Moth (Dragon Triad Duet Book 1), page 2
One look at her and I stop short. Something’s wrong. Her arms are crossed, her chin jutting defiantly.
And three men eye her from various positions spread out along a row of black leather couches. I inch back a step as an invisible alarm in my brain goes off, making my chest constrict. It’s the way they’re looking at her. Like a piece of meat on display.
Ravenously.
I love you, Han. The memory plays on the fringes of my consciousness, threatening to unfold in full. No one cares about me like you do. No one…
I close my eyes. Shake my head. Ignore. But when I refocus, I find myself inching closer to that corner, straining my ears to hear above the music. This far from the DJ, and the beat isn’t anywhere near as overwhelming as before, but their voices are so loud I can understand every word. It’s as if they don’t care who might hear them.
“Your daddy’s been falling behind on paying his debts,” one of them says. A man maybe in his thirties with a goatee and thinning black hair. “Lucky for him, there are plenty of ways for what he owes to be paid off.” He strokes his chin while eyeing Mara up and down with an expression of narrowed, hungry eyes that makes my skin crawl. He zeros in on her bare collarbone and licks his lips. “I’d pay it off myself. Just ask me nicely.”
Mara says something I don’t catch because the laughter of another man cuts her off.
He’s older than the other two, his features weathered. Worn. A set of gold chains dangles from his neck, obscuring the collar of his black shirt. He sits sprawled out, his legs splayed, one hand palming the center of his dark jeans. “With a face like hers?” He purses his lips and raises a finger stacked with gold rings. “One night, tops.”
He and the first speaker laugh, trading knowing looks.
But the third man draws my attention. He’s seemingly the youngest, judging from his full head of jet-black hair, but the other two sit angled toward him. Every now and again, they glance in his direction as though to seek approval.
Rather than join in their taunts, he one-handedly tosses a small object into the air. Bright orange ombre, square-shaped… A lighter. He juggles it without looking at Mara, choosing instead to scan the room but in a way that reminds me of one of my father’s hunting dogs. Alert. On edge. Vigilant.
Absently, he swipes his free hand through his hair, revealing just how long it is—enough to brush his shoulders in jagged waves. Too long. The wayward strands obscure his eyes until it’s too late. I can only stare as they dart from some distant corner to…me.
He sits forward, snatching the lighter from the air. Then he snaps his fingers once, drawing the attention of one of the bouncers. He points at me and crooks his finger in a silent command. Come here.
A heavy hand falls over my shoulder not even a second later, shoving me forward. I don’t resist. I don’t scream. It’s like some internal switch is flipped in my head, controlling my limbs and ceasing all thought. My only driving force is instinct, which lays out a familiar framework. Don’t think. Don’t scream. Don’t fight. Obey.
As if from underwater, I hear Mara say, “Leave her out of this! This has nothing to do with her—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the man with the goatee snaps.
It’s like I blink, and I’m here—in this space without any real recollection of moving. My arm is throbbing, my breaths slowing. In some ways, it’s like falling into a well-worn routine. I go numb, turn my brain off. Endure.
You’re so fucking selfish, Han. You’ll leave me eventually, won’t you? You will…
“You wouldn’t be playing games with us, Mara?” the younger man asks, and my brain ceases every thought to fixate on him. His voice is soft, like a snake’s hiss—but deeper too, resonating with the strength of a roll of thunder. Pocketing his lighter, he gestures to me—to my bag, I realize.
One of the bouncers snatches it from my arm and hands it to him. Holding my gaze, he digs through it slowly, withdrawing its contents one by one. My journal. My pink leather wallet. A white case containing my birth control pills. My jade green pen that I borrowed from the Paper Crane, the bookstore I work at—his eyes scan the wording on it, and he scoffs. Finally, he retrieves my cell phone.
He weighs the device on the palm of his hand and then swipes through my home screen.
