Page 13

CHAPTER 13

SHOMUN

T he warmth of her mouth wakes me, her tongue tracing the sensitive ridge of my cock with a precision that makes my scales flush. My eyelids flutter open, and I see Claire kneeling between my legs, her honey-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. She’s still in the Reaper’s Lingerie, her arms locked behind her back, but she’s managed to maneuver herself perfectly. Her green eyes flick up to meet mine, and there’s a spark of mischief there, a challenge.

I groan, my hand sliding down to tangle in her hair. “You’re determined to break me this morning, aren’t you?”

She hums in response, the vibration sending a jolt through me. My fingers trail down her spine, and I love the way she shivers under my touch. I reach around to her front, my fingers slipping between her thighs, finding her already wet and eager. She moans around me, her lips tightening as I stroke her, matching the rhythm of her mouth.

“Good girl,” I murmur, my voice rough. “You’re doing so well.”

She pulls back slightly, her breath hot against me. “Are you going to let me finish, or are you just going to tease me again?” There’s a bite to her words, but her pupils are blown wide, and her cheeks are flushed.

I smirk, my fingers curling just the way I know she likes. “Why not both?”

She laughs, low and husky, before taking me back into her mouth. I let her work for a moment, savoring the way she moves, the way she gives herself over to this entirely. But I can’t let her have all the fun. My other hand moves to her hip, guiding her to rock against my fingers. Her moans grow louder, muffled but unmistakable.

“You’re close,” I say, my voice tight. “I can feel it. Let go, Claire.”

She does, her body trembling as she comes, her mouth still working me over until I follow right after her, my groan echoing through the room. She pulls back, catching her breath, her lips curving into a satisfied smile.

I reach for the restraints, unlocking them carefully. “Good morning,” I say, my voice softer now.

She stretches her arms, wincing slightly. “Actually, it’s afternoon. We fell asleep at the office again.”

I chuckle, running a hand through my hair. “So we did.” I watch as she stands, her movements languid and unhurried. She grabs my shirt from the floor and tosses it to me, then starts pulling on her own clothes. I dress slowly, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. When she tugs on my tie to straighten it, I catch her hand, pulling her close.

“Claire,” I start, my heart pounding. But her phone chirps loudly, the alarm cutting through the air. She steps back, glancing at the screen.

“Meeting at city hall,” she says, already moving. “I’m late.”

I let her go, my words catching in my throat. “We’ll talk later,” I say, though I’m not sure she hears me as she grabs her bag and heads for the door.

I watch her leave, the weight of what I almost said lingering in the air. Later. I’ll tell her later.

I walk through the streets of New Orleans, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. My boots hit the ground with a steady rhythm, each step deliberate, each breath measured. The air smells faintly of river water and fried food, a mix that always makes me think of the past—not the future I came from, but the disasters I’ve seen here. Katrina. The black water. The bodies. I shake my head, forcing the memory away. Not today. Today, I have a mission.

The Preservation Resource Center isn’t far from my office, but every block feels like a journey through time. The city’s history is etched into every brick, every wrought-iron balcony. And I’ll be damned if I let the grolgath destroy it again. My jaw tightens as I approach the building, a stately structure with a plaque out front commemorating its place in the city’s story. Too bad the plaque doesn’t mention the grolgath’s role in nearly erasing that story.

Inside, I’m ushered to a long table at the front of the room, a podium standing like a sentinel in the center. I take my seat, nodding to the other speakers. My eyes scan the crowd, looking for any sign of a grolgath agent. So far, nothing. But they’re good at hiding in plain sight, these flame kissers.

The first speaker steps up to the podium, and my gut twists. Ryan Pax. The man I’ve been investigating for months. He’s tall, with a polished charm that’s too perfect to be real. His speech starts generically enough—community, giving back, blah, blah, blah. But then he says it. “The bright flame of change.”

I lean forward in my seat, my hands gripping the edge of the table. That’s Ataxian dogma, straight from the grolgath playbook. My suspicions solidify like concrete. Ryan Pax isn’t just a man. He’s a grolgath. Or at least, he’s working for them.

