Moth (Dragon Triad Duet Book 1), page 7
“I’m keeping my word,” he says, letting the door slam shut. But he’s on the wrong side of it, spinning around to face me. His mouth twists into something that could be a smile, but it just illuminates the dark circles lurking underneath his eyes. “Don’t look so surprised, bunny,” he chides. “This place is still under my protection. And I expect it to earn back every penny.” He runs a hand through his hair, turning to the nearest lopsided bookshelf. “I also expect the workers here to do their fucking jobs.”
As I watch, he crosses to the fallen shelf and lifts it easily, attempting to slot it back into place. He grunts, his forearms straining with the effort, but eventually, he assembles it properly.
Then he crosses to a stack of salvaged books.
It’s almost surreal to watch him place them haphazardly onto the shelf in the wrong positions. There’s no method to his madness, and when he arranges a popular romance novel next to a critically acclaimed thriller, pride can no longer keep me silent.
“That goes over here,” I blurt out before moving the book to its correct spot on the other side of the shop.
Either he doesn’t hear me, or he doesn’t really care, seeing as how he never stops his careless stacking. I don’t know why I find myself following in his wake to either tweak the placement or to stare in shock when he manages to place something in the right spot.
Soon, one stack becomes several. He reassembles more shelving units, and eventually, we’ve restocked the rest of the undamaged merchandise.
“Why are you here?” I direct the question from over my shoulder, hoping he won’t answer.
Because he’ll leave.
“I’m asking you the same question.”
“I work here.”
“For how long? All things considered, I own this shop now, rabbit. I prefer my employees to have more spine.”
With a sigh, I turn to face him. The shadows paint his skin, turning him into a patchwork creation of darkness and light. My eyes don’t know which part of him to settle on first—or how to interpret this man who’s made up of so many contradicting hues of ivory, silver, and ebony.
In the end, I pick his hair, as the pure, harmless black seems to be the least threatening element to focus on.
“Ask me what you really want to know,” he demands. His voice catches me off guard. It’s too guttural, his breath searing the nape of my neck as I turn my attention to the opposite end of the room. Anywhere but him. “Ask it.”
“You said I owe you a debt,” I croak. “What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” He takes a step closer, but there’s a dangerous edge to his tone—a demand he hasn’t uttered out loud—yet.
I lick my lips, desperate to stall. Combat him. Anything. “I think you want to annoy me. What are you, some kind of criminal?”
I look back just in time to catch his eyes narrowing—it’s not the question he expected. Nonetheless, he has an answer ready. “Maybe I am, rabbit. But that wouldn’t scare you, would it? No…” He leans in, his nostrils flaring as if he can smell the truth on my skin. “You love knowing that I’m some dirty little fiend you can sneer down your nose at. It makes it easier to play with fire if you know you’ll get burned.”
I turn away, hissing through my teeth. “You don’t know me—”
“Don’t have to. It’s written all over that pretty face,” he interjects. “You can never hide who you really are for long, Hannah.”
I glance back to find his eyes on my name tag pinned to my sweater. It’s the first time he’s actually called me by my real name, but his voice catches over the syllables, distorting the pronunciation. Harmless Hannah transforms into something else. Something guttural and dangerous.
“But judging from the shit you wear, that’s all you’re good at doing. Hiding.”
I self-consciously finger the hem of my sweater. It’s even thicker than my bunny one. “So now you’re a criminal and a fashion expert.”
“Better,” he corrects. Another step and his shadow cuts my body in half. “I’m a criminal who can fucking read.”
He reaches into his jacket and withdraws an item he either carries around for moments like this, or he brought with the sole intent to seek me out—my journal.
“Give it back.” I reach for it, but he dangles it just beyond my reach, letting the pages sway.
“You want it, rabbit? Where’s my lighter?”
I stiffen, reaching into my pocket. A part of me despairs at relinquishing my one bit of leverage over him, for about a second. Even the thought of him pawing through my journal again makes me relent. “Here.”
I present it on my palm, and he snatches it. Juggling my journal, he grabs a cigarette from his pocket, then flicks the lighter one-handed and ignites the end.
