Chapter 10
ten
Morning Battles
The air mattress is more like an air hammock when I wake up. Oscar is cuddled up beside me, half pinned between my thigh and the second blanket I bought. I give him a few scritches as I try to open my eyes. They feel crusted together, and sore.
I know I had a strange dream, but it’s fleeting now that I’m conscious. Something about aliens asking for Earth’s best story or they were going to blow up all the coffee shops. It was a good thing they came to me about it. I was going to be the savior of coffee.
I sigh as my mind becomes more alert. There’s lots to do today, and this business isn’t going to start itself.
Step one, I need to stretch out the aches in my back.
“It’s time to get up buddy,” I groan, despite not knowing what time it is or if it’s even light out. If I’m awake, it’s time to get moving. I learned a long time ago that staying in bed, even if it’s an hour before my alarm, is a recipe for disaster.
Oscar mews pathetically and snuggles his face into his paws. It’s so cute, I decide to stay a little longer while I work on the rest of the day’s to-do list.
I’m happy to see my phone charged overnight—so at least there is power going to the outlets. It’s 6:23 a.m., which feels criminal to my body that’s two hours behind.
I open the notes app and look at the next things on the list.
Get the refuse out of the shop (Hunks Haul Junk coming at 10AM)
Find Laundromat (you only have two pairs of panties left)
You still have a schedule to maintain, don’t slack on your self care
Refrigerator?
Selfie at the front of the shop—before pictures all around!
I flap my lips and put the phone aside.
“I’m surprised you—”
I scream at the Scottish-tinged voice and Oscar scrambles from the bed in a flight of fur and claws. I hiss at the pain in my side from his harried departure and glare at Bastian as I try to calm myself down.
Deep breath. It’s just the dragon.
He’s cross-legged in the ring of books, and something is protruding from his back. He glances over at me, his pale gold eyes glowing in the darkness.
“Forget about me so easily?” he asks with a vicious smirk.
“If only you’d disappear as such,” I mutter as I roll out of the air hammock and land on my hands and knees.
“My ears aren’t ornamental,” he says.
I glare at him harder, noticing the golden pointed tips of his ears pushing through his dark hair. My eyes snag on his horns. Jagged and short, they barely protrude from his hair.
“What happened to your head?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow. Or maybe both rise, I don’t know, I can only see him in profile. But he doesn’t move from his meditative state.
“What happened to yours?”
I glance up as if I can see anything. My hair is probably a mess…
“I have people coming today so you need to hide, or something,” I say.
His head snaps in my direction and his eyes open to slits. He looks so snakelike, so feral. “You would invite outsiders into my hoard.”
“My shop!” I retort. “This is. My. Shop.”
He stands in one fluid movement and I turn, putting my back against the half-deflated air mattress. He steps between the towers of books, and something moves behind him—a fluttering of torn paper hung between wires.
No, not paper.
Wings.
They spread wide as he approaches me, engulfing my vision.
“You will not bring others into my sanctuary,” he growls, low and threatening.
He can’t hurt me. He can’t.
Fuck, but it looks like he can. His hands are flexed, showing off every sharp claw. His lip is pulled back over his fangs, and his once milky golden eyes swirl with black so deep it swallows the light.
“Yes, I will,” I whisper because my voice seems to fail me. “We need to clean the shop, get it ready for more books.”
He stops before me, towering like a monument of carnal terror. The planes of his body are sharp and jagged with scars, but still far more beautiful than I would like to admit.
“More books?” he asks.
“This is a bookshop,” I say with a hint of snark. “I will be stocking it with books to sell.”
“Sell,” he snarls, his claws flexing again. “They will become part of my hoard.”
“Sure, until they’re sold,” I say, regaining some of my voice and composure.
He grimaces, then crosses his arms as his wings flutter, relaxing. They tuck back into him and I feel a bit of relief at seeing the rest of the apartment is still there behind him. Oscar is sitting next to his bowl, patiently awaiting breakfast and giving zero fucks about the danger his mom is in.
Some protector you are…
“How long until there are more books?” he asks.
“That depends on how quickly I can fix the shop,” I say. “And get my business license, and some expanded distribution deals, and a few other factors.”
He chuffs and whirls away toward the altar. “I will allow others into my sanctuary for the express purpose of preparing to expand the hoard, and no other reason. You will not have visitors.”
I scoff. “Fuck you I won’t.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement,” he says, taking his seat again.
“That wasn’t agreement. There was no comma between fuck you, and I won’t, Basty Boy,” I say, feeling much bolder now that he’s on the ground and I’m on my feet.
“Basty,” he mutters, his face wrinkled in disgust.
Good, I’m getting to him.
“I’m going to have whomever I want over, and if you try to stop me, I’ll take your Moby Dick again.”
He laughs. “And do what? You’ve already shown your love of books runs too deep to ever harm one.”
I cross my arms. “I’ll sell it to a collector who’ll take much better care of it than you.”
Black swirls around me and then Bastian is there, a hand around my throat. The shock of his warm skin on my neck makes me gasp. I grab his wrist and tug, but it’s fruitless. He leans down and speaks in a deadly whisper.
