Page 7 of Not an Assistant (Tales of the Dreggageggon #4)

The Dragon’s Den

Z ahara

I’ve never been in a car this silent.

It glides over the asphalt like it’s barely touching the road, a shadow on wheels—sleek, black, and impossibly smooth. The seats are leather so soft it feels like I’m sitting on an actual cloud, and the cabin smells like him. Expensive, dangerous, and all-consuming.

Acheron doesn’t speak as the car ascends the hills above the city, winding higher and higher, away from the noise and chaos. I catch glimpses of gated estates behind iron fences, their driveways longer than city blocks, their windows glowing like fireflies in the night.

But nothing prepares me for his home.

We drive through a massive wrought-iron gate guarded by stone dragons.

They are realistic and super detailed to the point they almost appear alive.

The gravel drive curves around a fountain lit from beneath by golden lights.

Water sprays upward in graceful arcs, reflecting off the obsidian walls of a house that looks more like a fortress than a residence.

No, this is definitely not a house. It’s a fucking palace.

The structure towers in front of us, all sharp edges and glass, black stone and steel. Every window glows softly with ambient lighting. Every corner whispers of wealth and power and centuries of legacy. It looks ancient and futuristic all at once.

When the car stops, a man in a crisp charcoal suit opens the door without being asked.

“Miss Zahara.” He bows slightly. “Welcome.”

I blink. “Thanks ... I think.”

Acheron steps out behind me, his hand brushing the small of my back. Possessive and steadying. His touch is a brand, searing through the fabric of my coat.

He guides me up the steps into a grand foyer where chandeliers glitter like suspended galaxies and the marble floor reflects the ceiling’s constellation map. A massive staircase curves upward like the spine of some ancient beast, the banister inlaid with scales of something dark and shimmery.

“This is your house?” I ask on a whisper.

“My home,” he corrects. “Yours, too. For as long as you want it.”

“I-I don’t belong here.” I feel like I am dirtying the air around me just being here.

“You belong with me.” The words are a matter of fact, a statement.

He leads me past rooms with vaulted ceilings, past a library that smells like old leather and secrets, past doors carved with runes I can’t read.

I catch glimpses of opulence at every turn, a piano in black glass, a fire burning in a fireplace taller than I am, and halls filled with the type of art I’ve only seen in museums.

But it’s the master suite that truly steals my breath. The walls are floor-to-ceiling glass on one side, revealing a view of the city that looks like something out of a dream. The bed is massive, draped in deep gray and deep red, and the space smells like him. Like heat and possession and power.

I step inside and turn in a slow circle. “This can’t be real.”

He walks to a control panel and dims the lights. With a gesture, music begins to play—soft strings and something older, deeper, threaded beneath it. His dragon.

“Get comfortable,” he says softly. “There’s a wardrobe full of anything you could need. The en-suite is through there.”

I turn to face him, arms crossed over my chest. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I told you I’d take care of you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” I hate feeling like a charity case and I know I didn’t do a damn thing to deserve any of this. Last week, I was a nobody and now... this is absolute insanity.

He steps closer, towering over me without touching. “You didn’t have to. I’m not letting my mate sleep in a one-room apartment with faulty locks and a busted heater.”

“Stop calling me that.” I demand.

“It’s the truth.”

“I don’t know what this is, but I do know I didn’t choose you. I don’t want any of this.”

“No,” he agrees, voice low. “But fate did, and you can’t fight fate. Besides, you already let me claim you so there isn’t really much to do about that now.”

That shuts me up. He brushes his knuckles over my jaw. Soft and reverent like I am something precious.

“You can have space,” he says. “Time. You can even have your own room, if you want. I won’t push you into anything, but you are mine. I have already claimed and marked you, Zaraha.” He stares at me watching my reaction. “But I won’t touch you unless you come to me, even if it drives me insane.”

I hate that part of me wants to beg already. I turn away before he sees the heat in my eyes. He doesn’t push anymore.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he says. “There’s food in the kitchen. Eat and rest. You’re safe here.”

And with those words, he leaves. I sink onto the bed and stare out over the city. I don’t know if I’m safe because my heart sure as shit isn’t, but for the first time in years, I believe someone would kill to protect me.

And that someone has wings.