Fire Song (City of Dragons) (7 page)

“It is?”

“It’s all sexual, then? This epic dragon bond is just instant, overwhelming lust?”

“That’s not all it is,” I said.

“What else is it?”

I didn’t say anything.

He laughed. “And everyone says sex isn’t the most important thing in a relationship.”

“Sex is not the most important thing to dragons,” I insisted, and my face was still burning. “It’s not the most important thing to me.”

“Obviously not. You left.”

“It was not easy to leave. It was the hardest thing I ever did.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“How did you mean it?”

“The dragon couples always seem so happy when you see the pictures of them on the news at the charity functions. They’re smiling and they’ve got their arms wound around each other. And in the human world, there’s all this speculation about how it is that dragons maintain such loving, enduring relationships. And it turns out it’s just sex. That’s funny to me.”

“I don’t think it’s just sex,” I said. “And I didn’t know that there was speculation about dragons.” Why had I never spent any time thinking about how dragons were viewed by other creatures? “Look, I think we
should
change the subject now.”

He was still laughing.

“Or maybe you want to discuss
your
sex life?”

“Nothing to discuss,” he said. “And were we discussing your sex life? I think we were talking about dragons in general.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re infuriating.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. “You sure you want to go through with this? You don’t have to see him.”

“I can handle it,” I snapped. Never show weakness.

*

I met Alastair when I was twenty-eight, which was relatively young for a person to find a mate. Dragons live around three hundred years on average, so it’s not uncommon for dragons to spend fifty or even a hundred years single and searching. Lots of times, our mates live far away, across the ocean in other countries. Seems to be the way nature keeps us from getting too inbred, I suppose.

It can go the other way, of course. There have been cases in which dragons have known their mates all their lives, have grown up together. In that case, they tend to pair bond from puberty.

I came of age at sixteen, like all dragons, and I only had twelve years to myself before I became utterly consumed by Alastair.

I like to think that I was a hopeful sort of girl, that I was becoming someone with a good heart before he came into my life. After all, I helped Felicity. I had a good heart.

At least, I think I did.

It’s hard to know anything anymore. Alastair made me question everything about myself. He made me feel guilty all the time. That was how he justified what he did to me. I was asking for it. If I could just stop being such a horrible person, then maybe he would be able to stop hurting me.

He used to admit that what he did was wrong.

But, he’d say, I didn’t make it easy for him, what with the way I behaved. I was so selfish and shallow that he could barely control himself.

And there were things about me that might have been shallow, might have been selfish.

I lost my parents when I was a small girl, only ten or twelve. They were out flying together, and they were both taken by a slayer.

At least, that’s what we think.

They were never found, because slayers don’t leave anything behind. They kill dragons and then sell them off piecemeal.

I was raised by grandparents after that, and they were grieving themselves and also worried about me, and grandparents on top of everything. Maybe I was spoiled. Maybe I was overly indulged. Maybe I spent my life thinking that I was entitled to anything that I wanted.

But I never wished any harm on anyone else, and if I thought I was entitled, I also thought everyone else was entitled too. I didn’t want anyone to suffer.

Maybe I’m protesting too much.

But I get confused sometimes, I have to admit. There are things that I used to think about myself, and then things that I came to think of myself because of what Alastair drilled into me. Sometimes, I can’t tell the difference. I don’t know what I think of myself.

When we first met, it was perfect, the way everyone said it would be.

He was older than me by about ten years, but that wasn’t much of a big deal. He was still young, too. And he was the heir to a fortune. He had been made CEO of a big insurance company, and we were a golden couple. Young and beautiful and rich.

We had a lavish wedding, a honeymoon in paradise, and a blissful first six months of lovemaking and closeness.

When I look back now, I see how he was planting the seeds for what would come, but at the time, I was clueless.

I remember the first night that I cooked for him. I wasn’t really very good at cooking, because I’d always had someone to do it for me, but I wanted to impress him, do something sweet and intimate for my husband, who I adored.

I made fettuccine Alfredo, and I made the Alfredo sauce from scratch with cream and freshly grated Parmesan.

At least I tried. It didn’t quite come together. I had the heat too high on the skillet, and the Parmesan separated and the sauce got oily, and Alastair laughed at me and refused to eat it, and said that I was the worst cook he’d ever seen.

And when I cried, he said he was only teasing and what the hell was wrong with me to get so upset over nothing. He said I was a big baby.

It hurt, because I wanted to please him, and I hadn’t.

But I figured he must be right. After all, I had totally ruined the sauce. Although I tasted it and it tasted divine. It looked bad, but it was positively scrumptious. Didn’t matter, though. He had been teasing me. I had been too sensitive. It was all my fault.

It wasn’t a big deal, honestly. Not being nice about my failed cooking attempt didn’t mean he was an abusive asshole, of course.

But it was the beginning of the way he berated me and the way he put me down.

By the time he did hit me, he had already convinced me I deserved it.

Sometimes, when I looked back on my life with him, when I thought about how far under his thumb I had actually been, I thought it was a miracle that I had ever gotten away from him at all.

Alastair’s house was a beige color. It was three stories and it was up on stilts on the bay, west of Atlantic Avenue, instead of east on the ocean. There was a dock behind the house and a speedboat was attached, floating in the water. It gleamed in the morning sunlight.

