Chapter Six
Nash had never known wealth that bought five-figure square-footage houses, and he probably never would.
Since the average lifespan of a paranormal being was in the triple digits, accumulating wealth was certainly possible.
The longer a person lived, the more they learned about life, including how to get and keep money.
It wasn’t like Nash didn’t have a nice little nest egg, but emphasis on the little part was key.
His egg was a hell of a lot smaller than Spider Sylvain’s.
That much was clear the second the car rolled up to the front door.
The chauffeur got out of the car and rounded the hood before opening Nash’s door. He was bald and had tattoos on his head.
That was another thing. Being chauffeured around the city, while nice since he didn’t have to deal with the traffic, was wildly unnecessary.
It was also weird, but not as weird as coming to a mobster’s house.
Weird and stupid. That was the version of himself he was dealing with, all for the sake of vengeance.
Nash nodded to his driver. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure, sir.” His pleasure, huh? The guy wore a suit to drive a car. Nash doubted that was comfortable. And Nash was the most boring passenger the guy probably ever had, because he hadn’t talked the entire time.
To be fair, it wasn’t because Nash didn’t want to talk to the guy.
The guy was his type of person. He’d fit right in with the Dragon Skulls.
He wasn’t a dragon shifter, but Nash’s family wasn’t prejudiced.
They’d take in any stray in need of a safe place to call home.
Not that the driver needed rescuing, so it was a moot point.
His point was that he had nothing against the driver. Nash was just all in his head.
Even while standing at the door, getting ready to press the doorbell to Spider Sylvain’s mansion, he questioned his sanity.
Nash groaned when the doorbell turned out to be a security device.
“Who’s calling?” a woman asked.
“Nash Drake.”
“Someone will be with you in a moment, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t have to wait long. A woman, probably the same one who answered the buzzer, pulled the door open. She wore jeans and a yellow t-shirt with a sunflower on it. She had a white rag hanging out of her back pocket.
“No one answers the door around here.” She smirked and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Zipporah. Everyone calls me Zippie.”
“Nash.” He took her hand and shook it.
“I know. You said through the security buzzer.”
“Right.” Nash walked into the grandest foyer he’d ever seen. The staircase wound around. The banister was dark wood—maybe black walnut or mahogany. Nash wasn’t too knowledgeable about such things. All he knew was that it was gorgeous.
There was a lot to look at. “Nice house.”
She chuckled. “Not so nice when it’s my turn to clean. We’re all a bunch of pigs.”
“No staff?”
“Trust issues. We have a rotation.” She shrugged. “It works for us.”
Nash could imagine the Sylvain family having a lot of enemies.
The problem with being so notorious that people thought you were at the top of the food chain was defending that spot.
Eventually, someone would try to knock them down, if they hadn’t already.
It was only a matter of time before they lost. So not having staff was probably a good move.
“Well, I have to get back to it. Someone will escort you to Peter’s office. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Drake.”
“Nice meeting you too.”
She left Nash standing in the foyer.
A long table sat against the far wall. A vase full of yellow and white roses sat in the center.
A small wooden bowl was the only other thing on the table.
From Nash’s vantage point near the door, he couldn’t see what was inside.
For a moment, he thought about getting a peek, but he thought better of snooping around the house of Spider Sylvain.
If Nash had enough sense, he would hightail it out of there.
Nash sighed and shook his head.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Jon,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the hell did you get me into?”
Nash was insane. He had never had a death wish before, but had to really wonder about himself.
Nash was pulled out of his self-deprecation when a man walked toward him from a long hall. He had his head down, which made Nash think he might not be the person Nash was waiting for. Did the guy sense him yet?
Shadows obscured most of his body. Nash hadn’t noticed the sunglasses covering half the man’s face until he grew close enough to the foyer lights.
He wore jeans and an oversized sweater that advertised Duchester as the ‘Windiest City in the Midwest’, complete with an embroidered swirl of what Nash assumed was a representation of the wind and a cityscape getting blown sideways by the swirl.
The man lifted his head. He stopped where the hall met the foyer, gasping. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”
The guy definitely had fangs. They peeked out when he licked his lips.
He took a step closer and sniffed the air, his nose twitching as though he were a puppy smelling something delicious for the very first time.
Nash would bet the guy’s eyes had also shifted, but he wasn’t taking off his sunglasses for Nash to find out for sure.
He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Who are you?”
