“I was born about five hundred years ago. Came here to what is now the United States around three hundred years ago. To this realm a few years before that.”
“H-how long do you… do dragons live?”
“As long as we can,” she said through a smile. “We’re immortal. We will live forever unless we are killed. But wecanbe killed.” She looked down at her hands. “You asked me once why I saw blood in Able McKenzie’s paintings.”
“I remember asking. You never answered me.”
“My eldest brother, Marius, was murdered in front of me. Decapitated.”
“Oh, Rowan…” His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry.”
“He was heir to the throne of Paragon. My uncle killed him and usurped the throne for himself before we escaped to Earth,” she said. “It was hundreds of years ago, but something like that never leaves you. Although there comes a time when you have to move on from it. Most often, I can hold the memory at a distance. Horrible events are more tolerable at a distance, don’t you think?”
His eyes widened. He gulped his wine until the glass was empty, then walked back into the kitchen to pour himself another. A muscle worked in his jaw. Rosco seemed to pick up on his anxiety and followed him, whining softly.
“Something I’ve said has upset you.” She took a step toward him but stopped when she saw his fingers were trembling on his glass. “Does it bother you, that I’m not human?” Maybe he’d changed his mind and the truth was too much for him after all.
“No.” He stared into his wine.
“Then it disgusts you that I’m older than you?” She set down her glass and glanced toward her shoes. She could have them on and be out the door in seconds if he rejected her.
“No,” he said firmly. He braced himself on the counter and shot her a grave look.
“Then is it because I’m immortal?”
“No.”
She stopped short. “Then what is it? Once I told you about my brother, I felt you change. It’s like all the warmth left the room. Or can’t you admit it bothers you that I’m not human?”
He snorted, then started to laugh darkly in a way that made his big body shake. “Why should it bother me?”
She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or trying to make light of the situation, but the longer he laughed, the more her chest ached. She wondered again if she should leave. But then his gray eyes locked onto hers and darkened as if a storm was brewing behind them.
“Human isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Rowan.” He frowned, his gaze dropping to her chin. “How could it bother me that you’re not human when so much about the human race is nothing short of toxic?” He bit out the word as if it stung his mouth.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve had to do things to survive.” He licked his lips. “There’s something I need to tell you. I remembered something recently, something that has to do with you.”
She cringed. He must have remembered the night she stole the Raindrop of Heaven. Rowan reached for her glass of wine but kept one eye on the door. “You have my full and undivided attention.”
Chapter Twenty
Nick didn’t like talking about his past. It wasn’t the kind of story you could tell among mixed company. Not a nice story. Not something you shared over Waldorf salad at the beach house.
But he liked Rowan. He didn’t care that she was a dragon. Maybe that’s what he needed, someone with a dark secret as deep and shadowed as his. She definitely wasn’t like other women. Everything about her was durable and down to earth, from the way she handled herself with the vampires and with Verinetti to the way she buried her face in Rosco’s fur. She was no delicate flower. Beautiful, yes, but in the way of an iron butterfly. If he told her who he really was, would she run for the hills? Or could she handle that he’d come up from the sewer and still carried the stink of it on his soul?
Last night she’d shown him her wings. Tonight he would show her his horns. Let the halos fall where they may.
“My mother left when I was five,” he began. “Left me with Stan. I’m not sure if Stan was my father, only that he was living with my mother when she left. I never called him dad, just Stan. What happened to me as a child wasn’t the fault of my parents. I didn’t have parents. I had Stan.”
Rowan traced her finger along the lip of her glass, but otherwise made no indication that his story was disturbing to her. Good. This was about to get much worse, and he wasn’t sure he could continue if she looked visibly upset.
“Stan didn’t like me, and he certainly didn’t like having to care for a child. He was too busy working in a chop shop to worry much about my welfare anyway. His associates would bring in a stolen car, he’d strip it, destroy anything with the VIN, and sell the parts to another buddy of his who would put the pieces on the black market. It was a stressful job because these friends he had, they were the type that might kill you if you fucked up or maybe just because they thought you were dicking around on the clock. Their leader was a guy named Trojan. Big Russian-looking dude. Seemed like he was seven feet tall, but maybe he was six five. Square jaw. Small eyes. The sort of cold eyes that make a guy look dead inside.”
He swallowed hard, and Rowan nodded encouragingly for him to continue. “Anyway, Stan would come to the place where we lived. I hesitate to call it home. I don’t think it was a home. It was a closet with a toilet and a hot plate, and Trojan owned it. It was one of the ways he controlled his workers. Own where your workers live and you own more than their livelihood. You own their life. Stan would come to the place where we lived at the end of his workday, and the first thing he’d do was take off his belt. Then he’d take out all that stress of working for Trojan on me.”
“He beat you… regularly?” Her voice cracked, and disgust peered out of that impassive mask she’d had on. Good. Now he was getting somewhere.
