Page 7 of Reptile Dysfunction (Harmony Glen #11)

Chapter Six

S loane

Later, sitting at the antique desk in my room, staring at the first draft of my official Revelation Day article, all I can think about is how Thaddeus’s snakes didn’t take their eyes off of me during the entire lesson.

Are they little manifestations of Thad himself, or do they have personalities of their own?

The cursor blinks at me as I attempt to write the version of monster integration my father finds suitable for the Tribune —scrubbed clean and safe for public consumption.

The other window on my laptop shows the growing visitor count on HarmonyUncensored.com.

My first post about enforcer culture has already generated dozens of comments, many from monsters sharing their own pre-Revelation experiences.

The real story is unfolding beautifully, but it’s not the one I’m supposed to be writing.

A knock at my door makes me quickly minimize both windows. “Come in.”

My mother wheels herself into the room, looking elegant even in her recovery wear. “Working late again?”

“Just finishing some edits.” The lie comes easily after years of managing parental expectations. “How was PT?”

“Brutal, but effective.” She maneuvers her wheelchair next to my desk with practiced grace. The docs are baffled at her slow recovery, but she’s doing everything they ask. “Your father said you missed after-dinner drinks with Bradley again.”

“I was preparing to interview a source.” Technically true, even if most of that interview involved watching Thaddeus’s muscles flex during Pilates. “The anniversary piece needs multiple perspectives.”

Mom’s eyes narrow with interest. “The Fangborn brother? The one who isn’t a librarian?”

“Thaddeus.” His name feels intimate on my tongue. “He was an enforcer before the Revelation.”

“I remember.” At my surprised look, she smiles. “Your father likes to pretend the messier aspects of integration never happened, but some of us paid attention. The Gorgons were instrumental in keeping the peace during the transition.”

“You knew about enforcers?”

“Suspected. There were always rumors about strange things in Harmony Glen—teenagers who suddenly avoided certain areas, troublemakers who became model citizens overnight.” She adjusts her robe, a tell that she’s choosing her words carefully.

“Your father prefers his version of history. Clean, simple, and politic-friendly. But real change is never that tidy.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Is that why you’ve never questioned my articles? Even when they don’t adhere to the party line?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve read every word you’ve written since your first editorial for the school paper. Including your recent anonymous blog posts.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “How did you—”

“Please.” She waves dismissively. “You think I didn’t recognize your writing style? Besides, who else would dare publish the real enforcer stories right under Charles Whitaker’s nose?”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“That my daughter is finally writing the stories that need to be told? No.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “But be careful. Not everyone in Harmony Glen is ready for the whole truth.”

“Like Bradley?” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. “He texted earlier to remind me that ‘stirring up the past’ isn’t good for community morale.”

“Bradley,” Mom says diplomatically, “has all the depth of a parking puddle. Which might be why your father likes him so much.” She snickers. “Though I’m not sure what Charles thinks about his family’s recent business moves.”

“What business moves?”

“The Harrington Development Group has been making strange offers on buildings in the monster district. Way below market value, but with veiled threats about ‘changing regulations’ that might affect monster businesses.”

She rubs her hip. “No one can prove anything, but my physical therapist mentioned his cousin was approached about his bakery.”

“Sounds predatory,” I say, journalist instincts awakening.

“Most things involving the Harringtons are,” Mom replies with unusual candor. Her eyes meet mine, a hint of mischief dancing there that I rarely see. “What? Just because I attend charity functions with them doesn’t mean I’m clueless as to who they really are.”

A laugh erupts unexpectedly at the way she’s talking about the man my dad is foisting on me.

“Mom!”

“What? I’m recovering, not blind.” She shrugs. “Unlike some people who were definitely not watching a certain Gorgon during their Pilates class today.”

“You have spies everywhere, don’t you?”

“Dorothy may have mentioned something about impressive muscle control.” She starts wheeling toward the door, then pauses. “Just remember, sweetheart—sometimes the best stories are the ones we’re afraid to tell.”

After she leaves, I stare at my laptop screen for a long moment before opening a new document. My fingers hover over the keys, then begin typing:

The truth about monsters isn’t that they’re different from humans. It’s that they’re similar enough to make us question everything we thought we knew about ourselves.

The words flow easier after that, painting a picture of a Gorgon who used fear to protect both humans and monsters, who now teaches children to swim because they don’t flinch at his snake hair, who makes my heart race for reasons that have nothing to do with his intimidation abilities.

At six-fifty, I’m waiting by the gate when the distinctive rumble of his motorcycle approaches. My pulse quickens as he pulls up, tonight’s leather jacket straining across shoulders that are probably still sore from Pilates.

“No notebook tonight?” he asks as I take the spare helmet.

“Not everything needs to be documented.” I swing onto the bike behind him, allowing myself to press closer than strictly necessary. “Sometimes experience is enough.”

I swear I hear a pleased hiss coming from under his helmet, even over the engine noise. “Dangerous philosophy for a journalist.”

“Good thing I have an enforcer to keep me in line.”

The ride to his water tower feels different tonight—charged with possibility rather than professional curiosity.

His body is warm against mine despite the cool evening air, and my hands may or may not slide lower on his abs than proper motorcycle safety requires.

My pulse drums in time with the bike beneath us, and the scent of leather and something distinctly Thaddeus curls into my brain like smoke—dangerous, distracting, delicious.

Once inside, he heads straight for the bourbon. “Bourbon?”

