Mated To The Dragon Of Manhattan (A BBW Paranormal Romance Book 1) (3 page)

His voice was rich and deep. And for some reason, despite my current fairly desperate situation as a kidnapping victim, it had the effect of a net full of butterflies being released in my stomach.

The two guards bowed again and strode over to sit in chairs some ways away from me, in the shadows of the hall.

I was now maybe only ten feet away from Lord Truman and the people sitting directly beside him in ornately carved, high-backed chairs of dark, polished wood. I was now close enough to see that at least a dozen other people sat on the raised marble platform as well, though clearly off to the sides of Lord Truman's group. Almost hidden in the shadows on either side of the platform, in fact.

I was also now close enough to clearly see the color of Lord Truman's eyes. They were a dark gray, the color of storm clouds. He fixed me with them, looking at me so intently that heat rose to my cheeks. And I suddenly felt terribly embarrassed to be standing in front of him in handcuffs. Like a criminal. Though even more than the shame of appearing like a criminal to such an unbelievably handsome man, it was a strange sense of vulnerability I felt, standing in front of him with my hands securely fastened behind my back. I felt almost naked in a strange way. Maybe because I knew my full breasts were straining against the fabric of my top. Or maybe it was the intensity of his gaze. As if he were mentally undressing me. And maybe planning what he'd like to do to me once I was naked with my hands still bound. Strange as these thoughts  were, and as vulnerable as I felt in front of Lord Truman, for some reason I couldn't deny that these feelings and musings weren't entirely unpleasant. Even though I couldn't quite fathom exactly why.

But then again, I realized, I had much bigger things to be focusing on. Much, much, much bigger things. Like finding out where exactly I was. How I'd been kidnapped. And what was going to happen to me.

After several moments spent looking at me intently while my cheeks flamed, Lord Truman cleared his throat. "I've been told that you're a shifter spy from the other side. Is this true?"

It was true that his rich, deep, very masculine voice gave me butterflies each time he spoke. But being that wasn't the question, I, of course, I shook my head.

"No. I don't even know what 'shifters' are, and I don't even know where or what the 'other side' is."

I expected him to question me further about these things, or maybe even call me a liar, but to my surprise, he didn't.

After a long moment looking at me with his strong jaw clenched, seeming to be deciding something, he spoke again. "What's your name?"

"Brette Morgan. Brette like the boys' name, but with an
e
at the end."

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I realized the details were probably irrelevant and likely sounded silly. But by this point in my life, explaining my name was a total knee-jerk reaction. I was so, so used to it.

"I see. And where do you live?"

I stifled a scoff. "Right here. In Manhattan. Of course."

I was sure he had to have known that, so I couldn't understand why he'd ask the question.

He dipped his head in a slight nod, making his dark hair glint in the overhead lights, and then seemed to study me for a moment or two before speaking again. "And are you single, Ms. Morgan, or do you have a significant other?"

The petite young redhead sitting to the right of the empty chair on Lord Truman's right whipped her head in his direction, eyes wide, before stifling the tiniest of giggles with her hand and then covering it with a cough.

I had no idea how to respond. I had no idea what I
should
respond. I had no idea why the question had even been asked of me. But, figuring that honesty was the best policy, I decided there was no harm in answering with the plain and simple truth.

I cleared my throat a little, suddenly unable to meet Lord Truman's gaze for some reason. "I'm single."

But then, instantly, I got it. I understood. He wanted to know if anyone was going to come looking for me. If anyone would file a missing persons report with the police.

I cleared my throat again, now returning my gaze to Lord Truman's face. "I mean...I
was
single before I met my boyfriend. Who I've been with for over three years now, and who loves me very much. And I love him very much, too. He's a New York City police officer. A detective, in fact. And in fact, a lead detective. A lead detective who solved a hundred percent of his cases this past year, which were all missing persons cases. Which he won an award for. And part of the award was even a trip to Hawaii, which we...."

I paused, struggling to think of how to finish the thought. I hated lying.

"Which we thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed."

"And what activities did you enjoy on this trip?"

