Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

Chapter One

“You don’t get to pick the guy you’re going home with,” Violet says with a cackle. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Just give me back my phone please.”

When we first got to Stan’s on Fifth, a dive-y bar popular with the office-professional crowd, it set off every fight or flight response in me. The raucous, packed space capsized the daring confidence I’d strolled in with, even buoyed by the 80-proof in my bloodstream.

But I was already dressed up, already committed to the night’s plan, and there was no way I could convince Vi to turn back. I just want to go home and weep my makeup off in the shower like a normal person.

“Absolutely not, Annie,” my best friend says with a laugh. “Your taste in men is shit.”

Considering Vi has happily kept a girlfriend for several months now, I should probably listen to her. She and Brynn are downright lovebirds.

My phone in her hand chimes for the millionth time, and she punches in my PIN to unlock the screen.

She skims past two pages of meticulously organized apps to the one housing a chaotic mishmash of icons she downloaded over dinner.

My supposed best friend pops her head up and scans the room.

Violet’s subjected me to blind-date roulette all night. As I’d told her my sordid sob story over tacos, she’d held her hand out and insisted I surrender my phone because she didn’t trust me to block my cheating ex’s number.

She then confiscated it, installed half a dozen dating apps under the table, added my profiles without letting me approve them, and has forced me to meet the matches she deems appropriate.

It sounded like a good idea at the time.

I may have had one too many margaritas and went along with it.

I debate whether I actually agreed or the tequila did.

At least she used a fake name. Annie Lane is common enough that I’d be hard to find in a city this size. Still, I should probably appreciate the anonymity that comes with hiding as “Grace K.”

Here’s hoping the namesake finds me a prince this time and not another fucking frog.

Across the bar, a guy with scraggly, ash blonde hair is also searching the crowd.

“Him, over there,” she tells me. “Daniel S. Twenty-eight.”

“Which app is this?”

“Mix and Mingle.”

I grunt and screw up my face, but she already established dominance, so I know there’s no escape.

“Alright, convince me,” I say.

She skims the screen. “Three profile pictures. None are shirtless, but there’s a dog in one and no fishing photos. No hints if he’s human or otherwise. It says he’s a software engineer, whatever that means.”

“I think it means he does coding.”

“Hopefully that means he’s got stellar finger dexterity.”

The sigh I release makes the bachelorette party to our right look over, despite the noisy chatter of the overcrowded bar. Where’s the fire marshal when you need them?

The place is so packed wall-to-wall with bodies that we’ve been shoved several times despite staunchly claiming our seats at this high top. We’re nowhere near the over-lacquered bar stretching the length of the rectangular room, and yet the floors are sticky.

With so many people, it feels like the whole room both sees me and doesn’t.

People around us go about their business as if Violet and I don’t exist at all, but I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Scrutinized.

It’s a little disconcerting, but the point right now is to let people see me.

Granted, I’m wearing my fuck-me dress and stiletto spikes. Violet insisted we stop to change before we came to this bar, and I was too many yummy drinks in to object.

The velvet halter dress and low back make a bra impossible, and Violet pulled the drawstring thigh slit as high as it goes. It nips in at my waist and hugs my full thighs, belly, and breasts sinfully. Sparkling rhinestone and glitter explosions that resemble fireworks randomly burst across the fabric.

I wouldn’t normally leave my apartment so exposed but, again... it’s a fuck-me dress. Whomever takes me home will see far more.

Not that I’ve had any luck, but I look fucking amazing and I know it.

I sip my whiskey sour and eye Daniel S. across the bar. He’s not bad looking. A little on the short side. I’m not exactly Amazonian, but I like my guys tall with a lot of heft to them. I want someone who can toss me around, and with my curves, the characteristics of the guys I’d trust to do so is a limited list.

Daniel S. doesn’t appear to have any heft.

He could be some kind of shifter. He’s got this scruffy vibe. Maybe that’s why Vi picked him. Looks can be deceiving.

No, he’s sipping a craft beer with a label I don’t recognize. No one else in the bar has one, which means he probably snuck it in.

Strikes one and two, Danny boy.

“Go on,” Violet says and shoos me toward my newest suitor. I make it a solid three steps into the throng when she calls out, “Don’t forget to push your boobs up!”

I hate that I love her.

But I do covertly refresh the cleft.

As I squeeze my way through the crowd toward Daniel S. , potential paramour number six of the evening, I curse myself for telling Violet about Trent at all. Sure, we’d been together for nearly a year. We’d even exchanged apartment keys, but it’s not like we were engaged.

So what if someone texted him naked pics at two a.m.?

And he got out of bed to take a call.

Then had to leave for a “work emergency.”

I sound so damned pathetic.

He didn’t even try to hide the text. He had to have known I’d see it.

Another year lost.

To my credit, I didn’t wait for him to return to his apartment. A different day, a different mood, and I might have stayed in his bed and slept off the tears.

No. Instead, I packed my meager belongings and haven’t looked back. Fucking proud of me.

I deserve better.

His apartment key—on the cute little flower keychain he picked “just for me”—is probably still sitting on his kitchen counter two days later. I wonder if he even noticed. He still has my key, but I have no intention of contacting him again. If he wants any of his stuff back, he’ll have to man-up and ask me for it.

