Page 39 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

Someone’s in the stacks to my right. I sit forward and scan the area.

There’s no change. Whoever it was probably found the book they’re looking for and left.

His message makes me smile through the concern. He wouldn’t ask if he was here. With a chuckle, I type my response.

Movement again, this time to my left. Paranoia has me at a twelve out of ten, because I immediately jump to my feet and step out of the seating arrangement in case I need to run. I tap out my message to him.

His response is quick.

Not an answer but kind of sufficient. If he was here, he’d tease me about it like he did at my apartment—or worse, grab me and haul me away.

A flash of dark hair and a leather jacket flies by to the right.

I sprint after the ghost, mindlessly leaving my bag and book behind, my phone gripped tightly in my hand.

The figure takes a right and another left before speed walking toward the stairs.

I gain on him and grab him by the shoulder.

And a broad-shouldered woman with short dark hair spins to glare at me. Her head draws back like I’ve offended her by touching her.

“I’m so sorry,” I stutter out. “I thought you were someone else.”

She rolls her eyes but returns to her route without a word.

My anxiety is truly out of control. I’m chasing illusions and accosting strangers.

But when I return to my sitting area, there’s a book resting on the table. It’s a historical analysis of a hundred women who changed architecture.

No one else is around, and there’s no sign of whomever left the book.

Wick isn’t here. He can’t be. There’s no circumstance where he wouldn’t snatch me off the street.

Then why does it feel like he left this for me?

The rest of my week fares better, and my luck improves substantially.

The night after the library incident, I return to my room with my dinner and discover chocolate covered strawberries waiting. The note thanks me for being a recently returning guest.

It comes with complimentary laundry service and a movie, and I nearly faint from joy at having truly clean clothes. I rewatch “My Cousin Vinny” while munching on the meal and treat.

And I break down and message Wick on my own.

There’s no response for a full fifteen minutes.

Donotthink about him wet and naked in the shower.

Is it? I’m not sure how to respond to that. I’m safe, fed, and clean. Everything is fine—if you ignore my stalker dragon mate who made me uproot my life and go on the run or wind up in a life of non-consensual bondage.

I consider his offer for an embarrassingly long time but ultimately decide against it. There’s something odd buzzing in my hindbrain. Whatever is causing the irritation, I doubt I’d be able to “relax.”

What is he going on about?

I send him a gif of a bored llama chewing on roughage.

I highlight his original response and then reply directly to it.

The response takes me aback.

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