Amy awoke late on Sunday to an empty bed.

She rolled over, searching for Pyro. And liquid. Her saliva felt like cream cheese. The shadows suggested it was late morning. She tumbled to the ground and crawled on shaking hands and knees to the bathroom for a goblet of water.

Good thing it was Sunday.

Why was the house so quiet?

She checked her appearance in the mirror. Well, she was a mess. A mild headache pinched her temples, like she’d been drinking alcohol, except she hadn’t. And her stomach felt queasy.

She wanted to be a diva. Run a huge bath in his huge bathtub, ring a silver bell for bonbons and soda pop, and steam herself until this headache went away.

Was it wrong to want all that?

No. Surely not. Today was her wedding morning, for goodness’ sake! Her first real day as a wife to a hot, billionaire alien dragon shifter. Was having him in her bed at her beck and call too much to ask?

Actually…

She sat on the edge of the tub and examined herself carefully in the mirrors Pyro seemed to embed on every surface.

A dark hickey on her neck made her blush. She’d felt an unexpected spike of pain when he’d bitten her there, but she had liked it, wanted to be marked, and there was also the rush of pleasure from his fingers between her legs, and an instant later, she’d orgasmed for the first time from him, hard.

Oh, and maybe there’d been a small spike of pain between her legs, but it had been subsumed by the orgasm.

Was that possible? To get deflowered from fingers?

She’d have to check the internet. With Safe Search on. She was still a teacher. Teachers had to worry about search histories.

Amy used the bathroom sink for basic clean-up and self-care, belted on one of Pyro’s short black bathrobes that fell well past her knees, and staggered out.

Altogether, she was less sore than she’d expected. Climbing the stairs taxed her thighs, but she’d make him massage her. And then carry her all day. He’d fly her to breakfast. A decadent Sunday brunch of eggs Benedict and cherries jubilee on a silver tray. After he’d poured her luxurious bubble bath and tenderly stroked her aching forehead.

But where was Pyro?

He wasn’t upstairs.

He wasn’t downstairs.

He wasn’t anywhere.

Where was he?

She checked her phone. No messages. Wait. Did she even have his number?

Oh, my god.

Did she?

Amy set her cell aside and sat on the edge of the rumpled bed. Maybe he’d gone out for brunch. He could be gathering chocolates, fruits, flowers. The essentials a bride should have on her wedding morning.

Because the other possibility, seeping coldly into the pit of her stomach, was that he had gotten what he wanted and abandoned her.

Just like at Sard Carnelian’s warehouse.

Across the room, the giant movie screen turned itself on. A hulking, scarred male stared out at her. “You’re awake.”

She jolted off the bed in shock and scrambled back, tightening her robe. “Who are you? Where’s Pyro?”

“He’s in a meeting. I am Kyan.”

Weird name. She sat on her knees on the hardwood, fabric tight up to her neck, no skin showing. “What are you doing?”

“Pyro asked me to check on you. I have been doing so every half hour.”

“You’ve been watching me sleep?”

“It was the most expedient method of checking on you.” His gruff voice brooked no disagreement.

She disagreed anyway. “It’s rude. And creepy.”

He remained silent.

Her brain started to work. Kyanite was the name of one of the Onyx siblings. “Are you the brother who sent aerial photos of chapels last night?”

“Yes.”

So, thanks to him, she was married. It didn’t excuse him essentially creeping into her bedroom and watching her sleep. What if he’d seen her naked parts?

And Pyro wasn’t here. He was in a meeting.

Okay.

That realization filtered in along with a building resentment. Who left their newly wed wife to go to a work meeting? Someone who didn’t care.

She means nothing to me.

Amy got to her feet shakily. “Who holds a meeting on a Sunday?”

“Sard Carnelian.”

She stopped and looked at him. “Pyro’s meeting with Sard right now? How long’s that going to take?”

Kyan’s expression froze. When he didn’t know the answer to something, he said nothing.

Her head suddenly ached fiercely and her stomach rolled. She rubbed her temples. Monday morning would come too soon. “How am I supposed to get home?”

“I will be there in fifteen minutes.” The movie screen shut off.

“Fifteen? Wait! Come back.”

The scarred dragon shifter did not come back.

She hurried through a quick shower and yanked on clothes from Pyro’s well-stocked closet. Piling her unwashed hair into a messy bun, she glared at her unsettled image in the mirror.

This was not how she envisioned the morning after her wedding or the morning after she lost her virginity.

But, she wouldn’t put it past that impassive male to barge in on her half-dressed the way he’d apparently done while she’d been sleeping. She hustled.

Amy was just slipping on her shoes when the elevator shaft opened and a male even more intimidating than he’d appeared on the gigantic movie screen hulked into Pyro’s home.

Kyan dwarfed everything he neared. Normal chairs seemed tiny and his head brushed dangerously close to the ceiling. His steel-toed boots clunked on the floor. A chill seemed to follow him into the room even though the air blowing in behind him was hot desert.

This close, the blue in his gaze was piercing and his long trench coat only highlighted that his fists intimidated anvils.

He stared down at her. “Ready?”

Refusal was death.

Even though his voice was quiet, she felt like she was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. And the officer wielding it would have no problem breaking her in half.

She swung her book bag over her shoulder promptly and stepped closer. Should she lift her arms? She didn’t think she could reach his shoulders. Maybe on her tiptoes.