Shoving the lighter back into my hand, he turns for the door.
Confused, I stare down at the ombre object before returning it to my pocket. As I do, my head swivels in his direction, tracking his retreat. “Wait! Give me my journal—”
“Come and get it, bunny. Hop this way.” He inclines his head for me to follow before he exits the shop entirely, letting the door slam.
I ignore the barb, preferring to focus on the obvious. I should leave. I am. Returning to the counter, I grab my bag, then I approach the door and cautiously pull it open. He isn’t lurking outside it.
Instead, he stands across the street, leaning against the entrance to another building—a run-down coffee shop I sometimes grab lunch at.
Determined to stay focused, I start down the block. A few more paces, and I’ll be home. But above the hum of traffic and passing pedestrians, my ears catch a distant, high-pitched whistle.
Don’t look. I won’t…
It’s too late. My chin tilts, bringing him within my line of view again. He’s still leaning against the doorway with a smile playing on his mouth, visible from here. It’s smug, containing a dare that lurks in the tilt of his lips. If you aren’t scared, then prove it. Come here.
And I should be scared.
“Hey!” someone hisses as my steps falter, forcing them to maneuver around me. “Watch where you’re going!”
So I watch, not taking my eyes off a smirking figure as I stumble into a crosswalk, drawn in his direction despite myself. With every advancing step, my brain struggles to rationalize the action. This is just a stupid show of pride—no, a singular quest to regain my journal. Nothing more.
As if reading my mind, he fishes the book from his jacket and flips through the pages with a knowing grin.
I walk faster, gaining on him within seconds.
“Give me my journal back.” The words come out breathless, made even more pathetic by the desperate attempt to pretend I’m not affected. My chin juts, my jaw squared. You don’t scare me.
He terrifies me. His body dominates the narrow entryway. Tall. Imposing. I’m one step away from digging through my purse for my pepper spray.
“Not yet, rabbit,” he warns as if reading my mind. “I need you to hop a little farther.” His voice is softer now, but no less unnerving as those dark eyes flicker along my jaw. He’s sizing me up—attempting to figure out just how much I’m willing to do. More, it seems. Always more. “Come on.”
He starts inside, cutting across the narrow dining room. A cashier freezes behind the counter, tracking him with her gaze, but she doesn’t call out in alarm. This must be a usual occurrence.
Without confessing, she turns her attention to me. “You’re blocking the way for our customers,” she says softly.
“S-Sorry.” I scramble out of the way, but once again, I’m moving in the wrong direction. Toward him, not away. He’s still just within my line of sight—a shadow darting across a crowded, busy kitchen and then down a hallway leading to a set of rickety stairs. They go up and up at least four flights or more.
I’m panting by the time I finally reach a partially opened door that leads to fresh air and a spacious strip of asphalt beneath the open sky. It’s an unexpected view. I have to blink to adjust to the shift in lighting from the harsh fluorescent interior.
We must be on the building’s roof, and a moment of shock distracts me from my quarry. Below, I can make out the streets intertwined like a maze, their streetlamps casting alternating red and green glows. It’s beautiful. Quiet. Secluded. Up here, the only light comes from an orange bulb positioned directly above the door.
A circle of light that Rafe steadily leaves behind, approaching a shadowed section on the other side of the space.
“Over here, rabbit.” He leans against a brick wall that must house another entrance, though I can’t see any door from here. “Hop.” With a wave of his hand—the hand I can make out holding my journal—he beckons me over.
I come close enough to snatch it, and this time, he lets me.
The familiar weight of it settles against my palms, and I nearly sigh in relief. “I’m leaving,” I rasp, pivoting on my heel.
“You won’t.” He inhales on his cigarette, making the end glow a brilliant orange. Then he holds it from his mouth and exhales a cloud of smoke into the air. “You’re a predictable, little bunny.”
His next breath sends a tendril of smoke drifting directly toward me.