I didn't even hesitate. "Swimming with sharks. Sharks and dolphins, mostly. Also some tuna fish. They were kind of shy, though. My boyfriend has a powerful, muscular body that...well, it intimidates some people. Even...even some marine creature people. Even tuna fish sometimes."

I knew I was babbling. I knew I was making zero sense. Lying convincingly had never been one of my strong suits. And in my defense, I
had
just been through quite a rattling ordeal, to say the least. And it wasn't over yet.

The petite redhead was stifling another giggle behind her hand. The man on Lord Truman's left was frowning. The woman to
his
left wore a fairly blank expression. Lord Truman himself seemed to be wearing an expression of amusement, although I couldn't be sure. But when he spoke next, I thought I maybe detected just the slightest trace of amusement in his voice as well.

"Your boyfriend sounds very impressive, Miss Morgan. What's his name?"

I swallowed, miles beyond flustered, while my face flamed. "It's...his name is...Rolando Feathers."

For whatever absolutely bizarre reason, it had been the first name that had popped into my brain. I couldn't explain it, even to myself. I'd never known anyone named Rolando, nor anyone with the last name of Feathers.

The petite redhead buried her face in her tiny hands, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. And now Lord Truman
was
wearing an expression of amusement, I was sure.

He looked at me with the edges of his full mouth twitching, seeming to be fighting a grin. "A man of outstanding detective talents; a man able to intimidate marine life simply by display of his impressive physique alone; and now, we learn, a man of a very unusual and distinctive name. Your boyfriend Rolando Feathers seems like a boyfriend beyond compare, Miss Morgan."

I nodded, now fully committed to my lies. "He is. I'm very lucky."

A twinkle in Lord Truman's dark gray eyes joined his seeming struggle to suppress a grin. And like it had earlier in the elevator, a tiny shred of hope began rising in my heart. Hope that maybe this had all been some sort of big misunderstanding. Hope that maybe I'd been mistaken for a former dragon cult member who'd run away years previously or something. Hope that maybe I'd soon be released, with apologies.

I cleared my throat, standing up a little straighter. "Lord Truman...."

I suddenly remembered what one of the guards had told me about how I was to address him.

"I mean, Lord
Stone
. Am I to be released? Am I correct in thinking this has all been some sort of misunderstanding?"

To my horror, the twinkle in his dark gray eyes vanished, and he frowned. The petite redhead immediately uncovered her face, revealing a completely sober expression, and glanced at Lord Truman. The man sitting on Lord Truman's left frowned at me once again, before also glancing at Lord Truman. And then, Lord Truman himself glanced up at a flag suspended from the vaulted ceiling above. Bearing a dark gray dragon on a background of all black, the flag hung maybe ten or fifteen feet above him.

Immediately after, he returned his gaze to me, frowning so hard he was almost scowling. "No. I'm afraid you are not to be released. The safety of my people is my number one priority, and I take possible incidences of spying very seriously. You will be held here, imprisoned, until this matter can be fully investigated."

Suddenly, I was tired. Tired of not knowing what was going on or what was happening to me. Tired of being treated like I'd done something wrong. And also just
tired
. A little footsore as well. The black ballet flats I'd worn to work with my black skirt and pink top had been kind of pinching my feet all day, and now they hurt. As did the metal handcuffs digging into my wrists. I took a step forward to the raised marble platform and Lord Truman. "Take me back to my job. I don't know how your people kidnapped me, or why, but I demand to be taken back to my workplace. I still have things to do there today, and I could be fired if I don't get them done."

"Where's your workplace, Miss Morgan?"

Incredulous, I sputtered for a long moment. "Oh, as if you don't know. You should, anyway, because I'm assuming it was you who gave the orders to kidnap me to whoever kidnapped me."

Still frowning, he tried again. "Please answer me, Miss Morgan. Where's your workplace?"

I wasn't going to give his question the dignity of a response, since he clearly must have known where I worked.
Had
to have known. Though a look of inexplicable sincerity in his eyes when asking the question made me answer, though that sincerity confused me.

