Chapter 14
fourteen
The Hands that Bind
Jerry is in full force this morning as I lie in my blow-up hammock, trapped in the folds of it. I shouldn’t have bought the plush queen-sized, but I wanted my parents to have somewhere decent to sleep when they visited. Now, I’m suffering the consequences.
My alarm went off half an hour ago, but when I tried to force myself out of bed, I only became further entrenched in the twisted blankets. It’s hopeless, now. I’ll die here, eaten by Oscar when he doesn’t get his breakfast.
My phone pings with a message from Instaframe. I flail around a little and rotate enough to grab the charging cord to reel in my device. It reads my face and the message slides open.
Demi_Devil_Reads: You still down for that swap this month?
Shit.
I already did some of the up-front work when she told me her top five fics, so I have the manuscript printed and the vinyl cut, but everything else…
I should tell her no, that I’m overbooked and stressed and I can’t manage it, but I really don’t want to let her down. I’ve promised her a bind exchange for over a year, and I changed my schedule on a whim, so it’s not fair.
I need to work on it.
Plus, Aaron will be back in a few hours to get the rest of the stuff from the office.
Ugh.
I need to get up.
But I need help getting up.
I groan. “Bastian…”
“Yes, Jerry?” he replies, looming over me in an instant.
“I’m stuck.”
“How unfortunate,” he says with a teasing pout.
I scowl. “Help me.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Help me, please,” I say, anger clenching my teeth on the “please.”
He crosses his arms. “Nicer.”
“I will make Oscar claw off your scales!”
“Empty threats…” He tsks. “I know you can’t control the beast.”
“Bastian!” I roar. “Please. Help. Me.”
He smirks, then kneels beside the partially deflated mattress. “Grab my shoulders.”
I reach up and lock my hands behind his neck. His skin is warm and his scales are smooth. Not like a fish as I was guessing, but more like a snake. Perhaps they’re just colorful patterns and not really scales at all. I slide my fingernail along one at his wing joint and he shivers at the touch.
He growls and his breath fans over my face, making me realize just how close we are. He slides one hand behind my back and the other curls under my knees. He draws me against him without even a grunt and stands upright easily.
The heat radiating off him feels like the California sun. He holds me tightly against his chest, and though his grip is gentle, I still feel the pricks of his claws along my bare thigh. Those little pinpoints of pain are a swift reminder that I’m in the arms of a dragon. That I should be afraid.
But I’m not.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re welcome.”
He doesn’t move to set me down.
I don’t ask him to.
I don’t want to be on the floor. I don’t want to be anywhere but right here, where the sun heats my side and his strength holds me far away from my worries.
His gaze traces my nose to my lips, and warmth glows inside me, flushing my cheeks. His thumb slides along my bare skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. I hunger for more than just a stroke of his thumb.
He smirks, his eyes locking back on mine. “Aroused again?”
Instinct tells me to deny it. To harden myself and ignore my needs. But what if I told the truth? What would this fantasy creature do?
He could laugh. Look at that smirk. It’s not worth the embarrassment.
Bastian ducks down, our faces only inches apart. “Shut up, Jerry.”
“Fine.” My heart thunders in my ears. “Yes. I am.”
He blinks slowly, a fang poking into his bottom lip as his smile widens.
“MEROW!”
I gasp and release Bastian, trying to pretend as if my cat-son did not just catch me flirting with the sexy dragon man.
“Um, time for his breakfast,” I say, pushing against his chest.
He grunts. “That beast has you wrapped around his little paw.”
He lowers my feet to the floor and releases me with a tiny shove that’s almost a pat on the ass. I look over my shoulder with a huff and his grin turns Cheshire.
I scoff. “Cute.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I know.”
I shake my head as I walk to Oscar’s bowl. A heaping scoop of kibble and a squeeze of the vitamin duck paste on top makes him purr like a machine gun.
I get myself a slice of leftover pizza and rummage through my laundry for something clean to wear, then head toward the shower, painfully aware of Bastian’s lingering gaze the whole time.
If I look at him, I know I might say something dumb, or worse, start catching feelings.
He’s hot, but he’s also A) a dragon, B) a jerk, and C) very possessive.
I don’t need anything like that in my life.
So, don’t look at—
Bastian’s wings snap out in my peripheral vision, and I can’t help but stare. The scars of his back shimmer with gold-flecked black ink, as if the old wounds are being filled in. His wing joints bend and his muscles flex, highlighting his immense strength.
I slurp a little drool from the corner of my mouth—all pizza related, of course—and turn my attention back to the bathroom.
One much too cold shower later, I step into a fresh set of clothes and open my to-do list. I write “Binding for DemiDevil” at the top, scootching down all the other things like appliances, groceries, and hardware trip.
With my priorities straightened, I deflate the mattress and put it up.
I go to one of the few boxes that made the trip in the car with us and take out my tools and glue.
Next is the air-tight bag filled with the manuscript, the lettering cutouts, designs for the spine, the cardboard for the cover, and the needle and dark purple thread for the binding.
I spread everything out on my tattered craft blanket on the floor and nod, confirming I have all that I need to get this done today.
“Tunes,” I say, grabbing my phone.
I put on a playlist of Taylor Swift, shoot Demi a message that “I’m so down,” and get to work.
