4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Time and Temptation
Sundar
Time moves differently for my kind. Centuries can pass like seasons, decades blur together in memory. So why has this past month dragged on with excruciating slowness?
I coil my tail behind the counter, pretending to focus on cataloging a newly acquired cursed music box. The familiar task should be soothing—examining the delicate mechanisms, testing for malevolent enchantments, documenting their histories. Instead, my mind wanders treacherously to her .
Aubrey Garrett.
Even thinking her name makes my scales ripple with unwanted awareness. Her scent still seems to linger in corners of my shop, despite how thoroughly I’ve cleaned. Something warm and alive, like sunshine on old books, with undertones of coffee and determination. It’s maddening how often I catch myself seeking it out, tongue flicking unconsciously to taste the air where she once stood.
“You’re being foolish,” I mutter to the music box in my hands, its haunted melody a fitting accompaniment to my dark mood. My tail shifts restlessly beneath me as I recall her smile, the way her eyes lit up when discussing the shop’s oddities. How she didn’t flinch from my more monstrous aspects, but seemed fascinated instead.
Dangerous thoughts. I’m not some lovestruck serpent, mooning over a human who only came here out of desperation. I have centuries of carefully constructed control, of keeping emotions properly caged where they belong. And yet…
The bell above my door chimes, and my entire body tenses before I recognize Mrs. Brindlewood’s distinctive gait. Her half-dragon form casts shadows as she navigates through my displays, wings tucked carefully to avoid disturbing the more volatile items.
“Darling,” she begins, “you’re brooding again. The crystals are getting gloomy.”
I glance at the display case of meditation crystals, which have indeed taken on a distinctly melancholic hue. Betrayed by my own inventory. How mortifying.
“I do not brood,” I say stiffly, though my hood betrays me by flaring in irritation.
Mrs. Brindlewood’s laugh is a rumbling thing. “Of course not. And I suppose you haven’t spent the past month checking the door every time that bell rings, either?”
“I value my customers’ punctuality.”
“Mmhmm. Particularly cute blonde customers with freckles?”
I bare my fangs slightly, but Mrs. Brindlewood only chuckles. “You know,” she says, settling her bulk carefully against a sturdy display case of old jewelry, “all this brooding reminds me of my dear Frederick. He was just a simple knight back during the crusades. Had little to show for it, besides his armor and his horse. But oh, how he made me laugh. Used to polish his armor three times before visiting, just to make sure he looked presentable for a dragon.”
My hood flares in surprise. “The crusades? That was—”
“Over eight hundred years ago? Yes.” Her scaled fingers trace the edge of a nearby frame. “And yet I remember every moment like it was yesterday. The way he’d bring me riddles instead of gold, claiming a dragon’s mind needed exercise as much as her hoard.” Her eyes, usually twinkling, grow distant. “Love doesn’t fade. It just changes form, like magic rewriting itself. It’s why you find yourself so restless now, even if it’s only been a month.”
Before I can properly scoff at the absurd implication, her head snaps toward the window, nostrils flaring. “Speaking of which…”
A familiar scent drifts through the shop—sunshine and coffee and anxiety.
It’s her.
“Well!” Mrs. Brindlewood’s wings rustle as she backs toward my storage room. “I believe that’s my cue to exit gracefully. Through the back, if you don’t mind? I don’t want to get in the way of your date.”
“This isn’t a—” I begin, but she’s already slipping through the door with surprising agility for her age and size.
Then the bell above my door chimes, and Aubrey’s scent fills my shop completely. My carefully rehearsed coldness wavers as I sense her worries, her hope.
No. I must remain distant. This is for the best.
“Miss Garrett,” I say, keeping my voice professionally detached as I give her a quick glance. “Right on time.”
She looks different today—a blue sundress that makes her skin glow, her hair slightly wild from the Houston humidity. My tongue flicks involuntarily, tasting the air. Beneath her usual scent, I detect traces of sleeplessness, worry, and something else… something that awakens a primitive interest, deep in my—
No. Focus.
“Sundar.” Her voice wavers slightly. “I… We need to talk.”
“Indeed.” I close my book deliberately, fighting the urge to wrap my tail around her distress. To protect. To possess.
Moving from behind the counter is a mistake. Her pulse quickens as I tower over her, and the scent of her reaction—not fear, but something far more intriguing—threatens my resolve.
I watch her struggle for words, knowing exactly what she’ll say before she manages to form the sentence.
“The thing is… about the bracelet…”
“You’re short on the payment.” My words come out harsher than intended, but better cruel now than… whatever this fascination might become.
Color floods her cheeks. “I tried. I really did. I picked up extra shifts, cut every expense I could, but there was this car repair, and—” She stops herself, swallowing hard. “I have most of it. I just need a little more time.”
I should refuse. End this cleanly. Instead, I study every detail I can about her—the proud tilt of her chin despite her embarrassment, the way her fingers twist nervously in her dress.
She carries herself like someone used to weathering storms alone. My instincts war within me—the ancient guardian’s need to protect clashing with decades of carefully maintained distance. Every scale on my body urges me to coil around her, to shield her from whatever she’s facing.
But that way lies madness. I am not her protector, merely a pawnbroker. That’s all I can allow myself to be.
“A deal,” I say slowly, “is a deal.”
The hope dies in her eyes, replaced by something more painful. Then she says, “Please,” and my carefully constructed walls begin to crack.
Her voice breaks as she speaks of how the bracelet has survived generations, only for it to slip from her hands in a matter of a month.
“You humans,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “So attached to these physical reminders of your short lives.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake. Something ignites in her expression—a spark of defiance that makes my hood flare with interest.