"I work at the New York National Bank in Manhattan. Where your men must have kidnapped me from. Because all I can remember is trying to remember the numbers to unlock the vault, and then I closed my eyes and remembered them and said them out loud, but then when I opened my eyes, I was...here. In the lobby of...this place. Whatever this place is. And instead of raining, it was sunny. So, your men must have knocked me unconscious and kidnapped me or something. So, I don't know why you'd ask me where I work, because obviously, you have to know. And I don't understand why your own people must have kidnapped me, yet now everyone's treating me like I'm a spy."

Suddenly, tears were streaming down my face. Humiliated, I went to brush them away, but found that I couldn't. Because I was still handcuffed.

I kind of awkwardly tried to wipe one of my cheeks on my shirt, sniffling into my shoulder for a second, before returning my gaze to Lord Truman. "Can I be un-handcuffed, please, so I can wipe my face?"

The petite redhead gave him a look that seemed somehow reproachful and expectant at the same time, as if she might stick up for me if he said no. But he didn't even look at her. His gaze was locked on me. And his expression seemed to soften a bit. I actually thought I saw his dark brows angling upward and to the center, as if he were feeling bad for me. Though it was hard to see through my tears, and I wasn't sure if I'd imagined it.

But he turned his gaze to the two guards who'd drawn their guns on me and had taken me up in the elevator. They were both still sitting in chairs a ways from me in one of the most dimly lit corners of the hall.

"Gentlemen, one of you please remove her cuffs."

They both sprang up from their seats at once, and soon, my handcuffs were removed. After quickly wiping my face, I rubbed my aching wrists, relieved to finally have the cuffs off.

But my relief soon turned to absolute horror when Lord Truman spoke to the guards again, after clenching his strong jaw for a moment or two.

"Now, please take her to the dungeon."

CHAPTER TWO

Before I could gasp or wail or make any sound of protest against Lord Truman telling the guards to take me to "the dungeon," one of the guards, the blond one, whispered near my ear while taking me by the shoulder, turning me, and beginning to walk me out of the throne room.

"Don't worry. It's not an actual dungeon."

Somewhat reassured, though just somewhat, I allowed myself to be walked back down the velvety carpet by the guards. However, after maybe a dozen paces, I turned to look at Lord Truman. I didn't even know why. But he'd already left the raised throne platform and couldn't be seen. The others who  had been sitting on the platform with him had also descended down the three marble steps in front of it and were now filing through some dimly-lit doorway on one side of the hall.

At this point, all I wanted to know was if "the dungeon" had a bed I could sleep in. Because I was literally becoming so tired I wasn't sure how much longer my feet would carry me. I was also hungry. I needed to use the restroom. And I'd become a little chilly in the cavernous, marble-floored throne room in just my skirt and short-sleeved top. But more than anything, I was completely exhausted and wanted to rest, and think. And try to make some sort of sense of things.

After leading me out of the throne room and back down to the elevator, the two guards ushered me inside; the dark-haired guard pushed the button for floor seventy-six, just one below the top floor; and up we began to go. I was far too tired to ask any questions, about "the dungeon" or anything else. And besides, I doubted I'd get any kind of real answers. So instead, I just slumped against the elevator wall and watched some of the shorter buildings in the city get smaller and smaller beneath us. It appeared to be maybe six or so in the evening, and the sky was still a clear, Robin's egg blue. I might have enjoyed the sight had I not been so spent and miserable.

Once on the seventy-sixth floor, the guards led me down a short, plush-carpeted hallway to a white door with TD marked on it in small black lettering.

The blond guard gave me just the faintest hint of a smile. "The dungeon."

After punching in a few numbers on a keypad near the door handle, he opened the door and then gestured for me to enter first.

With more than a bit of hesitancy and trepidation, I stepped inside, not knowing at all what to expect. Also not knowing if I'd ever emerge from this place, wherever it was. I realized it was conceivable I could be locked away in "the dungeon" for years and nobody would ever know.

Though upon first glance, the prospect of being locked away in "the dungeon" maybe didn't seem as horrifying as I'd initially thought.

