“Oh, hush,” I mutter, setting the piece of toast aside. “And who keeps putting bread slices in you, anyway?”
But even as I gather my things and slip out the back door, I can’t stop the flutter of excitement in my chest.
More later. I can only hope so.
Chapter 8
Lines Crossed
Sundar
One day, seventeen hours,and approximately thirty minutes since I tasted her.
Not that I’m counting.
Sunday stretches before me like an endless desert, each hour bringing me closer to tomorrow morning when she’ll return. Even then, it’s still too far away.
My reflection catches in the glass of the display case—scales gleaming black and gold in the fading light, hood carefully controlled, golden eyes that betray nothing of the chaos churning beneath.
I’ve spent years perfecting this mask of calm control. This image of the steady, reliable shopkeeper who definitely hasn’t spent two nights remembering how Aubrey trembled beneath my touch, or how she tasted, or how tight she was and how much my cock stirs as I imagine claiming her, marking her as mine.
Unworthy of responsibility, Nalini’s voice echoes in my mind.Unworthy of heritage.
My hood flares slightly at the memory. She’d sneered those words when I first suggested opening this shop, when I dared to believe that perhaps our sacred duties could evolve with the changing times. That perhaps isolation wasn’t the answer, and that we should integrate into human society, spread our knowledge and riches to help others.
The memory stings, but not as sharply as it once did. I’ve built something here, in this quiet corner of the city. Something steady. Something that’s mine. My collection of forgotten treasures and cursed oddities might not compare to the sacred relics I once guarded, but at least here I answer to no one but myself.
Or I did, until Aubrey Garrett walked in and turned everything sideways with her quick wit and warm eyes.
The evening shadows lengthen across the shop floor, and I realize I’ve been staring at the same display case for nearly an hour, lost in thoughts of her.
This isn’t like me. I don’t fixate. I don’t yearn. I am ancient, disciplined, a former guardian of sacred artifacts. I should be above such… such…
My tail coils tighter, remembering how perfectly she fit within its grip.
Such uncertainty, I acknowledge to myself. Because that’s what this truly is—standing at the edge of something profound and unknown.
She makes me want things I hadn’t considered before, not just physically, though that desire burns hot enough. She makes me want to share my world with her, to explain why certain artifacts sing to me, to show her the beauty in items others might dismiss, even in the ones that aren’t literally magical.
I move through the shop, straightening items that don’t need straightening. My tongue keeps seeking phantom traces of her scent—here, where she usually works. There, where she leans against the counter during quiet moments, asking thoughtful questions about monster culture that make me see my own world anew.
The truth settles in my scales like the warmth of the sun on a cold morning: I miss her.
Not just her body, though that haunts me too. I miss her presence. Her laughter. The way she makes this carefully ordered space feel… alive.
It’s natural, I suppose, to consider the future. All monsters do, when attraction stirs. We’re creatures of varying lifespans—some living centuries, others mere decades. Yet love finds its way, regardless.
I’ve seen vampires give up their immortality to match a human lover’s natural span. Then there are those who chose to carry on after their love’s passing, like Mrs. Brindlewood who speaks of the shared years with her knight as the brightest of her long life.
It’s a choice all monsters make somewhere deep in their hearts. One I never thought would be relevant, when I had originally fallen for another naga.
But such thoughts are premature. What Aubrey and I share is… new. Delicate. Something that needs careful tending before it can grow into anything deeper.
I check the time again. Sixteen hours until she returns. Sixteen hours to sort through these feelings, to find a way forward that honors both her position and mine. To figure out how to be worthy of her trust after crossing lines I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.
This isn’t about her employment anymore, or even about our differences in age or species. It’s about how she sees beauty in the forgotten things that find their way to my shop. How she treats every customer—human or monster—with the same genuine warmth. How she makes me want to be better, not because she demands it, but because she believes I already am.
Night has fully settled now, the shop’s warm lighting casting familiar shadows. I should close up, retreat to my apartment upstairs where at least the walls don’t hold echoes of her voice. But instead I linger, touching items she’s cataloged and cleaned, feeling almost envious of these inanimate objects…