Ryan finishes his speech with a flourish, and the audience claps politely. He takes his seat, his gray eyes locking with mine. He smiles, cold and knowing, like he’s daring me to call him out. I don’t. Not yet. I give him the same icy smile, my mind racing with plans. If he’s here, it’s not by accident. Whatever the grolgath are planning, it’s happening soon.

The next speaker steps up to the podium, and I almost laugh. Silas Greer. Of course. The man’s face is as plastic as his reputation, his smile as fake as his blonde hair. He launches into a spiel about innovation and opportunity, but I’m not listening. My eyes flick between him and Ryan, the tension in the room thickening like a storm rolling in off the Gulf.

Silas finishes his speech and sits down, his gaze lingering on me just a little too long. I meet his stare, unflinching. Whatever game he’s playing, whatever connections he has to the grolgath, I’ll figure it out. This city—its past, its future—depends on it. And I’ll be damned if I let the flame kissers burn it down again.

The spotlight feels like a noose around my neck as I step up to the podium. The speech in my hand is a masterpiece of banality, so dull it could put a hypercaffeinated Alzhon to sleep. I clear my throat, the microphone squealing in protest.

“New Orleans,” I begin, my voice flat and uninspired, “is a city of resilience. A city of opportunity. A city… of people working together.” I squint at the paper, wondering who at Veritas thought this drivel was a good idea. The crowd stares back, their faces glazed over, and I fight the urge to bolt for the door.

I drone on, my words as exciting as a tax audit, and when I finally finish, the applause is polite but half-hearted. I step away from the podium, relief flooding me. The faster I can get out of here, the better.

The reception is a nightmare of small talk and bland finger foods. I grab a glass of wine, the tartness doing little to improve my mood. I’m scanning the room for an escape route when he approaches.

Ryan Pax. His smile is smooth, his gray eyes sharp as a blade. “Simon Karr,” he says, extending a hand. “Enjoyed your speech.”

“Did you?” I tilt my head, my voice low. “I’d say it was forgettable, but that would imply it was memorable.”

He chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Modesty doesn’t suit you.”

I step closer, my hand still gripping his in a vice-like shake. I lean in, my breath hot against his ear. “I know what you are.”

His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “We all wear masks, don’t we, Simon?” His voice is a whisper, but it cuts like a knife. “Or should I say… Shomun ?”

My stomach drops, but I keep my face neutral. “What do you want, Pax?”

He leans back, his eyes glinting. “Oh, I know everything about you. Your favorite music. The brand of motor oil you insist on for your Bugatti. And, of course… who you care about the most.”

My scales itch beneath the image inducer, and my jaw tightens. “If you touch her, you die.”

He chuckles, low and mocking. “Who’s protecting Claire right now?”

The words hit me like a plasma blast to the chest. Before I can think, my fist connects with his jaw. He stumbles back, theatrically clutching his face, his fall more dramatic than necessary.

“Security!” someone shouts, and within seconds, hands are on me, dragging me toward the exit. I could break free—easily—but that’s not the play. Not here.

I’m shoved out the door, the cool night air hitting my face. I pull out my phone, my fingers trembling as I dial Claire’s number. One ring. Two. Voicemail.

“Damn it,” I mutter, shoving the phone back into my pocket. City hall isn’t far. I can run. I have to run.

I take off down the street, my boots slamming against the pavement. The buildings blur past me, the lights of the city dimming as panic claws at my chest. Claire’s face flashes in my mind—her green eyes, her stubborn smile.

I won’t lose her. Not to him. Not to anyone.

I’m sprinting across the bridge, the steel beams blurring past me as the channel below glistens under the dim city lights. My lungs burn, but I don’t slow down. Claire’s face flashes in my mind—her green eyes wide with fear, her voice on the phone cutting off before she could finish. Ryly’s smirk from the gala echoes in my head, his words dripping with malice. I push harder, my boots pounding the pavement.

Then, the roar of an engine. I glance back just in time to see the black truck veering straight for me. No time to dodge. The impact is colossal, like a starship crashing into a planet’s surface. My body slams into the concrete railing, and for a moment, the world is a kaleidoscope of pain and sound. The railing gives way under the force, and we’re tumbling—me, the truck, and chunks of shattered concrete—into the channel below.

