The most tangled ball of emotions twisted in Clarissa’s chest. Without a shadow of doubt, she believed Nathaniel was the only person in the world who could save her career. Her former lover and mentor was a powerful dragon. Everything she’d ever learned about magic started with him.
That was the problem. She’d treated him terribly. Rejected him at the moment he was most vulnerable and left without explanation. Of course there was an explanation, but not one he wanted to hear. Not one he was willing to understand at the time. She was so young then, barely twenty. And he was ancient. Although he looked to be in his early thirties, he’d lived in London for three centuries and in his native land for even longer.
They’d barely spoken over the past decade. With her tour schedule and the chip on his shoulder, the hiatus wasn’t surprising. But she’d never thought it would come to this. Some part of her had thought that what they’d shared was sacred and that if she ever needed him—really needed him, like now—he’d be there for her.
She pressed her hips against the counter and leaned toward him. “Nate…”
He frowned.
“Nathaniel…” She made her voice soft and inviting. “I’m begging you. I will pay you anything.”
“Don’t insult me.”
“I will do anything.” She loaded her expression with promise and held his dark stare. By God, he looked good in a suit, but then the supernatural creatures that acted as his servants excelled in the domestic arts. Few others would understand the bespoke three-piece was handmade, its classic style owing to the fact it might have been created eighty years or more ago. She parted her lips and whispered, “You know I’m not lying.”
His eyes narrowed. Those fathomless pits sparked with amethyst fire as he registered her offer, making her wonder what lecherous thoughts had crossed his mind in the moment. Nathaniel danced with the dark arts. If she leaned closer, she might catch a whiff of sulfur clinging to his perfectly tailored suit. At best, the predatory gleam in his eyes was sexual. More likely though, he was thinking of spells that used witch’s blood or worse, her ground bones.
“Careful, Clarissa, you have no idea the things I’ve dreamt of doing to you over the years.”
She forced herself to hold her ground although the heat coming off him quickly became uncomfortable, not to mention the squirm-worthy weight of his stare. Her phone vibrated in her pocket—no doubt Tom, her manager, calling again. There would be repercussions for what happened last night at Tanaka. The press would hound her. Her manager would expect a doctor’s explanation for what happened. But no human doctor could fix what ailed her.
Her voice hadn’t given out. Her magic had. And what was left of her witchy common sense told her she’d been targeted with black magic.
The lone customer approached and tossed a handbook about Wiccan altars onto the counter. “Has anyone ever told you you look a lot like that American pop star Clarissa?”
She cleared her throat and replied in her best cockney accent. “Ya think so, eh? I do wish I ’ad ’er bank account.” She added a few nasal laughs for good measure.
The man withdrew a phone from his pocket and snapped a selfie with her in the background. “You don’t mind, do you?” the man asked, although it was clear he didn’t care what her answer was. “Too good a story to pass up.”
Clarissa frowned but held her tongue. If she told him she did mind, it would only be confessing to her true identity.
A curl of dark smoke rose from Nathaniel’s pipe. He mumbled the price to the patron, tugged the man’s credit card from his hand in a way that bordered on aggression, and ran it through the reader. Nathaniel dropped the book into a bag and handed it to the customer but did not let go. Instead, he took another puff from the pipe and blew a mouthful of dark smoke in the customer’s face.
Shadowy tendrils clouded around the stranger’s head, then twisted and slid inside his ears. His eyelashes fluttered. All the light bled from his expression until it was utterly blank. Clarissa might as well have been staring at a giant walking carrot for how much control the man had over his own mind.
“You came in, bought this book, and then you left,” Nathaniel said to the man, never breaking eye contact. He yanked the phone from the man’s hand and deleted the picture. “You never saw this woman and you will never mention her to anyone.”
“I never saw the woman,” the man parroted absently.
“Now leave. Enjoy your book.”
The man scurried off and out the door.
She was saved. He did care, at least enough to protect her from idle gossip. Maybe there was hope if she pulled the right strings. “Thank you, Nate. Now please, can we talk about this? There’s so much I need to say to you. I want to apologize—”
“Only so I will help you.” He rolled his eyes.
“I want to explain.”
“You want to give me an excuse.”
“Stop! Can’t you find it in your heart to listen?” She watched him slowly raise his pipe to his lips. Without her magic, if he blew a spell into her face, she’d act just as his last customer had, mind blank as she shuffled out the door, straight into certain ruin. She covered her nose and mouth with her hands and held her breath.
Lifting an eyebrow, he blew the smoke over his shoulder in a ring that quickly bent into a heart before it dissipated. That heart told her everything she needed to know. It was a sign of the magical entanglement he’d offered her and she’d refused. She hadn’t expected any of it to remain with him.
