8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Lines Crossed
Sundar
One day, seventeen hours, and approximately thirty minutes since I tasted her.
Not that I’m counting.
Sunday stretches before me like an endless desert, each hour bringing me closer to tomorrow morning when she’ll return. Even then, it’s still too far away.
My reflection catches in the glass of the display case—scales gleaming black and gold in the fading light, hood carefully controlled, golden eyes that betray nothing of the chaos churning beneath.
I’ve spent years perfecting this mask of calm control. This image of the steady, reliable shopkeeper who definitely hasn’t spent two nights remembering how Aubrey trembled beneath my touch, or how she tasted, or how tight she was and how much my cock stirs as I imagine claiming her, marking her as mine.
Unworthy of responsibility , Nalini’s voice echoes in my mind. Unworthy of heritage.
My hood flares slightly at the memory. She’d sneered those words when I first suggested opening this shop, when I dared to believe that perhaps our sacred duties could evolve with the changing times. That perhaps isolation wasn’t the answer, and that we should integrate into human society, spread our knowledge and riches to help others.
The memory stings, but not as sharply as it once did. I’ve built something here, in this quiet corner of the city. Something steady. Something that’s mine. My collection of forgotten treasures and cursed oddities might not compare to the sacred relics I once guarded, but at least here I answer to no one but myself.
Or I did, until Aubrey Garrett walked in and turned everything sideways with her quick wit and warm eyes.
The evening shadows lengthen across the shop floor, and I realize I’ve been staring at the same display case for nearly an hour, lost in thoughts of her.
This isn’t like me. I don’t fixate. I don’t yearn. I am ancient, disciplined, a former guardian of sacred artifacts. I should be above such… such…
My tail coils tighter, remembering how perfectly she fit within its grip.
Such uncertainty , I acknowledge to myself. Because that’s what this truly is—standing at the edge of something profound and unknown.
She makes me want things I hadn’t considered before, not just physically, though that desire burns hot enough. She makes me want to share my world with her, to explain why certain artifacts sing to me, to show her the beauty in items others might dismiss, even in the ones that aren’t literally magical.
I move through the shop, straightening items that don’t need straightening. My tongue keeps seeking phantom traces of her scent—here, where she usually works. There, where she leans against the counter during quiet moments, asking thoughtful questions about monster culture that make me see my own world anew.
The truth settles in my scales like the warmth of the sun on a cold morning: I miss her.
Not just her body, though that haunts me too. I miss her presence. Her laughter. The way she makes this carefully ordered space feel… alive.
It’s natural, I suppose, to consider the future. All monsters do, when attraction stirs. We’re creatures of varying lifespans—some living centuries, others mere decades. Yet love finds its way, regardless.
I’ve seen vampires give up their immortality to match a human lover’s natural span. Then there are those who chose to carry on after their love’s passing, like Mrs. Brindlewood who speaks of the shared years with her knight as the brightest of her long life.
It’s a choice all monsters make somewhere deep in their hearts. One I never thought would be relevant, when I had originally fallen for another naga.
But such thoughts are premature. What Aubrey and I share is… new. Delicate. Something that needs careful tending before it can grow into anything deeper.
I check the time again. Sixteen hours until she returns. Sixteen hours to sort through these feelings, to find a way forward that honors both her position and mine. To figure out how to be worthy of her trust after crossing lines I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.
This isn’t about her employment anymore, or even about our differences in age or species. It’s about how she sees beauty in the forgotten things that find their way to my shop. How she treats every customer—human or monster—with the same genuine warmth. How she makes me want to be better, not because she demands it, but because she believes I already am.
Night has fully settled now, the shop’s warm lighting casting familiar shadows. I should close up, retreat to my apartment upstairs where at least the walls don’t hold echoes of her voice. But instead I linger, touching items she’s cataloged and cleaned, feeling almost envious of these inanimate objects…
The shop’s phone rings, shaking me from my thoughts. I crane to see that the caller ID reveals it’s only Mrs. Brindlewood, probably calling about those “definitely not cursed” teacups she’s been eyeing.
“The Golden Scale Pawn Shop,” I answer, my voice carefully neutral. “Sundar speaking.”
“Oh good, you’re still there!” Mrs. Brindlewood’s enthusiasm crackles through the line. “I’ve been thinking about those teacups, and you know what? Life’s too short. Well, not for me specifically, but you know what I mean. I’ll take them! Please set them aside for me, would you?”
