Chapter Thirteen
Wickham
She fucking ran from me.
AGAIN.
The paper coffee cup in my hand crumples, and hot liquid spills over my skin. The temperature barely registers while it seeps out of the cup, pools on the park bench, and drips into a puddle on the sidewalk.
Across the street, through window decals of coffee beans and a danish, my mate sits at a cafe table at the back of the coffee shop. Raven waves are carefully twisted into a knot, but her blazing gray-blue eyes tell me everything. They dart around the cafe and constantly scan the windows, as if she’ll be able to catch me coming for her.
She arrived only a moment ago after walking in circles for 45 minutes through downtown Promenade East. Her hotel isn’t that far, but she backtracked and routed around so many times, I had to shift and follow from overhead to find her again.
Annie Lane, my mate, ran from me last night.
I’m not angry with her. It’s apparently her nature. She doesn’t understand something, so she runs away. She’s afraid. This isn’t in her plans.
No, I’m pissed the fuck off at myself. I let her walk out of the VIP area because I was so smug that she’d come around. I assumed the area could be controlled since I own the damn place.
Hell, I was riding the edge of an unintentional shift. I nearly bit her a half dozen times.
Only her agreement kept it at bay, and even then my impulses eroded my control. I needed a chance to clear my own head before leading her through a crowd half-full of other men.
When she figured out it was me directing her through the club, toward the back office, she immediately fell into my arms.
She was relieved, genuinely relieved, I’m sure of it. She wants to come home. She only needs reassurance.
I used to think her life would be a subpart of mine. She could work for a while. If she needed to be out in the world, I could handle that—with the right security detail.
When she first ran, I decided she didn’t need any of that. She needed to be saved from herself.
And yet, for whatever the fuck reason, I am proud of her right now.
She’d kept me at bay for two weeks before Violet led me right to her. Points to her friend—she never betrayed her. She’s simply not as meticulous as my mate is at disappearing.
The friend in question makes it to the cafe’s glass door, pauses to look over her shoulder in every direction except mine, and enters the shop. She beelines straight to the back.
The two hug, and Violet passes Annie a thick envelope. Annie’s eyes tear up. They hug again, longer this time, and it prompts the most unwelcome agony.
She hates this. Running from me. Having to run from me.
I’ve done everything I can to keep Annie protected during her romp around the city. I even paid to have her laundry done, for fuck’s sake.
I can’t take it anymore. I’ve given her as much freedom as I can handle without going fucking feral.
It’s time to end this. For us both.
She’ll move again. She already checked out of the last hotel.
No, I’ll give her one more day.
One more chance to change her mind on her own.
And then, she’s coming home with me, whether she likes it or not.
Annie
The day crawls by. There’s only a few hours between checking out of the hotel, meeting Violet for the final cash influx, and then making my way to the neighborhood of the new hotel.
I stop at an ATM to deposit the last of my cash onto the card. I’ve never stayed at the Armande, but the online reviews look nice.
I can’t go somewhere I’ve been before. I don’t know how Wick found me, but he’s probably furious.
A cafe is probably safer than being out in public, but it all seems so exposed regardless. The glass and passing pedestrians leave anxious jitters in their wake.
He can’t know where I am. I disappeared. He didn’t follow me last night.
Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe its straight paranoia.
But I feel like he’s watching me.
For weeks, it’s felt like he was always around the next corner. The last week or so, I could have sworn he’d been with me every step.
It’s probably wishful thinking. My stupid heart wants my string of luck to be his doing. Or fault.
More likely, having everything torn away—my perfectly predictable life full of projects I worry about and a best friend I miss—is taking more of a toll than I’d originally considered. It might not seem like much to some, but it was what I wanted it to be.
Shuffling to my feet, I leave the cafe to wander in the neighborhood. There’s a cute little park across the street. I perch on a bench to sip my coffee. It’ll be cold weather soon, but the day is sunny and breezy.
Kids play on a playground. They chase each other, giggle with unbridled glee, and throw themselves down the slides at a speed that gives even me a heart attack.
I’ve always wanted a family. The idea I’d have that with Wick bubbles up the strangest miasma of emotions. I don’t even know how that could be possible with a dragon. I am not equipped to lay eggs.
My mind wanders into a biological analysis to avoid contending with an emotional response to the idea.
Acting on impulse, I bring up the text chain with Wickham.
How do dragons repro—
I delete the text.
Do dragons really lay eggs or—
Backspace, backspace, backspace.
I stare at the screen and contemplate what to say to him.
He’s probably livid.
I hurt him.
I know I did, and I hate that. Why am I like this?
I send the text before my brain can override my heart.
Bubbles immediately appear then stop. They start up again after a long moment.
My hackles rise immediately.
Instead of immediately firing off another angry response, I contemplate how to word it.
There’s another pause on his end.
My paranoia crests, and I swivel my head and twist my body in all directions looking for him.
But he isn’t there.
No white kidnapper van either.
Just the kids squealing while their minders watch. A full three minutes pass while I force my breathing to calm and my mind to center. I focus on the kids swinging back and forth.
That’s probably offensive. Can’t take it back now.
That settles a bit of my anxiety for whatever reason.
After getting to my feet, I sip the last of my coffee and drop it into the trash then turn to wander in circles for a bit.
That’s new. I’d assumed he was an expert, like he went to dragon school or something. I never expected him to be as clueless as I am.
Act of ownership? Puh-fucking-lease.
My feet ache. I’m running for good reason, but he will find me—again—eventually. I type out my response and then shut the phone off.
The Tradesman Hotel and Resort is as far along the edge of the city as I dare go. It’s on the opposite side of the city from where Wickham’s house is. I know that’s irrational. He isn’t there.
He’s still searching for me.
Another day passes while I evade capture.
It feels like I can distance myself as much as possible from him and what he wants.
He’s going to catch me eventually. My not-mate seems to always be over my shoulder, at my back, even overhead. He’s everywhere yet nowhere.
After I check in to the hotel, I can’t stand to stay confined in my room. It’s suffocating, worse than the thought of being confined in Wick’s basement.
He’s continued to text me throughout the day, but we’ve lost all advancement toward an easier friendship.
Gone are the gentle prods for information, the sweet comments, and the thoughtful messages. In its place, original Wick rears his head and roars into the sky, and it makes me wonder if he’s been fooling me or if he’s just that mad at me.
The text probably won’t help, but I want him to laugh. I need to know he’s smiling. I get nothing from his response. He’s in full-on shut-Annie-down mode like he has been all day.
He doesn’t respond to that.
My brain lobs debate points back and forth over whether that means he’s considering compromising for once or if he just doesn’t want to make it worse.
The ass.
The question takes me aback.
Is that why I’m running?
I want him . I feel it in my bones.
And it’s not some stupid magical biology.
I want him. I want his smirks and his wry wit. I want his laugh in person. I want his mouth and hands on me.
And yet, I can’t square that with this intense fear bubbling in my belly.
His text interrupts my panicking.
I power the device down before I give in to temptation and respond.
Chill pricks at my arms and neck exposed to the night in the thin, cowl-necked tank top.
My legs ache, my feet are so sore that they’re numb, and sweat makes my shirt stick to my spine. I stayed out as long as I could before exhaustion takes control.
My muscles shake and my body begs for sleep, even if that means being in yet another lifeless, beige hotel room. I can’t walk around the whole night.
The lock beeps as I push open the door to my latest hotel room. I set my stuff down on the open closet shelves and step out of my shoes, ready to collapse onto clean, white linens.
But when I turn the corner, Wickham Barrett is sitting in my armchair.