The white marble-floored foyer opened up into a spacious living room my entire apartment probably could have fit into twice. Plush, cream-colored carpeting matched a long couch,
love seat
, and several overstuffed chairs all upholstered in various shades of tan and cream. A thick rug in similar shades sat in front of a gilded fireplace on one side of the room, and on the other side, a large flat screen TV hung adjacent to several oil paintings in polished gold frames. Above everything hung a crystal chandelier that sparkled in the sunlight streaming in through several tall windows and a set of French doors that appeared to lead to a balcony.

Wanting a closer look at everything, I wandered out to the living room, my earlier tiredness gone. Or, at least, forgotten for the time being.

I inspected several jewel-encrusted porcelain eggs that sat atop what appeared to be a solid gold mantle above the fireplace, along with various other opulent knick-knacks, if they could even be called knick-knacks, before turning to the two guards, who'd followed me into the living room. "Why did he call this luxurious apartment 'the dungeon’?”

The blond guard shrugged. "I honestly don't think he meant to say that, to you, anyway. See, 'the dungeon' started out as just a funny nickname for this place, just because it's so clearly
not
a dungeon, and I guess it just kind of stuck. We all say it without even really thinking about it anymore. And I'm sure Lord Truman said it not to scare you, but just out of force of habit. 'The dungeon’ is where he keeps prisoners he intends to treat very gently. This includes, at times, members of his court who are accused of various fairly minor crimes, and a few times in the past, even a few distant royal family members who've gotten in trouble for various crimes, such as making feeble attempts to steal the throne. Although just because this is a luxurious 'prison' for 'special' prisoners, that's not to say that Lord Truman doesn't plan to get to the very bottom of whatever your situation is; I'm sure he does. But if he really believed you were a spy, I think you'd be down at one of the city prisons right now. There honestly is no real space for
real
prisoners in this entire building, which, by the way, is called Stone Tower. It's where Lord Truman, his lieutenants, his advisers, his staff, and a whole lot of us guards live. It's kind of like a mini city in a skyscraper. There's even a ton of restaurants and shopping places down on the lower floors."

I sighed, leaning against granite stonework next to the fireplace. "Well...I really appreciate all this info you're giving me, and I mean...I really, really do, but what did you mean when you said that if Lord Truman really thought I was a spy I'd be down at one of the city prisons right now?
I
was the one who was kidnapped here, or...
something
, whatever has happened to me, so how could Lord Truman have me locked up in the New York City prison system? My guess is that he probably doesn't want the police even knowing about his community, or...or cult, no offense, or whatever it is that he has going on here in this building."

The blond guard opened his mouth to speak, but the taller, dark-haired guard turned to him and spoke in a low voice before he even could.

"Considering that Lord Truman has not yet  officially pardoned Miss Morgan, nor gotten to the bottom of whatever exactly her situation is, I think it wise that we don't say any more."

The blond man suddenly nodded. "Right. You're right." He turned his gaze back to me. "Sorry. I tend to start talking and don't stop. I'm sure Lord Truman will answer more of your questions later if he sees fit. But now...now we'll show you around the rest of 'the dungeon' apartment. And if you like this living room, you'll really like the dining area."

Wearing a half-grin, the blond guard gave me a little wink. "Total luxury."

I was liking this blond guard more and more, and I was beginning to feel as if maybe I'd made a friend of some sort. My first friend of my first kidnapping.

After a tour of the kitchen and the dining area, which was, as promised, "total luxury," he and the other guard showed me to the bedroom, which, like the living room, was at least twice the size of my entire apartment. And there, I made a mistake. The mistake of sitting down on the extremely comfortable, plush comforter-topped, four-poster bed. I'd just been intending to rest my feet for second, but a second was all it took for my eyes to begin to close.

The blond guard noticed right away and set my purse, which apparently I was now allowed to have back, next to me on the bed. "Here. We'll just let you rest now. I'm sure Brianna will be in soon with some dinner and some clothes for you."

"Who's Brianna?"

"She's the little redhead who was sitting up in one of the carved chairs in the throne room. She's my cousin. And she's also married to Lieutenant Owen Stevens, who is Lord Truman's right-hand man. She'll make sure you get all settled in."

I nodded, willing my eyes to remain open. "Okay, good. Thanks."