I cough, my eyes watering. “I am—”
“You won’t, for the same reason you scurried back to Zhang’s shop or why you skipped right into my place. I could say you crave danger, but that’s not it, is it?” He shoots me an appraising glance and shrugs. “No. You’re just numb. Bored and numb—” He shakes his head, watching his breath clash against the ebony sky. “Welcome to the club, rabbit.”
Clutching my journal to my chest, I eye the door, then take a step.
He chuckles. “I read your little journal. Writing?” He scoffs at the moniker. “Those scribbles ain’t anything special. Just a lot of bitching and moaning.”
My cheeks flame, and something makes me pry my teeth apart, spitting out, “And you’re such an expert?”
“I am,” he says. I look over my shoulder to find him nodding, his eyes closed. His head pressed against the brick, face tilted toward the sky. “More than you, amateur bunny. I know one requirement for good sappy shit? Emotion. That’s what you sorely lack. Your shit is drier than a virgin’s pussy.”
I feel my eyebrow shoot up as I shove my journal into my bag. “And I’m sure you’ve written tons?”
He smiles as though he predicted the question. “And if I say yes?”
“Then…” I lick my lips and try to sound convincing when I can’t even bring myself to meet his gaze. His hair sticks out at awkward angles. A messy fringe of it keeps falling in his face no matter how many times he impatiently bats it away with the back of his hand. “Show me.”
He scoffs. “Fine.” Setting his still smoking cigarette on the railing, he pulls away from the wall. “But you asked for this, bunny.”
He moves so fast that I barely process the moment he grips my forearm and shoves me against the brick wall. A heartbeat later, my arms are pinned above my head, and his face looms mere inches away from mine. My heart sputters as I cringe in anticipation of the pain I should be feeling.
Crushing fingers. Brute strength.
I wait…but the only sensations to register are his touch. His hot breath on my lower lip, his scent flooding my nostrils, his heat…prickling between us.
“What are you doing?” I croak, painfully aware of his nearness. “G-Get off!” I feel my knee twitch, but he shifts, ensuring any target I could assault is well beyond my reach.
“Relax.” He deliberately adjusts his grip to trap both my wrists in one hand while the other slides down to my hip, ghosting around to my lower back. “You asked me what I’ve written. Feel for yourself.” Presumably, he’s referring to his fingers, skimming my body uninvited. Each individual digit flexes against my muscle and bone, imparting their rough, scarred, and calloused texture.
“Feel you groping me?”
“No. I don’t scribble my thoughts into a fucking notebook. I don’t work on paper, bunny. I work in flesh.” With the tip of what feels like a forefinger, he traces an invisible design against my skin. My thoughts spin, unable to interpret the lightning-quick motions. Words? “My ‘writing,’” he murmurs, letting his hand fall. “Blood and pain. Ink. The only shit that makes a real mark.”
“Ink…” My gaze darts to his chest. Beneath his collar, I can see the hint of the intricate designs I know span his torso. “A tattoo? Like you know anything about art?”
But he might. The drawings scattered across his warehouse contradict me, as does the dragon etched into his skin.
Rather than say as much, he chuckles again. Up close, his almond-shaped eyes aren’t entirely fathomless. A hint of silver glints off each pupil, reflected from the distant streetlights. The glow makes him look more serious than he should. Thoughtful.
“I do,” he counters gruffly, raking his eyes down the front of me. “I know it’s more than spewing out a bunch of pretty words. My ‘art’ is in pain. But what about you? Can you even describe one little emotion, rabbit? What this feels like?”
My chest heaves as I fight to suck in air, but every breath I take is tainted with the stench of him—cloying, endless smoke. Again, I try to squirm from his reach, but he tightens his grip. “It…It feels like I’m being assaulted.”
He laughs. “See what I mean, bunny? That little brain of yours only knows how to scamper. Run. You can’t even fucking describe what you’re running from.”
“Get off. I’ll…I’ll scream,” I manage to threaten between pants. My nails dig into the wall to reinforce the boast. “I swear, I will.”
“Do it.”
I suck in another breath.
“Do something useful with all that panting.” With one hand still braced above me, he reaches over and brings something to my mouth. “Inhale.”
Smoke irritates my nostrils as the sensation of wet material prods my lower lip.