Threading the manuscript is almost therapeutic. The rhythmic puncture, push, pull of the needle through the thick, sheer white paper gets me in a meditative state. Along with my playlist I’ve heard a hundred times over, I’m in my element.
When everything is stitched, I put the bookmark down beside my glue brush, so I don’t forget it. It’s a thick, purple ribbon with gold thread on the trim and a gorgeous gold-coated scythe charm at the end. So pretty!
I pop the lid on my adhesive and pour some into the very worn and stained plastic bowl I bought from a thrift store ages ago. It’s just the right size for the perfect amount of glue and has a little notch on the side where my brush can sit.
I pin the manuscript between two wooden boards and cover the spine in a liberal amount of glue before moving on to the next step—cutting the end pages!
Next are the vinyl sheets, a bold, shimmery golden color with a texture almost like pitted metal. The pages were five dollars each, but well worth it. I carefully mark and cut each sheet, treating them with the revere their gold sheen deserves.
Once I’m finished, I check the glue on the spine, but of course, I’m too impatient and it’s not nearly set yet. So, I move on to prepping the next steps.
Bastian crouches beside me as I lay out the fabric for the cover.
He stares with the intensity of a lion watching its prey wander closer, but I pay him no mind as I smooth out the soon-to-be cover of the book.
It’s a deep purple faux leather I had embossed at my local print shop before leaving Cali.
The gold vinyl lettering is going to look amazing around the half-moon scythe blade.
I measure the spine, adding a quarter inch to my total for when I round it, then cut my end bands. A few swipes of glue later, I have two pieces that will protect the spine.
I jump when “I Did Something Bad” is interrupted by Tchaikovsky. “Trashy Trash Man” pops up on the screen and I answer with a breathless “Hello?”
“Ms. Kennedy, it’s Aaron. I’m on my way now with my brother Chuck for the rest of your things.”
“Okay, great. Thank you!”
I hang up and quickly finish coating the spine protectors in a rich purple paint, then set them aside to dry.
I run downstairs and open the door for the two men who are definitely brothers, then guide them to all the junk. They even bring in a couple of brooms and a shop vac, cleaning up all the floor space for free.
I run back up to the apartment to hammer the spine when my alarm goes off.
I glue the bookmark down, then quickly press my end band on it and finish with another thick layer of glue over the cloth.
I use my bone folder to get all the nooks and crannies, ensuring that the cloth sticks to the binding with a lasting strength.
My fingers ache a little by the time I’ve moved on to cutting the board for the covers, but it’s a good kind of ache. One that says I’m doing work I love. One that screams “Fuck you, Jerry.”
I lay the boards on the fabric when Aaron calls up to me. We settle the last of the bill, and Aaron apologizes again about his son. The memory of Robbie threatens to sour my good mood, but I kick Jerry in the balls and thank Aaron for all the hard work instead.
It’s well past lunch when I’m running upstairs again, but there’s no time for food. There is only time for book.
I mark the inside of the cover fabric at all the corners of the boards, then slap on the adhesive and bone them down. I do the same for the end pages on the manuscript, then pin the book back between my trusty plywood boards.
So close. So very close. But now I have to wait, so…
“Lunch?” I ask Bastian, who’s been silently drinking in my every move.
He looks up at me, his white eyes glinting with the light from the window. “Lunch?”
“Food. Aren’t you hungry?”
He shakes his head. “I only need to eat when I’m away from my hoard.”
“Well, want to go out then? There’s a restaurant I’ve been meaning to go to.”
He grimaces and the fear of rejection hits me.
No. It’s fine. If he doesn’t want to go, I’ll just ask Renee.
“How far would we be traveling?” he asks.
A little spark of hope zings through me.
“It’s just down the block. We can walk it in maybe ten minutes—but oh, you’ll need a shirt,” I say.
I grab the grocery bag from a few days ago and pull out the pack of black t-shirts. I tear open the plastic and hand him one of the shirts.
“It’s a little cold out, but you run so hot anyway, you’ll be fine.”
I glance down at his ripped sweatpants.
“You’re going to look like a hobo, though.”
Ugh…I bet I can sew it a little bit.
He takes the shirt from me and pinches the material between his fingers.
“Perhaps I should remain behind to watch the feline,” he says.
“Oscar’s okay on his own,” I say.
Bastian’s gaze shifts around the room. He’s looking for a way out. The little spark sizzles out and I grab my phone.
“You don’t have to come, it was just an offer,” I say, opening a text to Renee.
Cait: Want to get lunch at the Chubby Radish?
“I want to go,” Bastian declares. “I would just be…”
I hold off on sending the text. “Would be?”
His throat rolls as he looks up at me. “Vulnerable.”
“How do you mean?”
“When I’m away from my hoard, I’m cut off from magic replenishment. Consuming food can help sustain me, but I would be weak.”
What is he worried about?
“You’re not going to be in danger out there. I mean, unless you start a fight or something, so don’t go grabbing people who approach me.”
His lip curls back. “I wouldn’t let anyone terrorize you, so perhaps I shouldn’t go if that’s a common occurrence.”
“Trust me, it isn’t,” I say with a scoff. “And no one’s going to approach me with you at my side—oh, as long as you look human. You shouldn’t walk around looking like a lizard.”
“Dragon,” he snaps. “Not lizard.”
I chuckle. “Put your shirt on and look human so we can go get lunch.”
He sighs. “If the feline touches the books while we’re gone, I’ll have stern words for him.”