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“It’s late,” I say, shrugging. “And I’ve had a long week at work. I should probably—”

“There’s a great little cocktail bar around here, a couple blocks away. We should go.”

All at once, I’m exhausted. Exhausted of this date, exhausted of this whole damn week. So, so tired of being polite Kenna, adult Kenna.

I’m about to open my mouth and tell him that no, I don’t want to go have a seventeen dollar drink with him, when a cyclist comes careening around the corner. Dylan grabs me, drawing me out of the way and spinning me so I have my back pressed up against the side of the building.

If he were a dude I actually liked, his quick reflexes might impress me. I’d probably take this as my sign to kiss him and ask if he wants to go to his place or mine, but right now I’m just irritated to be so close to him.

“You’re so fucking hot, Kenna.” He leans in close, his breath warm and damp and unpleasant on my neck. “If you’re not up for a cocktail, my place is just a few blocks from here.”

Not a chance, wolf-boy.

I’m about to shut him down when his wet, steak-flavored lips land on mine.

Yup, I’m definitely becoming a vegetarian after this.

I brace my hands on his shoulders to push him back, but he must take that as me encouraging him as he presses harder into me, tongue darting out to smash against my firmly closed lips.

Gross. This is so gross.

Pushing with all my strength, he takes a stumbling step back, eyes wide with surprise. I’m just about to lay into him and give him a ration of shit and a lesson on consent, when a booming roar from above has us both looking skyward. Dylan jumps back another step, looking around for cover, and I’m about to do the same when the roar pierces the air again.

A bright flash of golden scales is the only other warning I get before I’m plucked off the sidewalk by two massive, clawed feet.

8

Kenna

I’ve been kidnapped.

I’ve been kidnapped by a damned dragon, and as he drags me higher over downtown Seattle, it takes a few seconds of stunned paralysis to actually realize what’s happening.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout, hands scrambling over the claws holding me.

Holding me,justholding me, not sinking into my flesh or bringing me up to what I imagine is a huge, fang-filled mouth. Which, I mean, small blessings.

The dragon, of course, doesn’t answer.

He does tuck me in closer, and I feel a growl rumble through him. I’m pressed up against his scaled belly, kept sheltered from the worst of the wind, and as we climb higher still, I do my best not to look down.

It’s not that I’ve ever had a fear of heights, exactly, but there’s a hell of a difference between being in a tall building or an airplane and only having a set of huge black dragon claws standing between you and plummeting to your death.

When I do glance down briefly, there are tiny figures of people standing on the sidewalks below, pointing toward the sky, aiming their phones’ cameras at the spectacle. There are some distant calls—for help maybe, or just of shock—but all of those fade as we climb higher, over the tallest downtown buildings, before the dragon banks sharply and starts heading out of the city.

As the shock starts to wear off, a wave of fear and panic crashes over me.

I know who this is—well, I’m almost certain I know who this is, and it would be a pretty big damn shocker if I’d somehow wound up on the radar oftwodragons—but I have no idea what he wants or where he’s taking me or what he means to do with me.

Blair wouldn’t hurt me, would he?

His wings snap fully open as he stops climbing and levels out into a smooth glide, and I glance up to find them spread wide against the backdrop of the night sky. Despite my fear, my eyes widen with something that feels like awe.

Beautiful, this dragon is beautiful.

Golden scales and massive wings, and even his claws are polished to an obsidian-dark shine. Terrifying, too, and probably even more so if I could get a look at his face.

I try to talk to him a couple more times during our flight, asking him where we’re headed and what he’s going to do with me, but the dragon either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me. I’m inclined to believe it’s option two, because although I don’t get any response, I feel him rumble a couple more growls and squeeze me tighter, like he’s nonverbally trying to tell me to shut up.