Chapter Eleven
The following few days are remarkably calm. The process of moving from place to place becomes rote. I run out of hotels I’m familiar with and start repeating them.
If Wick can anticipate where I go out of over a dozen different places, then maybe he deserves to catch me.
And with every day, I’ve come to a frustrating conclusion.
I am drawn to him.
The concept of a mate is totally foreign. Humans don’t take mates. We date, stay single, get married, get divorced...
I don’t believe in fate. It’s illogical.
There is no answer for a mate bond. I’ve always thought shifters simply confused compatibility with destiny. Puppy love on steroids. I’ve known shifters with mates, and they grow old together and argue like everyone else.
But . . . I’m drawn to him.
I look forward to his texts. I force myself to shut the phone off while I sleep so I don’t reread them. I could blame it on Stockholm Syndrome, but wouldn’t that be if he’d held me captive? I’m out running around, making my own decisions.
And it’s incredibly boring sitting alone in a hotel room for hours knowing he’s out there, walking in the world.
It’s clear the rooms are meant to be nothing more than a place to lay your head. I’ve started venturing around. It’s probably dangerous to be visible in public, but if Wick doesn’t know where I am, then should it matter?
I’ve been reading a book at a cafe in the Western Gardner District all day, this one empty except for me in the back, when my phone chimes.
I smile at the screen. Since our impromptu movie date, it’s become harder and harder to guess whether he’s being forward or truly asking.
There, that’s benign enough.
Warmth pools in my belly. I like that he’s taking care of Marni. And Violet. She’s started forwarding his updates. I get the sense they talk more than she lets on, but it’s harmless. She’s already made clear she thinks I’m being foolish by running from him but ultimately supports me.
The words cross the screen, but they feel different now. It isn’t laced with the tension he normally layers onto his requests for my return.
It sounds like a plea and not a demand.
It’s a dangerous thing to say. He’s going to think there’s hope.
But I hit send before I can think better of it. Violet’s words from the other day scratch at the back of my mind. Why would he buy Marni’s if he wanted to keep me chained?
“Excuse me,” the barista says.
I look up and find the clerk behind the counter with an alchemy burn on his jaw, placing a plate on the counter near me.
“I made a specialty order and overbaked in case of errors, but it’s a shame to throw these away. They’re perfectly fine. I had one myself. You can have them if you want them. Just don’t tell my boss.”
A little stack of macarons rests on the plate, all a lilac purple with rich yellow filling.
No one makes macarons better than Marni, but I miss them too much to care right now. I accept the plate and return to my table.
The insides are a burnt lemon that burst with tart sweetness. Lavender in the cookies adds a savory, earthy element that complements the filling.
With some trepidation, I check my phone to see what Wick’s sent back. I don’t know why I’m afraid of his response.
Maybe I worry he’ll think I’m teasing him and get mad.
Maybe I’m worried he’ll take it seriously and realize I want to know.
That’s sweet, but it doesn’t tell me anything.
I don’t respond and leave the message to fester. I should acknowledge it. I’m sure he’s spiraling on the other end.
But with every day, it becomes obvious that I can’t run forever. The money I transferred to Vi will be gone with only one more envelope. That gives me ten days—maybe two weeks if I ration it.
Instead of avoiding Wickham, I may need to prepare him for when I’m back.
Another day of monotony has me fleeing the hotel room. I take refuge in one of my favorite libraries.
The 19th century building is full of sweeping stone arches and echoing marble floors waxed to a spotless shine. The Art, Architecture, and Engineering section takes up an entire quarter of the third floor, but it looks exactly like the rest of the library.
I rest my bag on a worn armchair at the end of a chair-couch-chair-coffee table arrangement. The seating section is surrounded on all sides by stacks, so I circle the space and skim my fingers over the spines.
Once I find a book, I settle into my chair and hope no one complains when I rest my feet on the table. A librarian would hate it, but it’s awkward to read without putting my feet up.
I’m knee-deep into a discussion of artisan cities that flank high-end areas when my phone chimes. I silence it to avoid a disapproving shush and check the screen.
He’d either love or hate the discussion in the book. It’s all about people with expertise making for themselves what only the wealthy could afford.
Rolling my eyes, I set the phone on the armrest to return to the book.
Movement catches the corner of my eye.
Someone’s in the stacks to my right. I sit forward and scan the area.
There’s no change. Whoever it was probably found the book they’re looking for and left.
His message makes me smile through the concern. He wouldn’t ask if he was here. With a chuckle, I type my response.
Movement again, this time to my left. Paranoia has me at a twelve out of ten, because I immediately jump to my feet and step out of the seating arrangement in case I need to run. I tap out my message to him.
His response is quick.
Not an answer but kind of sufficient. If he was here, he’d tease me about it like he did at my apartment—or worse, grab me and haul me away.