“Still?” she asked.
“I told you it was forever.” His voice was ominously soft, and her skin tingled at the memory of that tone under sweeter circumstances.
“But if you feel a connection to me even now, why aren’t you helping me? You must know how desperate I am.”
“And you must know that you left what was between us in ashes.” His lips bent into a scowl, and his pupils became black holes of rage. “I have asked you nicely, Clarissa, but now I am losing my patience. Do not make me use magic or physical force to remove you from this store. You will not enjoy either.”
She planted her palms on the counter between them, her fingers spread as if her hands could anchor her there. She’d pleaded. She’d begged. He was going to leave her with no other choice but to say the word she knew he could not refuse, not because of what he’d once shared with her but because the rule of magic would demand his cooperation.
He drew in smoke from his pipe.
“Sanctuary,” she blurted.
The smoke left his mouth in a deep purple rush. “What did you say?”
“I call on my fellow members of the secret Order of the Dragon to shelter me from my enemies. Sanctuary.”
“How dare you?” His voice hissed between his teeth. “You haven’t participated in the order in a decade.” On the countertop, a set of talons sprouted from his first knuckles and pressed their razor-sharp tips into the glass.
“But I am a member by blood oath, and I require sanctuary.” She lifted her chin, her spine ramrod straight. “Unless the code of the order has changed—”
“It hasn’t changed.”
Oh, how she wanted to run from his deadly visage. She’d cornered the beast, and if she wasn’t careful, he’d tear her apart liberating himself. Despite her internal fear, she forced her outward appearance to remain calm.
Rolling his neck, Nathaniel brushed the arms of his suit jacket as if they weren’t already meticulously cleaned and pressed, then leveled an indifferent stare at her. “Very well, Clarissa. You may go to Mistwood.”
She gulped. Mistwood, his Oxfordshire manor, was remote and protected by magic. It was the type of place where no one would find her, but also no one could hear her scream. She would be safe there, yes, but entirely at his mercy. She nodded.
“I offer you sanctuary in the name of the order,” he said through a wicked smile. “And I take in return what you have offered.”
“And that is?” She couldn’t keep the tremble from her voice.
He was around the counter in the blink of an eye, pressed against her back. He brought one talon to the side of her throat. Her heart pounded, and not completely out of fear. She’d never stopped wanting Nathaniel.
His hot breath brushed her cheek as he articulated his next word. “An-y-thing.”
Panting, she felt his nose brush her ear and his stubble graze the delicate skin of her cheek. Her knees almost gave out, but she forced herself to nod. What choice did she have?
He shoved her toward the exit. She snatched her sunglasses off the counter and backed out the door, a breath of relief rushing from her lungs as soon as it was closed between them.
Swallowing, she fished her phone from her purse and tapped Tom’s number while she jogged toward her car.
“Finally! Clarissa, you’d better have a good explanation for why you snuck past your security this morning. Everyone has been out of their minds looking for you. I came within an inch of getting the police involved. The Tanaka guys are livid. The press is going bananas over this. You need to come back to the hotel this instant.”
“Can’t.” She turned the corner and walked faster toward the place where her hired driver, dressed in a plain sweatshirt and cap, waited in an understated brown coupe. No one would guess she’d choose a car like this or a driver who looked like he delivered pizzas in his off time. Hopefully it would keep the paparazzi off her trail.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Tom’s tone was irate.
“I’ve just come from the specialist.” She forced a cough and made her voice sound raspy. “Rare condition of the vocal cords. He can fix it, but I have to go to a treatment facility immediately. Total secrecy, and the treatment will take several days. He said it was imperative that I completely rest my voice after the procedure. No phone or visitors.”
“Who? Which doctor? Not Kline? Please tell me my future isn’t in the hands of that butcher.”
“Not Kline. I’ve got to go, Tom. I’ll be in touch when I’m cleared to speak again.”
“Bu—”
She hung up on him and turned off her phone. No one else would call. One of the consequences of being both an orphan and a celebrity was that there were few people personally obliged to check up on her. She had friends, but they were the kind who expected her to call them. After all, she was frequently busy. They wouldn’t want to interrupt. If she could call anyone a best friend, she’d suppose it would have to be Tom. He was certainly the one she spoke to the most. But he was her manager. Could someone who was paid to keep you happy technically be called a friend?
She climbed in the passenger side and turned to the driver. “Oxfordshire.”
He opened his mouth to protest the distance and likely the time commitment. Mistwood was an hour and a half from Cecil Court. She reached into her wallet and handed him a hundred quid. “If that’s not enough, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
With a nod of his head, he turned his eyes to the road. Clarissa leaned back in her seat and prepared herself for whatever Nathaniel had in store for her.