Page 4 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

My mate.

Which is why I crushed every bone from fingertip to forearm so he won’t ever use that hand again.

No onetouches what’s mine.

I don’t know what brought her here or why she’s doing the rounds, but I’ve had to patiently suffer through watching her approach or be approached five times already.

It’s. Fucking. Torture.

I draw the line at touching, though. That won’t be happening.

My mind spirals at the thought of her in there without me. She’d already been in harm’s way once.

Out of my wallet, I produce a few extra hundreds and fold them in half.

“I’ll be the perfect angel,” I reassure Jimmy. “We both know once I’ve gotten my hits in, I’m as gentle as a pup.”

Jimmy grunts instead of answering. I debate shifting forms anyway just to ensure she leaves with me—one way or another.

No, I have to play this right.She seems human, of all beings. Her friend’s a witch. I can’t tell which faction, but she’s one of only a handful in the crowd who reeks of magic.

Human women, especially American human women, need to be finessed. They need to feel like it’s their decision. They need to be convinced.

I’d rather not have to carry her out over my shoulder. I will if I have to, but I only need to bide my time and find an opening.

Even if I want to flay alive every man she smiles at.

Another mess of twenties gets added to the stack. “Braces are expensive, Jimmy. Let me help you out.”

The bar owner focuses on the thick fold of bills. He rolls his eyes and rubs his face.

“You cause any trouble at all, you don’t ever come in again. You hear me, Wickham? That’ll be it.”

“You’re making the right decision,” I reply and clap him on the shoulder.

Muttering, Jimmy steps aside and lets me cross the threshold into the overcrowded bar.

Once she’s in my lair, she’s mine. I only need to find and get my mate to leave with me.

Preferably willingly, but if not . . . oh well.

Chapter Two

Annie

“Wow, that’s fascinating,” I deadpan atDaniel S., 28, software engineer.

He does not take the hint.

“Right? And then he’s screaming at the TV about being out of the crease, as if the goalie isn’t allowed any freedom. Can you believe some people?”

“Shocking.”

If Daniel’s lack of attention is any indication, he’d be an awful lay. I’ve been rolling my eyes and checking the clock behind the bar for at least ten minutes. I’d hoped to get my drink and beg off, butDaniel S., 28, software engineeris hell-bent on making me repay his drink with my time.

“There’s a Blue Fins game next weekend. Maybe we could go?” he suggests, and his slimy gaze slides to my boobs. “It’s refreshing to find a woman who loves hockey as much as I do. Do you want to get out of here?”

How transactional of you, Daniel.

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