“Take a hit,” he says. “Don’t play scared, bunny. I can see it in your fucking eyes. You don’t give a shit. Breathe.”
My mouth opens, and I inhale when he lowers the cigarette. My nostrils itch with the bitter flavor.
“Good,” he grunts. “Now, exhale.”
It hurts when my lungs manage to fully empty again. Fear is like a vise, fighting to constrict them. But I can’t deny the smug satisfaction I get by breathing a cloud of smoke directly into his face.
“Maybe that will loosen you up,” he taunts without batting an eyelash. “Why is it so fucking hard for you to describe what you feel?” His voice is too controlled. Too level. “Not your surroundings. You write a lot about a fucking cage, but how does it feel to be trapped?”
“I don’t know,” I rasp as he returns his cigarette to his mouth and takes a drag. “How does it feel to destroy a book shop or terrorize an old man?”
“Good,” he says, his next breath feathering my throat. “That’s what you expect me to say, isn’t it? It feels good to be bad, bunny rabbit.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me something. Does he appreciate your little hobby? Your boyfriend?” He laughs again, but the sound is decidedly colder this time. “Don’t answer that. Describe me instead. Describe me with your writerly words.”
“An asshole. A creep. A fucking liar,’” I snipe. “There. Satisfied?”
He lets me go, turning away. “I’ve been called worse. I bet you have too, rabbit.”
I bite my lip. Have I? Yes. The words echo, distorted and muted by memory. You’re so selfish, Hannah. Fucking selfish…
“I’m leaving now,” I say, struggling to sound like I mean it.
“Not before I get to critique your assessment.” He whirls to face me, stroking his chin. “A creep. Asshole. Well, I am all of the above…except that last thing. I’m not a liar.”
I meet his gaze again, but the darkness I find there is unwaveringly steady. He’s telling the truth, or at least he thinks he is.
Which strikes me as strange. Out of all the attributes on that list, I wouldn’t expect him to deny that one.
“You never lie?” I ask, still holding his gaze.
“No,” he says. “So think carefully about whatever you’re going to ask me next. Make sure you can sleep with it.”
I do. The air catches in the back of my throat as I open my mouth, and ask, “Why pick on me?”
He laughs. “I told you.” He moves slowly, giving me every chance to escape his advance. When I don’t, his hands return to my hips. “I want to know what makes a rabbit scream.”
One by one, he spreads out his fingers, and I’m riveted by the sight of them—long and slim, streaked with dirt. Or paint? Gradually, they slip between the denim of my jeans to connect with my skin. Greedily, seeking more. More. Once he’s gained enough leverage, he tugs.
I inhale, raising my hands. “S-Stop—”
“No,” he growls, yanking me to him. “Close your eyes.”
Something in his voice reaches past my logical brain, the part of me I’ve listened to my entire life. He goes deeper.
“Feel,” he commands in a tone that ripples down my spine. “What does this feel like? Tell me, and I’ll stop.”
Softness mingles with a slightly rougher texture. Definitely paint. Warmth from the fingertips traces a blazing path over my chilled flesh. Down, down, down…
“Breathe, rabbit,” he urges, his mouth near my ear. “I won’t hurt you. Unless you ask me to.”
“S-Stop—”
“You stop with the fucking words,” he counters. “Show me.”
I know what he’s doing. I can feel the tension tugging on the clasp of my jeans. Hear the rasp of the zipper coming undone. My heart races, throat thickening.
Is this fear? Yes, I decide as the air sticks to the inside of my lungs. “It feels bad,” I tell him.
“Bad,” he echoes. His warm breath sears me and wetness chases the sensation. I startle, my eyes fluttering shut. Feel? His mouth. Lips…parting over the hollow of my throat.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” he murmurs there, the words like smoke fanning smoldering embers. “You’d let me do whatever the fuck I want. But not because you’re afraid. You’re just too fucking numb to give a shit.” He pulls back, and my eyes open slowly, taking in his ripe, smug smile. “That’s no fun. I hate to tell you, rabbit, but you’d be a bad fucking fuck.”