A flash of dark hair and a leather jacket flies by to the right.
I sprint after the ghost, mindlessly leaving my bag and book behind, my phone gripped tightly in my hand.
The figure takes a right and another left before speed walking toward the stairs.
I gain on him and grab him by the shoulder.
And a broad-shouldered woman with short dark hair spins to glare at me. Her head draws back like I’ve offended her by touching her.
“I’m so sorry,” I stutter out. “I thought you were someone else.”
She rolls her eyes but returns to her route without a word.
My anxiety is truly out of control. I’m chasing illusions and accosting strangers.
But when I return to my sitting area, there’s a book resting on the table. It’s a historical analysis of a hundred women who changed architecture.
No one else is around, and there’s no sign of whomever left the book.
Wick isn’t here. He can’t be. There’s no circumstance where he wouldn’t snatch me off the street.
Then why does it feel like he left this for me?
The rest of my week fares better, and my luck improves substantially.
The night after the library incident, I return to my room with my dinner and discover chocolate covered strawberries waiting. The note thanks me for being a recently returning guest.
It comes with complimentary laundry service and a movie, and I nearly faint from joy at having truly clean clothes. I rewatch “My Cousin Vinny” while munching on the meal and treat.
And I break down and message Wick on my own.
There’s no response for a full fifteen minutes.
Do not think about him wet and naked in the shower.
Is it? I’m not sure how to respond to that. I’m safe, fed, and clean. Everything is fine—if you ignore my stalker dragon mate who made me uproot my life and go on the run or wind up in a life of non-consensual bondage.
I consider his offer for an embarrassingly long time but ultimately decide against it. There’s something odd buzzing in my hindbrain. Whatever is causing the irritation, I doubt I’d be able to “relax.”
What is he going on about?
I send him a gif of a bored llama chewing on roughage.
I highlight his original response and then reply directly to it.
The response takes me aback.
Look, daily isn’t exactly a hardship.
But the fact he’s on the same restrictions, of his own choice, and sticking to it does complicated things to my head.
Staticky excitement wins.
And I call him . . . without video.
Two more days. I survive two more days.
Violet has my last envelope, but she can’t get to me until tomorrow. I have to make do with the couple hundred I have left and hope the clerk at tomorrow’s hotel doesn’t run the bill until after I can recharge my prepaid card.
I’m at a loss for where to go. I can’t sit around anymore.
I’ve started going to restaurants instead of bringing the food back to the hotel room. It’s more tenuous than being at cafes. I can’t simply leave when I want to, and most restaurants have layouts too complicated to easily access exits.
It’s reckless, but I’m not meant to be a recluse. If I wanted to be forced into solitude, then I’d give up and surrender to Wick already.
Silver clinks on plates and polite conversation hums around me. The little Italian restaurant is crowded, and I take some solace in being a nameless face in a sea of people. I cross my ankles and fix my skirt. I wore something nice to blend in at the restaurant, but now, I feel awkward and exposed.
With my stomach full, I begin the complicated walk back to the hotel.
Post to Eighth, and then a right on Marbury before hooking back around to Tenth. If someone’s following me, I’ll know.
My thighs ache from rubbing together beneath the skirt.
Right, sure, that’s why my thighs are sore. Certainly not from clenching them every time I think about that video Wick sent.
And I do think about it. A lot.
I picked that restaurant because it’s nowhere near the hotel, but it also means I have at least a half an hour of travel time.
Alone. In the dark.
All of my preparations to avoid my rabid mate, and I forgot the most basic rule of womanhood.
Don’t walk alone at night.
As I head to the hotel, that familiar paranoia follows.
I’m convinced I hear footsteps behind me, but every time I swing around or check window reflections, there’s no one there.
People seem to be avoiding me too. I thought it was odd when the first couple crossed the street before getting to me, but by the fourth I have to acknowledge that something is off.
Maybe it’s from rejecting the mate bond?
My stomach drops and tears prick at my eyes.
I am not rejecting Wick. I can’t—I’m not doing that. Even the idea hurts. I can’t even say the words let alone perform the action.
Stupid fucking biology.
There’s a crowd at a corner crosswalk all waiting for the light. I stop with them, and more people crowd in behind me.
I’m safer in a mass of people. If I scream, they’ll notice. My route to the hotel re-calculates in my mind to prefer high-traffic areas. It’ll waste more time, but at least I won’t be alone.
Because eyes burn a hole in the back of my head.
Without warning, I swing around again to check behind me.
Nothing. No movement. No sound.
People in the crowd around me share a mix of glares and concern.
“Sorry,” I stutter out.
The light changes, and we move as a mass to the other side. I’m one of many continuing in the same direction.
That is, until we reach the next intersection and someone scoops an arm around my waist.
“Keep walking,” a gruff voice whispers in my ear.