“What are you doing?” Mara cries, her voice higher than I’ve ever heard it. “That’s hers! Leave it alone. She has nothing to do with—”
“I’m making sure that you wouldn’t be dumb enough to do something reckless, Mara,” he says in that unnerving tone. “Like bring a little friend to record our friendly conversation.”
His cold gaze flickers from her to me and back again. “She’s not from around here,” he says as if that alone proves his suspicion. “Hanging around you. Zhang? Looks to me like a nosy little bitch.”
“She lives here,” Mara hisses, her voice hitching. “She just moved in, and she works for Mr. Zhang. I was just showing her around—”
“She’s not dressed like it,” he counters, eyeing my sweater skeptically. “No. It looks to me like she ain’t dressed to party. More like to poke her fucking nose around where it doesn’t belong. A reporter?” He snatches something from my bag—the article scrap. “This you?” he asks me.
“It’s just an article about her,” Mara insists. “She didn’t write it—”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” he snaps. “Let the little bunny speak for herself. Are you a reporter, bunny? You smell like one—” His nostrils flare pointedly. “But I’m not sure.”
His eyes zero in on my face, piercing and impossible to avoid. It’s like he sees through me, his gaze slicing to the innermost parts of my being. To those emotions I’ve learned to turn off. Impulses I’ve fought to smother.
He stares and stares, all the while toying with my cell phone.
Then he drops it, only to reach for my journal next. Boldly, he flips it open, lowering his gaze to the first page.
At this point, my control snaps. I step forward, straining the grip of the bouncer who tries to stop me. My lips part, a plea slipping out, violating one of my internal, concrete rules—endure.
I break. “Don’t!”
“Let her go. You can leave.” The younger man waits until the bouncer complies and returns to his position outside of the barrier.
“Rafe,” Mara pleads, “just leave her alone—”
He holds up one finger, and it’s like time stops. I freeze solid, unable to move. Once a few seconds pass, he sits back and leisurely turns the page as if he has all the time in the world. To violate my deepest thoughts and innermost secrets. Gawk at my rawest, unedited writing. Delve into my brain unbidden.
Again, I feel my mental reins strain. “Stop…”
He doesn’t. I don’t think he even hears me. Casually, he licks his finger, then turns the page. Licks. Page. Reads, seemingly riveted by what he’s seeing—and that’s the worst part. The fact that makes my cheeks catch fire and my nails sink into their respective palms.
The pretending.
His two seatmates snicker, rolling their eyes. “Knock it off, Wei.”
“We’re interested in buying ass, and he wants to read some fucking little diary—”
“You can go.” He inclines his head toward Mara, who grabs my hand, surging for the exit. “Not her—” I feel his gaze on the back of my neck, locking me into place. “She stays.”
“The hell she is!” Mara snaps, whirling to face him. “Leave her alone! I mean it, Rafe. Or I’ll call the police. Your issue is with my dad. Then keep it that way—”
“And tell them what?” He sits straighter; his tone honed like a whip. “That your daddy likes to rack up his gambling debts when he isn’t managing that little restaurant of yours into the ground? That he’s dug too deep of a hole to come out? Or that his daughter has to play snitch to save his neck? Come on, Mara, I thought you and your family enjoyed living in a safe, peaceful neighborhood. Keep running your mouth, and it won’t stay that way for long.”
Mara stiffens at the barely concealed threat. Her fingers tighten around my wrist. Tighten…
“Though, you know what? Call the pigs,” the man goads, his laughter cold. “I hear a few even like girls like you, too. Ask around. Or maybe you can go work for Gino and learn firsthand? At least then you’d get paid for it.”
Mara’s face pales as she lets me go. “You’ll be fine, Hannah,” she insists, but she hurries from the enclosed section without me. “I’ll be watching. I won’t take my eyes off you. I promise.”
As she fades from my peripheral vision, my brain does that thing again. Shuts off. Focuses on the most important actions to perform at this moment—breathing. Standing. Staring.
The younger man is still watching me, his head cocked as his fingers continue to molest the pages of my journal. That violation stings more than any other. He’s carelessly wandering over words he couldn’t possibly understand. Mutilating phrases that have literal blood, sweat, and tears mingled within the ink. He’s mauling me with every swipe of his fingers.
