Page 5 of Stolen
And I wait.
My senses sharpen when the back door creaks open and she steps out into the alley, a heavy trash bag slung over one shoulder like she’s carrying the weight of the world.
She works too hard.
I’ve watched her all week, clocking in at the bar just before dusk, slinging drinks for entitled men and women who snap their fingers and stare too long.
She keeps her head down. Smiles too tightly.
Then walks home to that cramped little apartment with the chipped green door and the deadbolt she checks twice.
She doesn’t know she’s been seen.
That I’ve been following her scent through the city’s filth. My inner beast, the Dragon who lives inside of me rumbles as he watches.
The creature has always been drawn to gold. And maybe that’s what she is.
Valuable. Precious.
Tonight, she’s grumbling under her breath, muttering about tips and trash and probably a few things I’d find entertaining if I wasn’t already enchanted by the sound of her voice.
The door slams behind her, and she jumps a little.
Scared of the dark, Sweet?
No, that won’t do. Still, I can teach her which things need fearing, which to respect.
One thing I can promise is that nothing will harm her while I’m around.
A rumble starts to build inside my chest, and I know my beast is on board with that.
She sighs and turns back, placing the lid on the dumpster.
A curl tumbles loose from her bun.
And her body—gods, her body—moves in those jeans like temptation made flesh.
Soft. Strong. Sinful.
I go very still.
Not because I’m surprised. I’ve seen her before, every night this week.
But because something changes.
Some deep instinct stirs beneath my skin, low and primal.
The kind of instinct that predates language.
It doesn't think. It just claims.
The back door swings open again behind her, the sound cutting through the alley like a warning bell.
She stiffens.
And I feel it.
Her pulse kicks, breath catching in her throat.
