10. Chapter Ten
Fynn and I travel to headquarters together, but when he goes to take care of head boss things, I request a saddle. While I don’t make it a habit to take fares much anymore, I need something to fill my brain. To remember my problems can be small compared to others.
When I became a Dragxi all those years ago, it was borne of needing something to do in my life.
Chasing Fynn’s footsteps made the most sense.
I don’t hate being a Dragxi, but the de-personification bothers me.
Being treated like an object only good for travel between destinations is chafing on a good day.
The one thing that makes it worth it is picking up gossip for amusement.
Today’s no exception. After a dozen boring fares, I’m rewarded with a wild tale of failure.
The fare is a male Orc wearing a pristine chef’s outfit, looking a little too green for my liking. Having people puke in my seating saddle is always a nuisance. He climbs up on shaky legs, barely casting me a glance as he provides the address.
He’s ranting into the phone held to his pointed ear, sounding desperate. “You need to ask them to reschedule. It was an absolute fucking debacle, Democles. Mid-presentation, I almost shit myself. I don’t know what happened, but none of them are willing to invest now.”
I nearly choke on smoke. The visual of an Orc chef shitting his pants is almost too amusing to contain my laugh.
“I need those investors! My restaurant is going to shut down otherwise.” A pause, then, “I didn’t eat anything out of the ordinary, but it was definitely food poisoning.
” He snarls with frustration. “Never in my whole life has something like that happened. You need to explain to them that I will not shit in customer’s food, like that goddess-damned Vampyre fuck implied. ”
Unfortunately, I can’t hold back my laugh. This form can’t fully laugh, so it comes out sounding like two boulders grated together.
The Orc stops speaking mid-sentence. “Is there something funny, Dragon?”
Not at all. A bug flew into my nostril.
“Uh huh. Mind your own fucking business before I mind it for you.”
Brave words toward a creature that could swallow him in two bites. At least he recognized I’m sentient. Thankfully, I learned years ago how to clamp down my irritations and let people think they’ve won.
Understood.
The Orc hangs up shortly after, presumably fuming in silence. When I land in front of an apartment complex, he hops off and points a sausage-thick finger at me. “Say a word and I’ll report you to your boss.”
Okay, that’s taking it a little far. My Dragon pride can’t let him get away with this silly threat. I’m a fucking Dragon, for goddess sake. My long neck bends so I can look him in the eye. When I snap my jaw, he flinches.
I am the boss. So, best of luck. Why don’t you go change your pants?
His purple eyes light up with fury, and he stomps off without paying. Normally, I’d chase him down, but I allow him the tantrum. He’s spoiling for a fight, and it pisses me off that I can’t give it to him.
Heading back to headquarters, I request being unsaddled and stalk into my office.
Frustration hums under my skin, making it hard to think.
When I sit at my desk, the urge to move hits immediately.
For a split second, I consider going home to play video games.
But there’s simply no way I can sit still right now.
The solution is the battle gym.
After informing Fynn where I’m going, I speed through the skies, eager to punch something repeatedly.
Landing in front of the battle gym, I shift back and storm to the front door. Yanking it open, I scan the inside for a tangerine head of hair.
Exhaling when the coast is clear, I walk inside to my locker. I pull out wraps, gloves, and my water bottle. The gloves are for show — what I crave are split knuckles. Pain will be a welcome distraction.
Once I’m in the main training area, I find an empty punching bag. Ripping off my shirt, I toss it onto the ground. Barely taking the time to wrap my knuckles, I eye the punching bag like it has a red scaled face topped with blue hair.
The first slam of my fist ricochets up my shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I focus on my form as I engage my imagination.
The older I get, the worse everything becomes.
Anger isn’t intended to fester; if allowed, it rots into hate.
Inside of me is so much hate, so much fury, I don’t think even Orliana — a talented Siphon who can alter emotions — can remove it all.
At this point, it’s a permanent resident, fed by loneliness, shame, and fear.
With each thrust of my arm, it whispers more!
When one knuckle splits, I grin. Adrenaline amps up my strength.
Again and again, I treat this punching bag like it’s my father’s face.
Maybe it’s a cop out, but it’s easy to blame him for everything wrong in my life.
The fear of relationships. My seemingly innate ability to find women who don't want anything serious.
Creating my instinct to bolt if they do.
During sex, I can barely stand their touch.
I’m a broken, bitter man.
A part of me hopes that one day everything will click into place, and voilà! I’m healed.
The other part of me knows damn well that’s not how it works.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Life has clubbed me over the head so many times, there’s only one truth: every disappointment, failure, and hurt is my destiny.
My lungs burn, and my body begins to slow. Tears prick my eyes. One slips down my cheek, immediately joining beads of sweat. For some reason, this isn’t improving my mood — it’s souring me to the core.
“Trinte?”
A quiet voice breaks through my hateful haze. Immediately, I draw up, lowering my fists. Through my tears, I see apricot hair and burning eyes. Reaching down for my towel, I wipe away the sweat and emotional evidence.
Kyrielle assesses my every move, worry drawing her brows together. “Are you okay?”
If I open my mouth, something hateful is going to come out. It’s not intended for her, so instead, I dig my fangs into my lips.
Her mouth purses when all I do is nod. She eyes the spatters of sweat on the punching bag and the blood seeping through my wraps. My tears instantly dried at the sound of her voice, but I’m sure my good eye is bloodshot.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
My tail lashes in irritation. Why is she here, acting like she cares? The last time we saw one another here, she told me to never approach her again. The hypocrisy is infuriating.
Even though the gym is mostly empty, I need to keep a level head in this conversation.
Swallowing my emotions, shoving them down as hard as possible, I say evenly, “No. How can I help you?”
It’s unusual to see her uncertain, but when she nibbles at her lip, my interest is piqued. “Well, Fynn told me you know about the plans with Orliana, so when I saw you over here, I thought maybe we should …”
Her jaw clenches, like speaking to me is painful.
Why wouldn’t she find speaking to me unbearable? I’m a shade of ugly bitterness that no one on this continent wants.
Ignoring the way my heart pinches, I save her the trouble. “We can text if being around me is too annoying. I’m sure it will suffice.”
Her eyes flare, and there’s a spark of something in her expression. “I didn’t say talking to you is annoying.”
Why is she acting like it is? “Look, you made it abundantly clear last week that I need to leave you alone, especially here. I respect that. You have my number. Text me.”
She watches as I sip the water. Holding her stare, I close the bottle. At least the buzzing under my skin is gone. Now everything throbs. Nothing a hot shower and tonic can’t take care of.
“Why are you always so mad at me?” she whispers.
Bending down, I gather all of my belongings. “I’m not mad at you, Kyrielle. I never have been.”
“Then why are you pushing me away?” The hurt look on her face squeezes my stomach, making me nauseous.
No. I won’t fall for whatever this nonsense is. Last week, she was telling me to leave her alone. Now she wants to gaslight me? Fuck that.
I cock my head at her. “At what point did you think you were ever close?”
Not waiting for a response, I leave her to marinate in the words. She said our hook-up was a one-time thing. There has never been a reason to believe she wants me for more than my body. Kyrielle is not welcome to show up and pretend it means anything now. Because it doesn’t. It was just sex.
And apparently, that’s all I’m good for.