The water hits like a sledgehammer, cold and unforgiving. My lungs scream for air, but I’m pinned under the truck, the weight crushing me into the muddy bottom. My scales ache, the image inducer flickering, my human disguise sputtering out.

"Come on, move!" I growl at my limbs, my voice gurgling through the water. My hands claw at the muck as I struggle to push the truck off me. One heave. Two. The frame groans, metal bending under my strength, and with a final surge, I wriggle free. My chest burns, but I don’t have time to catch my breath.

The driver. He’s still in the cab, seatbelt tangled, his face pale and panicked as bubbles rise from his mouth. I swim to him, my claws tearing through the shattered windshield. His eyes widen as he sees me—my true form, indigo scales and red eyes—but I don’t have time for his terror. I yank him free, his body limp in my arms, and kick for the surface.

We break through the water, and I haul him onto the concrete bank. He’s coughing, sputtering, gasping for air, and I’m on him in an instant, my hand gripping his collar.

"Who sent you?" I snarl, my voice low and dripping with menace. His eyes dart around, wild and unfocused, but before he can answer, the sound cuts through the night—a sharp crack, like ice fracturing. His head jerks violently, and blood sprays across my face. I’m on my feet in an instant, scanning the rooftops, but the sniper’s already gone.

The sound of sirens cuts through the night, wailing like angry ghosts. Red and blue lights flash in the distance, growing brighter as they close in. I wipe the blood from my face, the image inducer flickering back to life, restoring my human disguise. My compad buzzes in my pocket, still functional despite its dip in the channel. Precursor blessings, indeed.

I pull it out, my fingers moving quickly.

“Stay safe. Go to my office. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

I hit send and glance up as the first squad car screeches to a halt. Two officers jump out, their hands hovering near their holsters. One of them barks at me.

“Sir, step away from the body!”

I raise my hands, slow and deliberate. “I’m unarmed,” I say, my voice calm, steady. “But you might want to secure the rooftops. The shooter’s still out there.”

The officers exchange a glance. One of them stays with me while the other calls for backup. Meanwhile, paramedics swarm the driver’s body, but it’s too late. His eyes are glassy, his chest still. I don’t need a coroner to tell me he’s gone.

The officer in front of me narrows his eyes. “You got a name?”

“Simon Karr,” I say. “CEO of Karr Industries. I was on my way to a meeting when the truck hit me.”

“You’re awfully calm for someone who just got run off a bridge.”

I shrug, my lips curling into a faint smile. “Years of practice.”

He’s not amused. “You’re going to need to come with us. We’ve got questions.”

“Of course,” I say, my tone agreeable. I don’t have a choice. Not if I want to keep Veritas off the radar. I glance at my compad, hoping Claire got my message.

The paramedics approach me next, fussing over the cuts and bruises I’ve let them see. I let them wrap a bandage around my arm, but when they suggest a trip to the hospital, I decline.

“I’ve got a board meeting in the morning,” I say, flashing a polite smile.

“Sir, you were just in a serious accident?—”

“And I’m fine,” I interrupt, my voice firm. “I’ll sign whatever waiver you need.”

They exchange glances but don’t push. Instead, they lead me to a patrol car. I slide into the backseat, my compad buzzing again.

“Got it. Be careful, Simon.”

I exhale slowly, my chest tightening. She’s safe, for now. But the grolgath aren’t going to stop. Not after tonight. If anything, they’ll double down.

The officer in the driver’s seat glances at me in the rearview mirror. “So, Mr. Karr,” he says, “you mind telling me how you ended up in the channel?”

“I think the truck hit me,” I say dryly.

“Funny. You seem to have a lot of enemies.”

“Occupational hazard,” I mutter, leaning back in the seat. My mind races. Ryan’s out there, and so are his agents. They’ll come after Claire again. I need to end this.

The car pulls into the station, and I’m led inside. The interrogation room smells like stale coffee and desperation. I sit, my hands folded on the table, waiting. The grolgath might have tried to kill me tonight.

But they made one mistake.

They didn’t finish the job.