And I can’t even look away. His eyes hold me captive, sparkling the more my irritation grows. Like he knows every thought I’m thinking. The hate I’m feeling.
And he’s relishing in all of it.
“Go.” He inclines his head, but again, he isn’t speaking to me.
The two men beside him share a look, but they stand, shaking their heads incredulously. “Damn. You always did have the weirdest fucking taste,” the one with the goatee murmurs, barely audible above the music.
The other man isn’t as subtle. He raises an eyebrow and looks me over, then he cranes his neck to seek out Mara standing along a nearby wall. “You traded that piece of ass for this?”
“I said, fuck off.” The younger man doesn’t take his eyes off me. His tongue traces his lower lip in a quick strike. A threat? Or a warning?
“Go,” he repeats without shifting his focus. “And leave the Chan girl to me.”
The goatee man hisses through his teeth. “Greedy fucker. You want them both?”
“You heard me.” He utilizes that iron tone again and doesn’t move an inch until the two men finally leave the section. Then he sits back and crooks one finger at me. “Come here.”
I don’t move. There’s something about being trapped like a deer in the headlights. When every muscle contracts, paralyzing you, it’s impossible to react logically. Or think. At least until something more alarming snaps you from the daze.
Like him literally snapping his fingers. Thwack!
I flinch, but my body obeys my commands again. I cross my arms and square my stance, making myself as small of a target as possible. I should run, but I can’t. My eyes won’t leave my bag. My journal. My conscience.
It’s the one possession I can’t bear to give up.
“G-Give it back.”
“She speaks.” Amusement flickers through his angular features, making me jump. His eyes are more expressive than most people’s. Like a predator’s. It’s almost too easy to tell what he’s thinking, but you’re only ever seeing half of the tale. Hunger, yes, but its presence alone is no predictor as to when he’ll finally pounce.
“Hop this way, bunny.” Again, he crooks his finger, but the motion carries a swiftness that wasn’t there before—a command lurking in the deliberate twitch of his knuckle. “Come here. Unless you want me to call your little friend back over.”
I sense it’s not a threat. He means it. He’ll dangle Mara’s welfare like a shiny toy, expecting me to jump for it.
Because I will. My feet are already propelling me toward him. Maybe it’s genetic, this inherent cowardice. This need I can’t shake to always go along with any plan, no matter how terrifying. Always.
I’m the girl perpetually depicted in horror movies. Gullible, manipulated by everyone.
By Branden.
By strangers.
By these instincts hardwired within my psyche.
To approach the figurative killer without making a sound. To find the safest spot away from him and sit, not that he seems to mind. He copies the posture of his friend, sprawled out, unconcerned. I notice he’s wearing the same dark, unremarkable clothing as the others, but one detail makes his ensemble stand out in a way theirs didn’t. My gaze fixates on his left arm, bared by a short sleeve, and I realize why.
Colors drip over the pronounced muscle, embedded in his skin. Ink? Reds. Indigo. Black. They form snippets of a scene mostly hidden beneath his shirt. The only solid detail I can make out licks down the length of his forearm in writhing tendrils—flames.
“Eyes up here, rabbit,” he warns, snapping his fingers. Rabbit? As his eyes flicker over me again, I realize what he meant. Me. As a joke?
Or a crude reference to my sweater? I glance down, eyeing the beige wool speckled with innocent white bunnies that seem to glow in the dim lighting.
“Cat got your tongue, rabbit?”
I say nothing, pursing my lips, ignoring reality. There’s an art form in silence—in shrinking down within yourself until the real you is just a blip. A memory. Completely untouchable by anyone…
Until he touches me.
The flesh of his fingertip is alarmingly soft. I almost don’t realize it’s happening at first—the brief, persistent contact disrupting my loose curls—until my nerves become electrified with his touch. Alarmed, I flinch back, nearly lurching off the couch entirely. Before my eyes, his fingers float, denied a taste of my skin.