Detective Flint got out of the car and took off his sunglasses. He tucked them inside his suit jacket and surveyed the house.

I swallowed and put my hand on the car door.

Flint peered the through windshield at me. “You want to stay here?”

I flung the door open. “I’m coming with you.”

He shrugged. “Okay.” Without waiting to see if I was following, he strode over the driveway, up the sidewalk, and began climbing the steps to the front door.

I hurried after him. The breeze seemed cold now, and it was cutting through the light sweater I was wearing. I huddled inside it, hunching up my shoulders as I went up the steps behind Flint.

Flint rang the doorbell.

We waited.

My heart started to beat so loudly and so fast, I was sure everyone in the whole city could hear it.

Flint inspected his jacket. He flicked a piece of lint off the sleeve. He looked me over. “You cold?”

“No,” I said, my voice too high.

He shrugged again. He pressed the doorbell again. He banged a few times on the door. “SCPD,” he called. “Anyone home?”

Oh, God. I hadn’t even thought of that. What if he wasn’t home? What if I was getting all nervous here for nothing, and he wouldn’t come to the door after all? Then we’d have to come back, wouldn’t we?

I didn’t know if I could handle coming back.

Overhead, a seagull squawked as it flew by us.

I became aware of the sound of the traffic in the distance. The rushing sound of cars going past, a horn blaring.

I looked up at the sky above us. It was bright blue, dotted with fluffy clouds that looked like cotton balls.

I didn’t think I owned any cotton balls. Alastair would probably call that carelessness. He’d say that not having cotton balls was not being prepared. He’d say that there was no way that a spoiled brat like me could possibly take care of herself on her own, and that I was already screwing up my household so much—

The door opened.

My heart stopped beating.

But it was only the housekeeper. She had headphones around her neck. She smiled cheerfully. “I was listening to music. Almost didn’t hear you. Can I help you?”

Flint showed her his badge. “We’re here to see Alastair Cooper.”

The housekeeper’s eyes widened. “Wow. Okay. Well, let me see if he’s available, I guess.” She looked behind herself into the house for a second and then turned back to us. “Come in.” She stepped aside.

We entered a foyer area with a set of steps to the right and bamboo wardrobe to the left. Ahead of us, hanging on the wall, was a large circular mirror, ringed by glass dolphins.

The housekeeper held up a finger. “Wait here.” She disappeared up the steps.

I still felt cold. I burrowed under my sweater.

Flint opened the wardrobe. There were several windbreakers hanging inside.

A fishing pole rested against one side. Next to the fishing pole were a pair of black galoshes. They looked too clean to have ever been worn.

I shivered. This place didn’t look like Alastair at all. It was too warm and beachy. Alastair liked things cool and clean and sleek, with sharp angles.

Maybe he’d had the place decorated by someone else? Paid a decorator to do it?

I couldn’t picture him relinquishing control in that way.

Footsteps.

Coming down the steps.

Suddenly, I wasn’t cold. I was hot. I was sweating and the sweater was cutting off my circulation. I had to get it off. Now.

I struggled with it, yanking it off of my sleeves, pulling it away from my body.

And when I looked up, there he was.

He saw me and he froze on the stairs there. He was wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and a linen shirt. His feet were bare. He looked the way he always had. Too beautiful for words.

My heart stopped.

My mouth got dry.

My nipples pebbled against my bra and heat started to gather between my thighs.

He was tall with wide shoulders and a little bit of dark hair scattered over his upper chest. It peeked out where his shirt was unbuttoned. He had some dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. It made him look tousled and male and gorgeous. His eyes were green and open and twinkling.

I thought about the way he kissed.

I thought about the way he fucked.

I thought about riding him, his hands on my breasts, his thick cock spearing me as I bucked against him and cried out and came and came and came and—

“Mr. Cooper, my name is Detective Lachlan Flint. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Penny?” Alastair’s voice was hoarse.

“Mr. Cooper,” said Flint.

Alastair started toward me.

I held up both hands to ward him off. “Don’t,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. There was the sex, sure, but there were other memories too. Him standing over me, my blood smearing his fists, sneering,
Don’t get up. If you get up, it means you want more. Do you want more, Penny?

I shuddered.

Flint stepped between us. “She wanted to come along. Sorry if it’s a shock.”

“I thought you were dead.” Alastair had yet to even acknowledge Flint.

“You knew I wasn’t dead,” I said. “I served you with divorce papers.”

“Mr. Cooper,” said Flint.

Alastair finally looked at him. “Who are you?”

“I understand you saw Sophia Ward on February twelfth?” said Flint.

Alastair just shook his head. He turned back to me. “Penny, let’s talk. All I want is to talk. Just you and me. Please, I know that I screwed up, but I’ve changed. You can’t imagine how horrible it’s been without you. I miss you so much, baby.” He reached his hand out, around Flint.

Flint chuckled. “See, that’s not going to happen.”

My body wanted him. My body was aching for his touch, for the feel of his mouth on me. I wanted to press myself against him, breathe in his scent, rip open his shirt and kiss my way down his stomach.

But that was all it was.

Whatever else that had been there, the love for him, the desire to do what he asked or to make him happy? All of that was gone.

“I need you to stop trying to get closer to Ms. Caspian,” said Flint.

“Her name is Cooper. She’s my
wife
.” Alastair looked at Flint, and I could see that he was starting to get angry.