’t know, Mags.”
“What I know,” Maggie says, swinging her legs off the couch, “is that your choices are, one: pawning something you can buy back later, two: moving back home with your overbearing parents, or three: doing that kidney thing. And honey, you don’t have a good enough poker face for the black market. They’d take more than just a kidney.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. I hate it when she’s right.
The next morning finds me standing outside The Golden Scale Pawn Shop, the name written in elegant gold lettering that somehow manages to look both ancient and modern. Through the window, I see display cases filled with objects that seem to shimmer with more than just regular dust.
When I push open the door, the soft chime of bells is drowned out by my thundering heartbeat. The air smells like old books and something spicier—incense maybe, but earthy.
Display cases line the walls in a bizarre parade of the mundane and mysterious: a rack of used guitars stands next to what appears to be a floating violin playing itself, while a case of vintage Rolexes shares space with watches whose hands spin backward. A perfectly ordinary beer sign flickers next to a crystal ball that’s showing what looks to be last week’s weather forecast.
It’s like someone combined a typical cash-for-gold joint with Hogwarts’ Lost & Found department.
I drift deeper into the shop, drawn by the gentle hum of magic that seems to pulse from the stranger items. A porcelain doll in a Victorian dress curtsies as I pass—definitely filing that under ‘things that will haunt my nightmares.’ Past the front displays, the space opens up, revealing more mysterious treasures tucked into shadowy alcoves: a collection of hourglasses filled with sparkling sand, a floating carpet, and—hang on—is that a first edition Furby, still in its original box? The demon-spawn of 90s toys, sandwiched between actual magical artifacts?
Somehow it’s more unsettling than the haunted items
That’s when I hear a voice as smooth as velvet. “Of everything here, it’s the Furby that catches your attention?”
I jerk back, turning to see… him.
The naga Maggie told me about.
And good God, she was not exaggerating.
He rises from behind the counter where he’s been apparently organizing something, and my brain short-circuits.
The first thing that strikes me is his height—he towers at well over eight feet of coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His upper body is humanoid in shape but entirely covered in sleek black scales that catch golden highlights under the shop’s warm lighting. He wears a vest that does nothing to hide his broad shoulders, and a deep crimson sash wraps around his waist where his torso seamlessly flows into his serpentine lower half. Though, frustratingly, I can’t see much else behind the counter.
His face is a fascinating blend of human and snake—with a refined muzzle, sharp cheekbones, and expressive brow ridges. His molten gold eyes… God, it’s like they’re piercing right through me, with vertical pupils that seem to catalog my every movement. A cobra hood, currently relaxed, frames his head like a living crown, as if he could look any more regal.
“Welcome,” he says—and Lord save me—his voice. It’s deep, smooth, and with an accent I can’t place that somehow makes that single word sound like rich honey. “I’m Sundar,” he continues, his head swaying slightly. “How might I be of service today?”
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. The best I can muster up is a very unattractive throat clearing as my mind races, unable to form words.
He cocks his head, and a forked tongue slips out for a split second, like it’s trying to detect any signs of intelligent life.
“Yeah, so, uh,” I begin, then clear my throat again.
Wow. Way to go. I’m really nailing it.
What was my whole plan again?
Oh, right. The bracelet feels like it’s contracting around my wrist, reminding me of why I’m here.
Focus. This is just a pawn shop. With a devastatingly handsome snake man running it. Totally normal.
Finally, I square my shoulders, lifting my chin. I can do this. “I have something to sell. Or pawn. Preferably pawn.”
He shifts, scales catching the light as he moves closer to the counter. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves, fluid and powerful all at once. The sash at his waist ripples with the motion, and I find myself wondering exactly how the transition works under there—then immediately force my thoughts toward a less dangerous direction.
I lift my arm, pointing at the bracelet. “This. It’s… It’s a family heirloom. So I was hoping it might be worth something.”
His hood flares slightly as his eyes narrow, focusing on my wrist with an intensity that makes the temperature in the shop feel ten degrees warmer. The way he studies the bracelet—studies me —makes me feel like prey, yet somehow it doesn’t make me want to run. It makes me want to step closer, to see what might happen if I walk within a predator’s reach…
“An interesting piece,” he murmurs, and somehow he’s closer now, though I didn’t see him move. He’s emerged fully from behind the counter, and my breath catches as I take in the full length of him—his serpentine body must be at least fifteen feet from waist to tip, his powerful tail shifting with liquid grace as he moves.
My traitorous mind immediately conjures an image of how easily that length could wrap around my entire body, those muscles flexing against my skin, restricting me, pinning me down and—nope. Not going there. This is a business transaction, not a fantasy novel.
But watching his tail coil into loops beneath him, scales gleaming like black silk, I can’t quite banish the thought. My mouth goes dry as he leans closer, studying the bracelet.
“It’s most certainly valuable,” he begins, watching me closely. “But tell me. Why do your hands shake when you offer it?”
My eyes meet his, and in that moment, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. Not coming here—no, that was probably the most reasonable decision I’ve made all week.
The mistake was thinking I could walk into this shop, face this creature with his ancient eyes and impossible grace, and walk away unchanged.
Because right now, watching his cobra hood flare slightly as he scents the air between us with his forked tongue, I know with bone-deep certainty that I’m already caught.
And the scariest part? I don’t want to escape.