Page 40 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

Look, daily isn’t exactly a hardship.

But the fact he’s on the same restrictions, of his own choice, and sticking to it does complicated things to my head.

Staticky excitement wins.

And I call him . . . without video.

Two more days. I survive two more days.

Violet has my last envelope, but she can’t get to me until tomorrow. I have to make do with the couple hundred I have left and hope the clerk at tomorrow’s hotel doesn’t run the bill until after I can recharge my prepaid card.

I’m at a loss for where to go. I can’t sit around anymore.

I’ve started going to restaurants instead of bringing the food back to the hotel room. It’s more tenuous than being at cafes. I can’t simply leave when I want to, and most restaurants have layouts too complicated to easily access exits.

It’s reckless, but I’m not meant to be a recluse. If I wanted to be forced into solitude, then I’d give up and surrender to Wick already.

Silver clinks on plates and polite conversation hums around me. The little Italian restaurant is crowded, and I take some solace in being a nameless face in a sea of people. I cross my ankles and fix my skirt. I wore something nice to blend in at the restaurant, but now, I feel awkward and exposed.

With my stomach full, I begin the complicated walk back to the hotel.

Post to Eighth, and then a right on Marbury before hooking back around to Tenth. If someone’s following me, I’ll know.

My thighs ache from rubbing together beneath the skirt.

Right, sure, that’s why my thighs are sore. Certainly not from clenching them every time I think about that video Wick sent.

And I do think about it. A lot.

I picked that restaurant because it’s nowhere near the hotel, but it also means I have at least a half an hour of travel time.

Alone. In the dark.

All of my preparations to avoid my rabid mate, and I forgot the most basic rule of womanhood.

Don’t walk alone at night.

As I head to the hotel, that familiar paranoia follows.

I’m convinced I hear footsteps behind me, but every time I swing around or check window reflections, there’s no one there.

People seem to be avoiding me too. I thought it was odd when the first couple crossed the street before getting to me, but by the fourth I have to acknowledge that something is off.

Maybe it’s from rejecting the mate bond?

My stomach drops and tears prick at my eyes.

I amnotrejecting Wick. I can’t—I’m not doing that. Even the idea hurts. I can’t even say the words let alone perform the action.

Stupid fucking biology.

There’s a crowd at a corner crosswalk all waiting for the light. I stop with them, and more people crowd in behind me.

I’m safer in a mass of people. If I scream, they’ll notice. My route to the hotel re-calculates in my mind to prefer high-traffic areas. It’ll waste more time, but at least I won’t be alone.

Because eyes burn a hole in the back of my head.

Without warning, I swing around again to check behind me.

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