He chuckles, leaving his hand unmoving anyway. Dark, his eyes trace the outlines of mine, hunting for a way in. I blink to keep him out, but I fail.
His smile catches me off guard, and our gazes lock. Amusement glints across the dark irises, but there’s no malice. He’s a child playing a game merely to thwart boredom, and I’m just a toy. With nothing better to do, he’s dangling me by my puppet limbs, watching me flail—all for the sake of entertainment.
“I’ll make you a deal.” He lifts my notebook from his lap, brandishing it just beyond my reach. “Read me one of your little stories, and I’ll let your friend off the hook for tonight.”
He wants a response. Demands one. His silence feels deliberate this time, nibbling away at my nerves until I have no choice but to pry my lips apart. Speak. “Why?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Her daddy owes a shit ton of money, rabbit.” He chuckles when I flinch at the nickname, hating how it sounds in his voice. A husky, teasing whisper on the verge of a growl. Rabbit. “Letting her go without a warning would be a mercy bestowed out of the kindness of my bleeding heart.”
He winks, prompting me to go against my instincts once again.
“Why is that her problem?” I croak while glancing at Mara. Lurking on the periphery, she hasn’t left me at least. Her eyes meet mine, wide and frightful, and she waves toward me in a frantic motion. Run! As if leaving would be so easy.
“Why?” His harsh bark of laughter draws my attention back to him. He forms a fist and props his chin onto it, probing deep with those merciless eyes. “I don’t know what cul-de-sac you skipped out of, but here in the real world? We pay for the sins of others, whether related to us by blood or not. It’s the way the fucking cookie crumbles. You suffer for Chan, and she’ll have to bear the weight of her daddy’s gambling addiction.”
It sounds like something a movie villain would say, but in a sense, he’s right. I know that better than anyone. Be them the sins of a father, or a brother…some of us are destined to live out our lives tainted by the crimes of others. No matter what we do, they haunt us.
Constantly. My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up, and even from here, I know who’s calling. Branden.
Laughing, the man picks it up from the couch and glances at the home screen. His already permanent smirk stretches. “Should I answer it?” he ponders, inclining his head toward me.
He’s baiting me.
But I bite, lurching forward even as I clutch at the edge of my seat with both hands to keep from really moving. “Don’t.”
Am I even worried for myself? No. Maybe Mara instead? Or my fragile freedom. This space. Branden would stop at nothing to drag me back into the cage he’s built around me and lock it shut for good if he suspects for a second that I’m not playing by his rules.
In some ways, this man should answer the call. Once he’s done with me, Branden would burn this place to the ground…
But I wouldn’t wish his wrath on anyone.
“Don’t.”
He chuckles again, stroking the outside of my phone with his thumb. But for all his games, his eyes keep flicking toward the screen, reading the name I’ve programmed in for my brother—Bran <3. The heart is symbolic, but he wouldn’t know that.
He lifts his thumb, letting it hover over the touch screen. When he lowers it, I suck in a breath. Rather than the green answer button, he strikes the red one to dismiss the call instead.
Relief escapes me in a sharp exhale. Branden will just call back, irritated that I didn’t answer, but already bored, the man drops my phone into my bag and shoves it aside.
With little effort, he reclaims my journal and flips it open to a different page. I recognize the various scribbled lines—my latest piece, the rough draft of an essay assignment. The single essay that may or may not decide if I continue school next semester.
“You write about lying a lot, rabbit,” he remarks while scanning my words. “Maybe you really are a fucking reporter? Lies spilled like bated breaths. Suffocation inevitable. Drowning…” Smirking, he looks up, forcing eye contact. “What’s a bunny got to hide from?”
“Why do you care?” I rasp. Internally, I’m more shocked that he could make that kind of assumption from a few words scattered throughout.
He chuckles, seemingly amused by my reaction. “Deceiver. Falsifier.” He’s rattling off my various scribbled titles by heart. “You must have plenty of secrets to tell, rabbit.”
