Fated to the Enemy’s Daughter (Alpha Dragons’ Fated Mates #1)

Chapter One

Jade

I caught him watching me.

Again.

“That’s the third time in less than half an hour,” I complained, my voice lowered. “This is ridiculous.”

“What is?”

I lifted my hand to half hide my face. “That asswipe a few tables over. He keeps staring at me.”

Alix started to look around, her drink to her lips.

“Tssst,” I hissed, halting her. “Don’t look at him, dammit. I don’t want him to know I’ve caught on.”

“He probably already knows, given your current defensive body language.”

Straightening, I lowered my hand, picked up my rum and coke, and looked nowhere except at Alix. As was the norm after work on a Friday afternoon, the bar jumped and hopped. Drinks were half price until seven, which brought in the neighborhood businessmen and women, bar flies, and your average Joe. Alix and I, best friends since high school, became regulars on Friday evenings for the last five years.

“Is he cute?” Alix asked.

I sneaked a quick look at the dude, discovering he busily laughed at something his buddy said, and for once wasn’t sending me creepy vibes. “Very.”

Before I stopped her, Alix shot a glance over her shoulder. “The black-haired dude who looks like he just stepped off a photoshoot with GQ?”

“That’s him.”

“Girl, he’s checking you out. Maybe you should buy him a drink.”

“Don’t even go there,” I snapped in an undertone. “I’m not looking to get laid, don’t want a relationship, and he’s creepy.”

“Creepy how?”

I shot another glance past her and found Creepy GQ model openly staring at me yet again. “It’s hard to say. It’s like, well, it’s like he’s not watching me because he likes the way I look or is attracted to me. It’s almost as though he wants to eat me.”

Alix smirked. “Oh, baby.”

“Not that kind.” I sipped my drink, wondering why I always seemed to attract the sickos. The psych ward escapees who liked to stalk women so they could get off that night. I’ve certainly had my share of the weirdos. Last year’s stalker is currently rotting in prison for stalking and attempted sexual assault.

Attempted because I broke his nose, two ribs, and his right collarbone. All in defense of my person. One really doesn’t want to piss me off.

“Look,” Alix said, “you’re beautiful. He’s checking you out, maybe getting his courage up to buy you a drink. He doesn’t look the sexual predator type to me.”

“And just what does a sexual predator look like, babe?” I demanded. “My last stalker looked like Mister Rogers. Cardigan sweater and all.”

Alix broke into laughter. “Yeah, he did, didn’t he? If that dude over there had a buzz cut, he could be Captain America.”

True, the Creepy GQ model was built like an Avenger. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps under his white shirt, his tie loosened at his throat. A square cut jaw, the faintest hint of a scruffy lack of shaving, the midnight hair that tumbled rakishly off his brow. His brilliant blue eyes contrasted in a most interesting fashion with his tanned skin.

“Not every guy who looks at you is a bad guy, honey,” Alix went on, sipping her drink. “I mean, you’re a super model yourself. Red hair, green eyes, perfect complexion. No wonder you get hit on.”

“I get stalked,” I retorted. “Not hit on.”

“What about that Jack dude?” Alix asked. “He hit on you, asked you out, he was nice. Wasn’t he?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess he was. His wife thought he was nice, too.”

That broke Alix up into a wild gale of laughter, garnering a few curious looks toward our table despite the loud music, the multitudes of conversations trying to be heard over it. I chuckled, too, remembering the situation. I wasn’t amused at first, but the look on Jack’s face when he found out his wife knew of his philandering was priceless.

“That was hilarious.” Alix snorted her drink, coughed, then sneezed, still chuckling. “What an ass.”

“I know. I wonder if his wife divorced him.”

Alix wiped her face with her napkin. “I would. Once a cheat, always a cheat.”

The barmaid who served our section arrived at our table with fresh drinks we didn’t order. Rut ro. Alix and I exchanged a glance.

“Where did these come from?” I asked.

“You ladies have an admirer,” she replied. “Bought you these.”

“Uh, just who bought them?” Alix discreetly gestured toward Creepy GQ model and his friend. “Those guys?”

“Nope. Fella at the bar. At the end. Older.” She dropped her voice conspiratorially. “Maybe he’s after a threesome. You never know with some of these pricks who come in here.”

After depositing that horrid image in my head, she left our table. As one, Alix and I looked at the older gentleman who’d bought us a round. Hopefully, without the expectation of a threesome. He smiled and lifted his drink in our direction, then drank. A guy maybe in his fifties, who didn’t appear as though he hoped he’d just paid for sex in a cheesy motel with a drink.

We lifted our own in reply, then did our best to ignore him.

“Maybe he’s a pay it forward kind of guy,” Alix suggested. “Trying to be nice.”

“In a dive like this? Are you kidding?”

“If it’s such a dive, why do we keep coming here?”

“It’s a tradition. We come here every week, have been for years.”

Alix shrugged. “You’re a cynic, that’s all. No one can be nice without an ulterior motive.”

“Experience, babe.”

“You’re too young to be so cynical.”

