Page 9 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

“No magic, Grace, only connection. And I’m shifter, not warlock. I couldn’t curse or bewitch you if I tried.”

Given his size, he has to be something big. Possibly dangerous. That shouldn’t make me like him more, but it does. I blame the biological imperative of seeking out mates who can protect me. I may be human, but evolution is as evolution does.

“What kind of shifter?” I ask.

“Come home with me and find out.”

I hide my displeasure. It has the itch of a secret, which means his other form is either really good or really bad.

“Tell me about investment banking,” I say to try to prod him into sharing more details.

“It isn’t exciting. I watch the stock market. Care for my accounts. Manage my investments. Mostly, I make sure that what’s mine stays mine and brings more of mine home with it.”

That sounds promising, if a little aggressive.

I kind of like the aggressive part.

“Sounds like you study patience in lots of areas of your life.”

“After 241 years, I have nothing but time to learn. I’d certainly take my time with you.”

“You’re so bold. Does this really work with other women?”

“Other women were merely practice for you.”

Okay sure, buddy.I roll my eyes at him.

“You don’t have to come on so strong. I’ve already decided to go home with you.”

“You have, have you?”

“Yes. Try not to fuck it up at the eleventh hour.”

Chapter Three

The crowded bar is a blur, even as I catch so many eyes on me.

On us.

Because Wickham, big man that he is, takes my hand as he leads me out of the bar.

The crisp night air fills my lungs and breathes much-needed logic into my brain.

The tiniest red flag springs up in the back of my mind. I don’t think he’s as nervous as I am about leaving with a stranger. He can’t possibly think I’m a threat to him.

But he could be a threat to me.

“Can I see your ID?” I ask him.

He removes a slim leather wallet from his back pocket and withdraws his license.

“Where are you taking me, Wickham?”

“My place.”

The bar’s door bursts open, and Violet squeezes between patrons. She hands me my little purse with my phone already tucked inside it.

“Violet, Wickham. Wickham, Violet,” I prompt and hold out my hand. “ID, please.”

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