“Maybe because our lives are short,” she snaps, and oh, her anger is glorious. “Maybe because some of us are just trying to hold on to something meaningful while working dead-end jobs and living paycheck to paycheck and constantly doubting every decision we’ve ever made.”
The words pour from her like a broken dam, raw and real. Each confession strikes something deep within me, echoing memories of my own past uncertainties. Before the guardianship, before I found my place in the world, I too knew the bitter taste of doubt.
When she mentions her ex, the thought of someone making her feel useless stirs something inside me. Something possessive.
She stands before me, vulnerable yet defiant, and my carefully laid plans crumble like ancient parchment. I taste salt in the air—her tears—and something inside me breaks.
“I have…” The words form before I can stop them. My tongue flicks out, tasting her confusion, her hope. “I have a new offer.”
“A new offer,” she echoes, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
“Yes.” My voice drops lower, more intimate than I intended. “Though I suspect you may find the terms… unconventional.”
I pause to consider my next words. This is madness—I know it even as I speak. “Five weeks of work. Here, in my shop.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“In exchange for your bracelet,” I continue, forcing my voice to remain steady despite how her scent shifts with interest. “Plus a proper wage, of course. Better than whatever pittance you’re currently receiving.”
“You’re offering me a job?” Her tone wavers between disbelief and something that sounds dangerously like hope. “Just like that?”
“Nothing about this arrangement would be ‘just like that.’” I move closer, unable to help myself. “You would need to learn proper handling of magical artifacts. Cataloging procedures. The difference between genuinely cursed items and simple paranormal residue.”
She takes a half step back, but not in fear—I can smell the difference. No, this is more like… self-preservation. As if she senses how dangerous this arrangement could be, not to her safety, but to something else entirely.
“Why?” she asks. “Why would you do this?”
Because your scent has haunted my shop for a month. Because your determination reminds me of things I thought long forgotten. Because watching you break just now made something in me want to coil around you and never let go.
I say none of these things.
“I need an assistant,” I say instead, keeping my voice neutral. “And you need employment that will allow you to reclaim your bracelet and get out of your financial troubles. It’s a practical solution.”
“Practical,” she repeats, and she sounds disappointed. But then her pragmatic nature seems to engage, exactly as I knew it would. “What’s the pay?”
I name a figure significantly higher than standard retail wages. Her sharp gasp tells me it’s more than she expected. More than she’s ever made before.
“That’s…” She swallows hard. “That’s very generous.”
“The work requires discretion. Attention to detail.” My tail shifts restlessly. “And a certain comfort level with the unusual.”
Her eyes dart to my tail, then quickly back to my face. “I think I can handle unusual.”
The way she says it makes my scales ripple.
Dangerous. This is dangerous. And yet…
“Monday,” I say, perhaps too abruptly. “Eight AM. We’ll begin with basic artifact classification.”
“Monday.” She nods, then seems to remember something. “Oh! I’ll need to give notice at my current job—”
“Two weeks’ notice is standard, I believe?” The words taste bitter. I don’t want to wait two more weeks, now that I’ve decided to have her here. My tail coils tighter at the thought.
“Actually…” A small smile plays on her lips. “I’m pretty sure they’ll let me go immediately. They’re not exactly known for their employee retention.”
“Monday, then.” I force myself to move back, to create distance between us. Her scent is too distracting when she’s this close. “And do wear practical clothing. Some items can be temperamental.”
She glances down at her sundress, and I firmly squash the urge to tell her how the color brings out the blue in her eyes.
“Right. Practical. I can do that.” She takes in a deep breath, as if she’s trying to give herself a pep talk. “Yes. So, Monday. 8 AM. I’ll be here.” And just like that, she leaves before either of us can think better of it.
Her scent lingers, taunting me with promises of what’s to come.
Gods. What have I done?
My tail lashes once, violently enough to rattle a nearby display case of retro games.
“Oh, that went well,” Mrs. Brindlewood’s voice drifts from the storage room. “Though I do hope you’ve thought this through, dear.”
I bare my fangs at the closed door. “I thought you were leaving.”
“And miss this? Never!” She emerges, wings rustling with glee. “Besides, someone needs to help you rearrange the shop before Monday. You’ll want to make sure all the truly dangerous items are properly secured before your new assistant arrives.”
“I am perfectly capable of—”
“And perhaps we should discuss proper workplace behavior? The do’s and don’ts of employing someone you’re clearly attracted to?”
My hood flares fully, yet she’s hardly threatened by it. “That is not—”
“Darling,” she interrupts with a puff of smoke, “your tail hasn’t stopped moving since she walked in. I haven’t seen you this unsettled since that incident with the talking portrait.”
I force my tail to relax, irritated by how obvious I’ve apparently been. “The situation is purely practical. As I’m sure you overheard, I could use an assistant, and she can use the money. It is a professional arrangement, and a temporary one at most.”
“Of course it is.” Her dragon eyes twinkle like the jewels she probably hoarded in her youth. “That reminds me of how I professionally watched Frederick polish his armor for hours on end, regaling me with tales of his bravery. Speaking of which, did I ever tell you about the time he—”
“Mrs. Brindlewood.”
“You’re right. I’m sure I’ve told you that one already.” She waves a scaled hand dismissively. “But dear? Perhaps consider that some treasures are worth more than their market value.”
With that cryptic statement, she finally takes her leave through the back door, leaving me alone with my thoughts as the music box continues to play a haunted melody in increasingly dramatic keys.
I move to silence it, but pause when its notes transition to a familiar tune—an old love song from the East, its notes twisted by whatever spirit possesses it.
Fitting, somehow.
Monday suddenly feels both too close and impossibly far away.