In our lighthearted conversation, I nearly forgot Creepy GQ model. Nor did I catch him staring, although I admit I didn’t try very hard to catch him at it. As close friends do, Alix and I talked of work, families, whether or not her current squeeze would ask her to marry him.

“Don’t you want to?” I asked, finishing the last of the old dude’s rum and coke.

“I don’t know,” Alix replied. “I love him. But I’m not ready for permanence.”

“Commitments are tough,” I agreed. “Even a cell phone contract is too much for me to handle. I love my freedom.”

She sent me a crusty. “Wow. At least you committed to something .”

“Aren’t I committed to you, my love?” I asked with a laugh.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”

“Ai-yi-yi.”

Alix swallowed the last of her drink, then gathered her jacket and purse. “The hour groweth late, my dear. I don’t want to turn into a pumpkin.”

“It’s Friday night,” I protested. “You don’t work tomorrow.”

“No, but my S.O. wants to take a drive into the mountains tomorrow. You know, see the leaves changing color. He likes to leave early.”

I grimaced. “Any dude who thinks taking a long drive to see leaves needs his man license revoked.”

“It was my idea.” Alix kissed my cheek. “Sayonara.”

“Bye.”

I lifted my hand to signal the bar maid, thinking to have one more, then I ought to head home, too. Alix lived further away from the bar than I did, thus she risked drinking too much and being busted for a DWI. Me, I walked here. The cops around here tended to focus on drunk drivers, not drunk walkers.

“Might I join you?”

The older dude. Crap. I want one more drink, by myself, no stalkers invited. “Thanks for the drink, but I’ll be leaving soon.”

And, of course, he pulled out Alix’s chair and sat down with a tiny smirk. “I just want to compliment you on your exquisite, good looks.”

He himself was just average looking, salt and pepper hair, brown eyes, not much of a chin. The barmaid brought my drink, then asked him what he’d have.

“Another scotch and soda, thanks.”

She left the table, and me in an annoyed dither.

“Look, man, if you’ve come for a one night stand you can forget it.”

“Why does everything have to be about sex?” he asked. “I happen to be a photographer, and think you’d be wonderfully photogenic.”

“I hate having my picture taken,” I said. “So, no go.”

“That’s a shame. I can pay you a lot of money.”

“Still a no go. Why don’t you run along and bother someone else?”

“Pity about your extraordinary good looks,” he commented. “You have such an abrasive personality.”

“That happens when folks get in my face without asking and judge me.”

His drink arrived as did mine, yet I didn’t pick it up. He made no effort to get up and leave, and if I wanted rid of him, I’d have to be the one to depart. Past his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Creepy GQ model watching me, us, with a slight frown. Did he have some hero complex that would send him hurtling over the tables to rescue the damsel in distress?

“As your company is less than desirable,” I said, picking up my drink, my coat and my purse, “I’ll take mine elsewhere.”

“Think about my offer,” he said as I stalked through the tables to the bar. “A lot of money.”

“Bite me,” I muttered under my breath, and sat on a stool.

From this angle I couldn’t see either Mr. Think About It or Creepy GQ model unless I turned fully around. Sipping my drink, I beckoned the bartender over to pay my tab, then gave him my card. High time I left this joint, went home to watch some television, before nodding off on my sofa. The rum rose from my stomach straight to my head, but I still knew exactly what went on around me and walked with confidence. If either of those bozos thought I was drunk enough to roll, they’d get a nasty surprise.

I kept a police tactical baton in my right-hand jacket pocket.

The chilly northeast wind bit into my flesh as I zipped my coat up and stuffed my hands into the pockets. My residential neighborhood was two blocks down, then a right turn, then another three blocks. Easy peasy. I enjoyed walking home, the area wasn’t criminal alley, nor was it posh. Just ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, even as I did.

I made my right turn and as I did, I shot a glance back the way I’d come.

Creepy GQ model strode along the well-lit street behind me.

This just bites. I gripped my baton, kept my head down and walked on. If he made the right turn, then he was following me. If he kept straight on, I’d relax.

He turned right.

Great. Another fucking stalker. I considered shifting, getting away from him that way, and maybe scare him into shitting himself in the process. Except there was a problem with that notion. One, too many cars drove past me on the rather busy avenue. And two, I’m not allowed to reveal what I am.

The baton then. It’d turn him into a pile of quivering, busted bone, bloody excuse for a GQ model. I didn’t necessarily want to hurt him or anyone else. I’d only bust his chops if he got froggy. So just keep on walking, GQ, just walk on. You really don’t want to know what I can do with this thing.

I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. He continued to follow, his hands in his pockets, his head down as though he merely strolled through the autumn evening, going in the same direction I was. No big deal. No cause for alarm.

Except I disagreed.

I tensed, deliberately slowing down. My grip on the baton tightened, readying myself to whip it from my pocket, snapping it open in the same motion. I saw myself spin, lift the extended titanium rod, and crack it across his cheekbone. Another down low, striking the side of his knee. Then a hard blow to his torso, removing his ability to breathe properly.

Unable to walk, breathe, and probably unable to see straight, I suspected GQ would be disinclined to stalk me further.

I spun, snapping the baton from my pocket, out, extended. I crouched, ready for battle, prepared for the first strike.

He wasn’t there.