The guy’s body language said he was intrigued and hands-off all at the same time.
They were mates, but Nash thought better of bringing it up. He’d wait and see if his mate warmed up to him first.
Nash’s eyes shifted to his dragon, and his fangs dropped. “Nash Drake. Jonik sent me about a job.”
“Right. Okay.” His voice sounded strained. He doubled over, bending at the waist with his hands on his knees. “Fuck.”
He took his glasses off and held them in his hand against his knee. When Nash drew closer, he was careful not to touch him, but Nash wanted to. The poor guy was clearly in some discomfort.
He kept his eyes closed, but he must have sensed Nash drawing near because he held up his hand and growled.
When their gazes met, Nash saw the problem. The guy’s eyes swam, changing from human, canine, reptilian, and something else Nash hadn’t ever seen before. It happened fast and was repetitive enough to cause massive dizziness.
The guy tried to straighten, but he swayed on his feet as if he were on a boat in the middle of the ocean during a storm. “Dizzy.”
Nash moved without thinking, lifting him into his arms. “I’ve got you, mate.”
“Fuck off.” Despite the guy’s words, he leaned against Nash and put his arms around his neck. He shut his eyes. “I got drunk last night. That’s all this is.”
Nash had serious doubts that the effects of alcohol had anything to do with it, but he didn’t contradict him. Nash wouldn’t rock the boat any more than it already was. “What’s your name?”
“Not mate.” Little smartass.
So the guy wanted to deny what his body was telling him. “Understood.”
“You don’t understand anything,” he growled.
“Why don’t you explain it to me?”
The guy sighed. “I don’t know you.”
“That’s true. How about we get to know each other? Let’s start with your name.” Nash fought the urge to roll his eyes. The guy just had to complicate something as simple as exchanging names.
“Abner. Everyone calls me Abi.” Pretty name for a pretty boy. “Now you tell me your name.”
He smiled at Abi’s sassiness. “It’s Nash.”
“You’re a dragon. Shifter. Is that all you are?”
Was that a loaded question? “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Are you a misfit like the family?” Is that what they considered themselves? Misfits, instead of the mob.
“Is that what you consider yourself?” Nash already knew how his little snarling bundle of growly mate would answer.
Abi wiggled around, but he didn’t let go of his hold around Nash’s neck. Nash wasn’t sure how it happened, but Abi wrapped his legs around Nash.
Nash held on to him around his waist, afraid his dizziness would get the better of him and he would fall, landing on the hard marble flooring.
Abi met Nash’s gaze and held it, not speaking for several minutes.
Whatever went through his pretty head wouldn’t bode well for Nash, if the disgruntled expression was any indication.
His eyes did that changing-of-the-species thing on a near-constant basis.
Despite that, or maybe because of it, they were mesmerizing.
And his body felt good in Nash’s arms. The moment felt right in that way, but it was also ripe with danger.
Nash recognized a predator when he saw one.
“Everyone thinks I’m their mate. It’s my scent.” Abi raised his eyebrows as if he expected Nash to challenge the statement.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m defective—a misfit. I’ve had over twenty mates. I need a scent suppressant everywhere I go, including while I’m home, apparently.”
“How is that possible?” As soon as the question left his mouth, he knew it was the wrong one to ask.
Abi growled. “I’m trying to tell you we’re not really mates.”
Nash raised his eyebrows, but inside his heart sank. It was the beginning of the end. All Nash would get from Abi was rejection. “I’m not the only one reacting here, sweetheart.”
He huffed and then wiggled again until Nash placed him on his feet. “We’re not mates.”
“Repeating it won’t make it come true.” They were mates. Nash knew for a fact that they were. He didn’t need his sense of smell to know who Abi was to him.
Abi turned to leave the foyer.
Nash wanted to dog his heels, make him see reason, but he fought the urge. “Suppressants aren’t necessary.”
Abi stopped and turned, meeting his gaze. “Well, you’re here, claiming mate status like all the rest have.”
“It’s not your scent, Abi.”
He growled. “It’s always by fucking scent.”
“Not for me. I’m a misfit too.” Broken was a better term for it. Michael Mallor had torn him to pieces when he was so young he hadn’t even shifted for the first time yet. But Abi didn’t need to know the reason. Not if rejection was in their future. Nash tapped his nose. “No sense of smell.”
Abi turned without responding, but it was clear Nash had given him something to think about.