"No problem. And...before I go, just let me say that if you
are
cleared of all wrongdoing by Lord Truman, which seems pretty likely, I'd like to apologize for probably scaring you half to death by having to pull a gun on you earlier. And for anything else I did that scared or upset you."

The dark-haired guard gave him a sharp little look. "Again, I think we're getting ahead of ourselves, here." He shifted his gaze back to my general direction. "However, without saying anything more, I will say that I echo that sentiment. I apologize in advance if you
are
ultimately cleared. And now, we'll leave you in peace." He turned and began heading for the bedroom door. "Coming, Charlie?"

The blond guard, who was apparently named Charlie, turned and followed him, giving me a little wave. "Have a good evening, Miss Morgan."

"Thanks, Charlie. And you can call me Brette."

He waved again, smiling. "Have a good evening, Brette."

Once I'd heard the apartment door shut behind them, my first instinct was to fall back in the bed and go to sleep. However, I willed myself to stay awake, because there were three things I wanted to do. One, I more like
needed
to do, and that was use the restroom. Two, I wanted to test the apartment door to see if I was really locked in. And three, I wanted to see if my phone was still in my purse, and if it was, I wanted to see if I had cell reception in the tower. Because being in very tall skyscrapers made primarily from steel often left me with no signal.

Though when I rifled through my purse and found my phone, I suddenly wasn't sure if I even still wanted to call the police right away like I'd thought I might if I ever got my hands back on my phone. Like I'd thought
for sure
I would. Because thinking of calling the police made me think of Lord Truman. I pictured his handsome, lightly tanned face, his dark hair, and his long, muscular body. And I realized that if I called the police, he'd likely be arrested for some charge like conspiracy to commit kidnapping or something, and I'd probably never see him again. Which, I also realized with a bit of surprise, would bother me. Maybe even incredibly.

And also, though I still wasn't sure exactly what
had
happened to me, I was beginning to doubt that I'd actually been kidnapped. I kind of wanted to talk to Lord Truman to try to figure things out.

It was a good thing that I was no longer certain I wanted to call the police right away. Because when I checked, just out of curiosity, it turned out I had absolutely no cell signal anyway. I stuck my phone back in my purse, maybe a little disappointed, though at the same time, not really very disappointed at all.

Soon after, I stood up from the bed and went to use the restroom, and I discovered that the master bathroom would be better described as a personal spa. It was actually one enormous room divided into two rooms with a partition and a door. The first room after entering the chamber from the bedroom was a gorgeous, spacious, navy-blue-and-white-decorated bathroom with both a shower and a separate sunken marble tub. Its fixtures, as well as those of a sink nearby, appeared to be made from solid gold.

On the other side of the bathroom's partition and door, a large Jacuzzi tub sat surrounded by a wooden deck and lush, green plants of all different kinds and sizes. The walls of this spacious room-within-a-room were frosted glass that eventually became clear glass about halfway up. This room and the relaxation it promised literally took my breath away for a few moments. I could not believe that my "prison" actually came complete with Jacuzzi tub.

I might have taken a soak right then, but was afraid I might fall asleep and wake up half-drowning, so I decided against it. However, I also decided that even if my phone
did
pick up cell reception any time soon, I might delay calling the police for just a little while. Just long enough to really enjoy a good, luxurious soak while in "prison."

After checking out the Jacuzzi room, I went back out to the living room and foyer to see if I was really locked in. And, it turned out, I was. Unexpectedly angry, and not just a little bit, I gave the gold-framed white door a good kick, immediately feeling silly and immature. Though, I figured, considering the day I'd had, maybe I could be cut a little slack for having a childish outburst.

With tiredness overtaking me once again, I dragged myself back to the bedroom. I managed to kick my shoes off, climb into bed, and position a pillow under my head before I fell asleep.

I awoke hours later to the smell of something delicious. Stomach growling, I sat up in bed and recognized the aroma of what I guessed was rosemary chicken. I could hear the faint sound of someone whistling in the kitchen. Feeling surprisingly refreshed after my strange early evening nap, or whatever it had been, I padded out of the darkened bedroom, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, where I paused at the threshold.