I smile despite everything. “They’ll be here whenever you’re ready, Mrs. Brindlewood. Cursed teacups aren’t exactly a bestseller anyhow.”
“Excellent! I’ll pop by tomorrow morning. And Sundar?” Her voice softens. “Sometimes the best treasures are the ones that find us when we’re not looking.”
Before I can respond, she’s hung up, leaving me to wonder if she was talking about teacups at all.
Monday morning. The early Houston sun filters through the shop windows, warming my scales as I examine a collection of vintage pocket watches. Nothing magical about these—just well-loved pieces from an era that valued craftsmanship. Simple, honest work that should help settle my mind.
It doesn’t.
My tail keeps shifting restlessly as I polish brass and test mechanisms. A full weekend without her in the shop has left everything feeling hollow. Wrong. Like all the careful order I’ve built here was just marking time until she arrived to breathe life back into things.
When the bell chimes her arrival, my hands become still on the half-opened watch case.
Aubrey hesitates in the doorway, morning light catching in her hair. She’s carrying two bags today—her usual purse and the cardboard box of baseball cards I’d let her take home to catalog earlier last week, before everything changed between us.
“Hi,” she says, and there’s a softness in her voice that is a relief to hear.
“Hello.” I manage to keep my tone steady, despite an underlying nervousness that makes my hood want to rise.
She moves to her desk, setting down her things. “I went through the cards this weekend,” she says, pulling out several protective sleeves. “Found some good ones, including a Mickey Mantle that would be worth listing on an auction site.”
Part of me almost welcomes the normal topic, even as deeper questions burn beneath my scales.
Are we going to discuss what happened? Should we? The memory of her taste, her sounds, the way she trembled beneath my touch—it all threatens to overwhelm my careful control. But she’s offering this safe conversation like a bridge between us, and I’m grateful for it.
“Tell me about the Mantle card,” I say, and her eyes light up as she pulls out a protective sleeve. The enthusiasm in her voice, how she leans forward slightly as she explains the card’s condition and markings—it draws me in despite my best intentions. I move closer, ostensibly to examine the card but really to breathe in her presence.
The proximity is electric. I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat, hear the slight hitch in her breathing when my scales brush against her arm. My tail coils tight with the effort of not wrapping around her waist.
“The corners are sharp,” she says, her voice slightly breathless. “And the centering is nearly perfect. I checked online comps, and similar condition cards are listing for—”
The shop bell chimes, and I catch Mrs. Brindlewood’s distinctive scent—dragon smoke and expensive perfume. When I see her, there’s something knowing in her expression, something deliberate.
“Good morning, my dears!” Her half-dragon form fills the doorway, her scaled hands clutching her oversized purse. “I simply couldn’t wait another moment to discuss those teacups. And perhaps a few other matters that require attention?”
The way she emphasizes ‘other matters’ while glancing between Aubrey and me makes my tail lash once in resignation. Of course she knows. She always knows.
Beside me, Aubrey has gone very still. When I risk a glance at her, I catch the slightest quirk of her lips, as if she’s trying not to smile.
“The teacups,” I say, attempting to redirect the conversation before it begins. “Of course. They’re just—”
“Oh, plenty of time for those.” Mrs. Brindlewood settles herself on her favorite chair near the counter. “First, we simply must discuss the absolutely fascinating energy in here this morning. It feels rather like the air before a storm. Or, perhaps… after?” She cocks her head with a knowing smile.
I catch Aubrey’s eye, and something passes between us—a shared moment of fond exasperation mixed with nervous anticipation. Then she straightens, gathering the baseball cards with careful precision.
“I should get these logged into inventory,” she says, but there’s a warmth in her voice that wasn’t there before. “Mrs. Brindlewood, always a pleasure.”
As she passes by my tail, she lets her fingertips brush against my scales—so quickly I might have imagined it, yet the touch burns like fire. My hood flares before I can stop it, and Mrs. Brindlewood’s delighted snicker tells me she missed nothing.
“Now then, Sundar dear,” she says, settling in more comfortably. “About those teacups…”
I watch Aubrey disappear into the back office, knowing with absolute certainty that once we’re alone, I’ll have to address what happened head-on, setting aside all this bashfulness and shy glances.
Otherwise, Mrs. Brindlewood will probably sit us down herself.