Some blond guy elbows me in the ribs while I push my way through the crowd. I let out a little oof , and he twists and shoves me hard with one hand.

“Watch it, bitch,” the guy spits at me. I pivot to throw my own response, but an unknown set of hands spins him around and slams a wide fist into his face.

One of his buddies jumps the blur of white sleeves that had punched the shover, and the fight broadens.

I take several steps backward to dissolve into the crowd of people circling the altercation.

They’re all going to get kicked out, and I don’t have my phone to text Violet and let her know I’m stuck outside. Plus, claws and magic would down me in a heartbeat. I escape by pretending like the fight doesn’t exist at all and I’m just trying to get to the billiard area.

Squaring my shoulders and settling my unease, I smooth down any fly-aways and straighten the dress. With my balance sure, I sway my hips and saunter toward Daniel S., 28, software engineer .

The evenly spaced array of pool tables give my brain some nice scratchies and make it easier to maneuver to the rear half of the bar. People gather around the tables, and the play breaks up the mass.

My target leans against the wall, nursing his illici-beer and watching a group of guys I assume to be his friends break at the table. When I approach, it becomes clear that his nondescript t-shirt is rumpled, his khakis are too short for him, and he eyes me like I’m not wearing a dress at all.

Yes, this will work out swimmingly. One would think my closest friend would know my taste better than this.

Maybe that’s her point. Maybe she’s picking shitty guys intentionally. I wish she’d pick shitty guys who were good in bed. If I’m going to be reckless, it has to be worth it.

“Daniel?” I ask the guy Violet pointed out.

“ Grace is the perfect name for you,” he replies.

Wow, that’s only the third time I’ve heard that. People actually named Grace must hate it.

“You’re too sweet,” I reply and flash him a sunny smile. Maybe I can swing a free drink out of this guy before I escape. Would that satisfy my alleged best friend?

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

Too easy. “I’d be delighted.”

Wickham

“I can’t keep letting you in, Wick,” Jimmy, the owner of Stan’s on Fifth, grumbles. I eye the slightly ajar back door of the bar.

The cool night soaks into my pores and calms part of the agitation sparking under my skin. If I shift right now, my instincts will immediately take control, and there’s no stopping then.

Jimmy will let me in; he just needs the right incentive.

And I need to find her .

Eyes wait expectantly in my thoughts, so brightly blue, it’s like they see right through me.

“How much was the orthodontist’s bill again?” I ask.

Stan’s is the one place I can go where I’m left the fuck alone. Upscale lounges and bourbon bars are full of people who want to brown-nose a guy in a bespoke suit with a Ferrari key fob. Here, at a dive full of horny drunks seeking easy choices, most ignore me entirely.

There’s something oddly soothing about standing quiet inside the tumult. It satisfies my baser, more acerbic instincts without indulging in them.

Much.

“It ain’t about the money tonight,” Stan replies. “I’m over capacity, and they’re gonna shut me down. This is the best Saturday I’ve had in months, and I’m not jeopardizing it because you’ve got a chip on your shoulder.”

A figment beyond the door with thick, wavy hair as black as my mood begs for my return.

“That’s not it.”

“No? Every time you come in, you pick a fight, and every time, you bribe me to let you nurse your bruises at the bar. Ain’t you tired of it?”

I’m not the one who ends up bruised.

“Not tonight. I wasn’t looking for a fight. He pushed a woman. I don’t tolerate disrespect.”

Jimmy grunts his agreement.

That’s true to a point. I don’t tolerate disrespect, but I was ready to castrate the guy for laying hands on her .

My mate.

Which is why I crushed every bone from fingertip to forearm so he won’t ever use that hand again.

No one touches what’s mine.

I don’t know what brought her here or why she’s doing the rounds, but I’ve had to patiently suffer through watching her approach or be approached five times already.

It’s. Fucking. Torture.

I draw the line at touching, though. That won’t be happening.

My mind spirals at the thought of her in there without me. She’d already been in harm’s way once.

Out of my wallet, I produce a few extra hundreds and fold them in half.

“I’ll be the perfect angel,” I reassure Jimmy. “We both know once I’ve gotten my hits in, I’m as gentle as a pup.”

Jimmy grunts instead of answering. I debate shifting forms anyway just to ensure she leaves with me—one way or another.

No, I have to play this right. She seems human, of all beings. Her friend’s a witch. I can’t tell which faction, but she’s one of only a handful in the crowd who reeks of magic.

Human women, especially American human women, need to be finessed. They need to feel like it’s their decision. They need to be convinced.

I’d rather not have to carry her out over my shoulder. I will if I have to, but I only need to bide my time and find an opening.

Even if I want to flay alive every man she smiles at.

Another mess of twenties gets added to the stack. “Braces are expensive, Jimmy. Let me help you out.”

The bar owner focuses on the thick fold of bills. He rolls his eyes and rubs his face.

“You cause any trouble at all, you don’t ever come in again. You hear me, Wickham? That’ll be it.”

“You’re making the right decision,” I reply and clap him on the shoulder.

Muttering, Jimmy steps aside and lets me cross the threshold into the overcrowded bar.

Once she’s in my lair, she’s mine. I only need to find and get my mate to leave with me.

Preferably willingly, but if not . . . oh well.