8. Zuri
ZURI
Jalen leads me down a short hallway off the garage, and at the end of it I stop walking.
I braced myself for damp rock and bad lighting.
Instead I get a living room the size of a hotel lobby, carved smooth and high into the mountain, glowing with warm light.
The far wall is a single sheet of glass, floor to ceiling, and through it I can see the whole valley, with Shadow Wolf Creek sitting small and bright at the bottom of the mountains.
Deep leather couches and dark wood tables sit around a fireplace taller than I am, and a low fire burns in it with no one around to tend it. Fresh flowers stand on the side table, and there isn’t a speck of dust anywhere I can see.
Framed photographs line the wall by the hallway. The brothers show up in them at every age, and there are women I haven’t met laughing under strings of festival lights at some fair I don’t recognize. Front and center in every single group shot is the dragon standing quiet behind me.
It looks like a home, and I’m not ready for that. I turn around.
Jalen has stepped back somewhere along my circuit of the room, and he’s kept a step behind me without saying a word.
“How about something to eat?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
He puts his hand at the small of my back to steer me, and I spin around on him instead, looking him up and down.
“Wait a minute.” I step back out of his reach. “You had wings. You were shot.”
I circle him. The back of his shirt is peppered with holes and dried blood, and under the ruin of it, the skin that shows through is smooth. Two long slits run down the back of the fabric.
His wings snap out through the slits, and I jump back with a yelp.
“You mean these?” He grins at me over his shoulder.
“Ohhh.” I put a finger to my lips. The hallway fits them with room to spare.
His wings fold and slide back into him, and the slits lie flat again. The skin underneath doesn’t carry a mark. “I can shift at will.”
“That’s nice.” Nothing in my head is working right yet.
“Follow me,” he says, and he walks ahead of me with my tote still in his hand.
A long island runs down the middle under hanging copper pots, the kind of kitchen I’ve only seen on rich-people reality shows.
He sets my phone and my tote on the island. Then he washes his hands at the deep farmhouse sink, scrubbing to the elbow, and goes to the fridge.
“Do you like pancakes?” he asks into it.
I pull out one of the tall chairs at the island and climb up, and my legs swing free under me.
He pulls eggs, sausage, and milk out of the fridge and lines them up on the counter. Then he adds flour, sugar, and a big bowl. He moves around this kitchen without hunting for anything.
I watch him work, and I’m completely lost. A dragon shifter who took bullets for me this morning is now making me breakfast in his luxury cave. Somewhere between that alley and this chair, I lost the thread of my own life.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask.
He whisks the batter and sets a pan on the stove to warm, and he turns to me with the bowl still in the crook of his arm. “I’m a journalist.”
“Oh.” I touch my cheek and wince.
“I got something for that.” He sets the bowl down and cracks an ice tray into a clean dish towel. He twists it into a cold knot. He comes around the island and eases it against my cheek.
I bring my hand up over the cold bundle, and his fingers slide free of mine. “Thank you.”
He smiles at me. Then he snaps toward the stove. “Oh. My pan’s ready.” He hustles back around the island and pours the first batch.
I almost tell him. I was going to go hunting for a journalist, a Shadow Wolf Creek journalist, with everything in my tote for evidence. I open my mouth. I close it and study the batter bubbling instead.
The zipper pull on my tote still sits at the left corner where I always leave it. He hasn’t been through my bag.
I pat at the edges of my bun and take the kitchen in again.
“Y’all need a place this big?” I ask.
“You don’t understand dragon shifters yet.” He glances back at me with a grin. “But you will. You just need a little time.”
I glance at the tote again. Then he sets a plate in front of me, stacked with the fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever had.
He cracks eggs into a bowl and lays sausage in a second pan. He pours me a glass of milk without asking and hands me a fork and a knife.
I set the ice bundle down on the island. I’m starving, and I dig in. Of course they’re delicious. I don’t wait between bites.
He nudges the milk glass closer to me. “Fill up, angel.”
I gulp half of it down on top of the pancakes I stuffed in, and come up for air. “What now?”
He leans a hip against the counter. “I guess we get to know each other better.”
“I’m not talking about that.” I set my fork down. “I’m talking about my job. My life. The one I just got ripped away from.”
He turns off the stove and slides the sausage and eggs onto a plate. “That depends on you.” He sets it next to my pancakes. “Ready to start talking?”
“Not yet,” I say, and I pick my fork back up.
He watches me eat the whole time, green eyes locked on, and it’s almost scary how still he keeps. I eat anyway, and by the time I surrender the fork, most of the food is gone.
He gathers my plates and cup and gets to washing. While his back is turned, I pick the ice bundle back up and hold it to my cheek, and I look this place over again. My phone sits where he left it. I pull my tote into my lap and check inside. The folder is still there. So is the little white bottle.
He shuts the water off and comes around the counter with a hand out for the bag.
“Want me to take that?” he asks.
“I got it.” I pull the strap over my shoulder.
“Okay.” He steps back and puts real space between us.
Then he tips his nose up and sniffs the air, and the sniff turns into a sneeze. A little smoke comes with it.
“Don’t worry.” He waves it off. “I’m visiting the medical center tomorrow to get this looked at.” He nods at my cheek. “And I’m getting that looked at while we’re there. I was sniffing for the rest of my clan. They aren’t here. Just Malachi, upstairs.”
I tip my head back. Railings rise above us, floor after floor of them, carved balconies stacked up into the mountain.
“How big is this place?” I ask.
“It’ll take a couple of days to give you the full tour,” he says.
“Follow me.” He’s already walking. “I’ll show you your room.”
I hop off the chair and pick up my steps to catch him.
“The rest of your clan?” I ask on the stairs.
“Two clan sisters and my other brother, Dorian,” he says.
“Oh yeah?” The ice pack muffles my voice.
“Brandy is our Luna, Malachi’s mate. And then there’s Jules, Dorian’s mate.” He looks back at me on the stairs. “You’ll love them.”
“I’m sure,” I say.
He takes me to the second floor and down a long hallway. Every doorway up here is a carved arch, and lamplight sits warm in little alcoves all down the hall.
He walks me past a closed door and points at it. “That’s my room. Well. Our room.”
I shoot him a glare. He doesn’t even try to look sorry.
He stops at a set of double doors. “Here. I’m not about to force you to sleep with me or anything. It’s clear you don’t feel the pull toward me yet.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Kind of hurts my dragon a little, but—“
The sneeze cuts him off, and smoke rolls out of his nose and both ears, and I smile at him. I can’t help it.
“Maybe you should be the one getting some rest,” I say.
He pushes the double doors open, and I follow him in.
“I’m just a few doors down if you need me,” he says.
“Whoa,” I say to no one in particular.
The bed could sleep four, carved from the same dark wood as everything downstairs and stacked with quilts and pillows in deep golds and greens.
A cushioned nook sits under a tall slot of window with the valley framed in it, and a doorway past the bed shows the corner of a bathtub I could swim laps in.
I cross to the bed and set my bag down on it.
“I’ll let you rest,” he says from the doors. “When my sisters get home, I’ll have them bring you some clean clothes.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed and kick my flats off at last.
“You’re beautiful, Zuri.” He says it plain. “I hope that when you’re ready, you’ll open up to me.”
He’s adorable and he’s a kidnapper. I sigh at him.
He bows his head to me. Then he steps out and pulls the doors shut behind him, and I’m alone.
I fall back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, carved in wide spirals overhead.
What the hell just happened?
I’d swear I was dreaming. But dreams don’t leave your face sore.