“Yes, rough day. Pilates was brutal.” I accept the glass he offers. “Someone’s core needed extra attention.” OMG, that was so full of double meanings!

His snakes actually bristle. “Pretty sure someone was showing off with those impossible positions.”

“Says the man who used his intimidation powers to scare off Mrs. Blake when she tried to correct his form.”

“I did not.” He takes a long swallow of bourbon, but his snakes reveal a lot because they’re looking everywhere but at me. “She just suddenly remembered an important appointment.”

“During class?”

“It happens.”

Laughter tumbles out, and something in his expression softens. One particularly bold snake—the iridescent one from last night—stretches toward me hopefully.

“They like you,” he says quietly.

“Just them?” The bourbon makes me brave. Or maybe it’s the way his eyes darken when I step closer.

“Sloane.” My name is a warning, but his snakes are already reaching for me, creating a cascade of shifting scales above us. “This isn’t smart.”

“Then maybe I’m tired of being smart.” I set down my glass and lift my hand to the waiting snakes. “Maybe I’m ready to follow what feels right instead of what makes sense.”

The snakes immediately move to nuzzle my palm, making pleased little sounds that their owner is definitely trying to ignore. “I came here for the truth, after all.”

“About what?” His voice is rough, and his eyes have taken on that dangerous amber glow.

“About why the most intimidating man in Harmony Glen keeps looking at me like he wants to run away.”

The snakes go still, then begin swaying in a pattern that makes my breath catch. It’s almost hypnotic, the way they move, drawing me closer until I’m definitely in his personal space.

“Not running.” His hands come up to rest on my hips, drawing me closer, chest to chest. “Protecting.”

“From what?”

“From me .” His thumbs trace small circles that make my skin tingle even through my clothes. “From the complications I bring. From your father’s disapproval. From Bradly Harrington III’s rejection. Take your pick.”

Reaching up, I trace the tribal snake tattoo on his arm, feeling the muscles tense under my touch. “What if I don’t want protection?”

A collective groan emanates from his snakes. “What do you want, Sloane?”

“The truth.” I meet his gaze steadily. “All of it.”

For a moment, he just looks at me, his eyes burning with something that makes my knees weak.

Then his hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with surprising gentleness.

Without warning, he gives my hair a gentle tug that sends sparks skittering down my spine.

Every nerve seems to lean into him, greedy and burning.

“Truth is,” he says roughly, “I’ve wanted to do this since you walked into my pool in those ridiculous shoes.”

Then his mouth is on mine, and the part of my mind that writes exposés shuts off completely.

The first brush of his lips is surprisingly gentle—a question more than a demand.

But when I press closer, gripping his biceps for support, something inside him breaks loose.

He kisses like he does everything else—with controlled power and absolute focus, a predator trying desperately to be gentle.

And I’m the prey who doesn’t want to escape.

His snakes brush against my face and neck, adding layers of sensation that make me gasp against his lips.

Some nuzzle, others flick curious tongues, creating a symphony of touches that sets every nerve ending on fire.

When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting of bourbon and danger, my knees actually buckle.

His hand tightens on my hip, holding me steady as he deepens the kiss.

The heat of his body seeps into mine until I’m not sure where I end and he begins.

There’s nothing gentle about it now—it’s all passion and hunger and five years of enforcer control crumbling under the weight of whatever this is between us.

My fingers dig into his arms, feeling the shift of muscle under skin as he pulls me closer, eliminating any space between us. He’s so close I can count the flecks of gold in his eyes. The space between us is barely a breath, but it feels like a cliff I’m about to leap off.

One particularly bold snake wraps loosely around my throat in what feels like a possessive gesture, and the dual sensation of Thad’s demanding mouth and his snakes’ caresses draws a whimper from my throat.

He growls in response—an inhuman sound that should frighten me but instead sends liquid heat darting low in my belly. God, why am I letting this happen?

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

His eyes have gone full amber, pupils contracted to predatory slits, and his snakes look as dazed as I feel, swaying drunkenly in satisfaction.

The one around my throat gives a gentle squeeze before reluctantly unwinding.

Just one kiss. Just one more, I tell myself, but my body isn’t listening.

I stay there for a beat, catching my breath, my heart still racing as I cling to his powerful shoulders. I don’t want to move. Don’t want the moment to end.

“That wasn’t exactly by the book,” I manage.

A laugh rumbles through his chest. “Going to put that in your article?”

“Which one?” I trace his jaw with my fingertips. “The official feel-good piece, or the truth about what happens when a journalist falls for the monster she’s supposed to be investigating?”

His eyes flash at the word “falls,” but before he can respond, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. The screen shows my father’s name, shattering the moment like a fallen champagne glass.

Reality crashes back. I’m supposed to be writing about monster integration and community harmony, not making out with an ex-enforcer in his converted water tower while running an anonymous blog exposing pre-Revelation secrets.

“I should go.” I ignore the call and silence the ringtone, though I make no move to leave.

“Probably smart.” But his snakes are still reaching for me, and he’s now holding onto both my hips.

“I’m not feeling particularly smart right now.”

His answering smile makes my heart stutter. “Good thing you have an enforcer to keep you in line.”

But as he kisses me again—slower this time, deliberate, every brush of his lips a promise—we both know the truth. There’s no staying in line with Thaddeus. He doesn’t just blur boundaries—he shatters them, and I let him.

And for the first time in my life, I’m absolutely okay with coloring outside the lines.

Twenty minutes later, after Thad drops me off with promises of continued conversation tomorrow, I watch his taillights disappear down our circular drive.