“You will not sell the books from my hoard, or I will suffer the consequences of your magic when I break our bond.”
Right.
He can still hurt me.
But what is my magic?
This really isn’t the best time to be asking, but I sort of want to deflect and also need to hide the fact that my nipples seem to be tenting my night shirt because he’s looking straight down at where the brand is on my chest…
“What’s my magic?”
He snorts and lets his hand slide away. “If you don’t know, how could I?”
With a bloop of ink, he’s back in his meditation circle.
“Can’t you sense these things?” I ask.
He sighs in annoyance. “Only that you’re a witch.”
“I’m a witch…” The words tumble from my mouth. They don’t feel real.
“Meeeeeeeh!” Oscar gives no warning before his frustrated scream.
I snap to, put food in his bowl, and run to the bathroom while the words “You’re a witch” play over and over in my mind. I wouldn’t know the first thing about being a witch but if a dragon seems to think I am, maybe I am. How can I figure out what my power is?
I change into my yoga gear and get down on the mat where my mostly deflated mattress was as I consider how to exploit Bastian into helping me. There aren’t a lot of good options.
Maybe I could reach out to a community online? But how do I know if I’ve found an authentic coven?
What if he’s just fucking with me…?
I drink a full bottle of water while I bend and flex, making my body come alive and get ready for the day. I had let myself slip from my practice while we were traveling and it was a mistake, but we’re going to get back on track now.
The shower I take is brisk and brief, but it gets the sweat off.
And I haven’t brought a change of clothes in with me…
Ef.
Em.
El.
I tuck the oversized towel under my arms and pull it closed at my knees, then look in the chipped mirror over the sink.
My unruly curls are piled on top of my head in a messy bun that leaves fiery strands falling past my ears.
My green eyes are wide, and large, probably one of the things that screams “Take advantage of me, I’m innocent!
” I’m jealous of those women with slits for eyes that say “Fuck off and die.”
I huff at the reflection that leaves me wanting. No amount of glaring at myself is going to manifest clothes or make my towel cover more of my body. So, I suck it up and open the door.
I keep my chin high and my eyes forward as I walk past Bastian in his ring of books. He makes a sharp, breathy sound. I know he can see—though I’m not sure by how much. He said he couldn’t tell whether I was blushing, but he could see my face, so I’d bet he can tell I’m not wearing much from afar.
I bet he can see the shape of my body.
The size of it.
Harsh, furrowed brows on a man too pretty for such a look comes to mind and I wince my eyes shut. His cruel jabs and swift rebukes batter me, pealing back the skin on a wound I’d thought had healed.
I crouch at my bag and dig through it, looking for something big to hide myself in.
“I can’t believe how fat you’ve gotten in just a few months.”
I grit my teeth and push my crop top aside. It’s too cold for that anyway.
“Medication? You need a treadmill.”
I fist one of my last pairs of panties and slam it next to my balled-up socks.
“Are you sure you should be eating that? Or eating at all?”
“What are you going on about in that head, pink flesh?” Bastian asks with a lazy sigh.
Oh Jesus fucking ballsacks.
“No need to panic, I can’t read your mind,” he says, as if reading my mind. “But I can sense your fear, and…disdain.”
“It’s not your business,” I snap as I find my big black sweater that pairs nicely with my high-waisted blue jeans.
He tuts. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“I want the ring back.”
Tears burn behind my eyes and my hands shake.
Why aren’t I over this?
Why can’t I just forget him?
A blop of black hits the ground beside me and I school my features as I look up. Bastian towers over me as I crouch beside my bag, his brow furrowed.
“Stop.”
“Stop what,” I ask angrily.
“Feeling like…” He rolls his hands around as he gestures at me. “Like this.”
I shoot up, my fury finding a target. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel!”
His jaw flexes and he glares. “Someone should in this instance.”
“Oh, of course! I’m just a feeble little woman and my emotions are volatile! Please, some big strong man, come tell me how to feel!”
Bastian huffs. “You should feel—”
My phone blasts Tchaikovsky and Bastian snarls in the direction of it.
I shake my head, trying to clear the indignation from my mind. I grab my phone and answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Hi there, Ms. Kennedy?” an older man asks.
“Yes,” I say, holding the towel tighter at my chest.
“Had a cancelation. We can come early,” the man says.
“Uh, who are you?”
“Hunks Haul Junk, ma’am.”
I shake my head. “Right, sorry. It’s been a rough morning getting used to your time zone.”
He gives a gruff chuckle. “No problem. Is it too early?”
“No no, it’s perfect.”
I need a distraction from Bastian, anyway.
“Glad to hear it. My guys will be there in ten.”
“Great. Thank you.”
He wishes me a blessed day and hangs up.
Bastian glares at me as I return to my bag and grab my clothes up into my arms. I glare right back as I stand up.
“You were saying?” I prompt when he just keeps staring.
“Nothing,” he mumbles.
That’s right.
Nothing.
You don’t know me.
You don’t own me.
“Good,” I mumble back.
The heat of his half-blind gaze burns a hole in my back as I go, but I ignore it. He can watch. He can look. I don’t care what he thinks. His opinions mean nothing…
He means nothing.