Page 4 of Guarded By the Krampus

I leaned back in my seat, letting her words settle. I could pull out my phone and Google her—from the way Serena had acted, Satin atleasthad a wiki—but then the driver pulled to a stop in front of my apartment building’s lobby. I got out, quickly surveyed the area, and then moved to her side of the car, to open the door for her.

“What?” she asked.

“If you weren’t joking about the assassins, there’s no way you’re staying out here. You’re coming inside with me.”

Her red lips frowned. “I wasn’t joking.”

“Then you’re about to tour my mancave,” I said, offering my hand out.

She didn’t take it—because she didn’t see it—instead she went for her phone and her cane.

“I can tell you where the steps are,” I said.

“Nothing personal, but you have no idea how many times I’ve heard that line before,” she said, before boldly walking forward, her cane’s tip rattling over asphalt.

I held the lobby door open for her, and the elevator’s door as well. The elevator bounced a little when I got on after her, under the addition of my weight.

She noticed it too. “You must be a big boy,” she said, her lips going puckish again.

I grunted. “You’d be surprised how often I get told that,” I said—and then realized in this small metal room, without the witness of her driver, I was free to stare shamelessly. It wasn’t like she’d know. I couldn’t even begin to explain the way I felt protective of her already—it was maddening—and what was worse than that, was how obvious it was to me I wanted more. Satyrs had reputations for a reason—which was why I’d pierced the head of my cock with a Prince Albert, which I dutifully chained to a cuff on my thigh every morning, so it wouldn’t be obvious to everyone in the entire world what I was thinking—and that chain was pretty fucking tight right now.

Then the elevator door opened up and rescued…me? Her? One of us, from the other, I was certain—and I told her, “Right. Three doors down.”

She tapped her way there, sweeping her phone ahead of her, and then waited for me to open up the door.

My apartment was not set up for company, and I was glad she couldn’t see it. It wasn’t dirty, but it was messy, because why not have all the books you’re reading on a pile on the couch when you’re late taking them back to the library?

Same for the workout gear that occupied half the floor, seeing as there was no real reason to move it?

She slid her cane across the floor, encountering more than one obstruction, and I felt sheepish at once—a tall order for a massive goat-man.

“Uh, do me a favor and just stand there,” I said, before heading into my bedroom to pull out a pre-packaged duffle bag from my closet, tossing it on my bed to do a quick inventory of the items inside: my preferred guns, knives, and a case full of ammo, including tranquilizing flechettes. “Private jet means we get to skip the TSA, right?” I called out to her. “Are we going internationally? How about customs?”

“I’ve bribed the right people to look the other way,” she called back.

“Okay—just a minute then,” I said—and pulled out my own phone, to finally look her up.

“Satin” and “Sculptor” brought her up instantly, pictures of her at galas, wearing dramatically sweeping dresses, always with her tight black blindfold, although in some of the pictures her hair was up. There were multiple images of her standing in front of her sculptures, too—they appeared to be beautiful modern remakes of classical Greek and Roman statues—a little too avant-garde for my taste, but I could see why they were popular, especially when they were carved by her. And when I scrolled to the bottom, I got to a link that went to some Fancy Art People Magazine, where they’d done a tour of her working warehouse, a light-filled place that had massive pieces of marble in assorted disarray, with her, looking out of place wearing what were no doubt designer overalls, touching white stone.

The caption said, “Satin inspects all of her work tactically, first,” and I’d never been jealous of a piece of rock before, but here we were.

Then I realized that my formerly impatient client had been quiet for a long time—I hitched the duffle over my shoulder, and walked back to my living room, to catch her going through my things.

“Hey now,” I said, storming over to take the book she held away from her. “It’s not braille.”

“You…read?” she asked, her tone a little arch.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You have more of a ‘punch first, ask questions never’ kind of demeanor.”

“You’d be surprised how many books teach you where to punch,” I said, tossing it back on the couch—and then I wondered if I’d be back in time to turn it in. “How long’s thismission supposed to be? And, I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me about it?”

“I will,” she promised. “In the jet. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I said—then picked up another book off the couch, to toss it into my bag, just in case.

I headed for the door, but she didn’t follow. “They want some information they think I have,” she said, when I turned around.

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