He leaned over and lifted her like a parent scooped up a child. Carrying her through the doorway, he used one hand to shelter her head from the doorframe and then they were in the shaft, up and out in the hot Las Vegas sun. Below, the shrinking passageway closed.

She rubbed her dry face. The sun shone with authority. “I should have put on sunscreen.”

He flung the trench coat over her head. It weighed about fifty pounds. She held onto the edges, sheltering from the chapping wind and the furious sun.

They flew back in absolute silence across three states to familiar gray clouds, puffy cumulonimbus with dirty bottoms, and threatened rain. Instead of crossing the Columbia River and setting her down in Portland, Kyan deviated to follow the river’s north bank to an office building in the middle of a field.

Uh oh.

“Um, I thought you were taking me home,” she said. Meekly. With maximum politeness.

“They want to talk to you.”

“They? They who?”

He did not reply.

Her nerves squiggled like eels in her belly and her heart revved to the max. Like that nightmare where she’d forgotten an essay was due today, and she hadn’t typed a single word.

He dropped to the roof, into a clear glass shaft, and floated to a stop in front of a see-through, curved door. Entering, he deposited her in a lush office. Thick blue carpet, mahogany desk, trickling fountain, ornate ceramic vases on pedestals, and plants implied a feng shui serenity.

It didn’t work on her.

She was terrified. This luxury was the opposite of calming.

Kyan hung his trench coat on a hook, opened the office door, and strode down a hall. Clearly, she was expected to follow. And at a good clip, too.

She trotted through a warren of cubicles. Most were empty on the Sunday afternoon. She gulped. No witnesses.

Kyan opened a conference room and gestured for her to precede him.

Inside, three stunningly attractive business people sat at a conference table. They turned, some in mid-sip, and stared at her.

She stopped.

Kyan strode past her and sat in the far seat with his back to the wall. His mammoth fist curved around a steaming cup of coffee that had clearly been prepared for his arrival.

The seat at the head of the table was somewhat glaringly empty.

Sure enough, the blond man to its right stood and indicated the head seat. “Amy Adamson. Thank you for joining us on such short notice. Won’t you please sit?”

Despite his polite words, the ironic gleam in his unusual eyes — one lavender and one turquoise — suggested he knew she wasn’t here by choice and sitting wasn’t a request. His motions of a polite conversation were just that. Motions.

She knew the two-tone dragon shifter for sure. Sixth son of the Onyx family. Alexandrite “Alex” Onyx.

Which meant she knew the others in the conference room too. Jasper, the fifth son, had a broad face and nondescript “pleasant” demeanor. Kyan she’d already met. To her left rested the imposing sister of the family, Amber. As a female dragon shifter, Amber was the only one in the room who could spontaneously breathe fire.

Otherwise, the demure female was more petite than Amy and had deeper red hair. She seemed positively quiet in a gray sweater vest, peach under-dress, and darker gray leggings. Her feet were cloaked in matching peach Mary Janes.

Amber started the interrogation. “We have a few questions.”

Amy braced herself.

“Would you like a coffee?”

She blinked. “Huh?”

Amber looked at Alex.

He rose again. “We have Brazilian dry roast. Freshly ground.”

She shook her head violently.

“As an espresso? We have all the flavors. Cheryl is particularly fond of black and white mochas.”

“She once asked for a pumpkin spice latte,” Jasper said.

“Of course we have chai.”

She cleared her dry throat. Was this what they called softening a person up? Good cop, bad cop? “Maybe some water?”

Jasper rose and exited the conference room. Alex moved to a corner espresso machine. “Are you sure? Our coffee is the freshest quality from the highest caliber of vendors.”

“I prefer herbal tea.” Which was a lie, actually. Coffee was a sinful addiction she mustn’t indulge. Herbal tea was healthier and more calming. After a weekend in Pyro’s company, she suddenly felt the need for those things. Times a thousand.

Alex poured a steaming cup of water and carried it to her along with a silver tray of tea accouterments. Sliced lemon, golden honey, raw sugar packets, and a selection of herbal teas from high-class tea sommeliers.

She selected peppermint by rote — awakening and soothing — and dipped the nicely scented bag in her white mug.

A moment later, Jasper returned with a chilled glass bottle of water. He cracked the plastic cap for her and inserted a straw. Then he sat back in his chair.

Everyone stared.

She swallowed the acid pooling in her stomach.

Nobody said a word. The silence stretched so thin it felt like the very world was going to snap. Or she was.

Amber finally broke the silence again. “What is it you want?”

Amy jumped. “Want? Want for what?”

“Want,” Amber repeated, as though she had been perfectly clear the first time.

Amy wanted to make it out of this room alive. She prayed to God she’d never stray a single calorie from her diet or study plans or career path if only He would let her leave here without getting in trouble.

“I want to see Pyro,” she said.

Everyone turned to Kyan.

He set his jaw. “The meeting with Sard hasn’t ended.”

Everyone turned back to her.

Amy gripped the heavy conference table. Deep scratch marks in the wood had been polished smooth, but they were still visible. Someone had been violent right in her seat. A dragon.

“Can you be more specific?” Amy asked. “Like, what do I want right now, or what do I want out of my life, or a deeper, more existential, what do I want?”

“Sure,” Amber said.

So … all of those. Or any of them.

Amy chose the second option, hoping it was closest to getting her out of this room. “I want to be a permanent elementary teacher at Excelsior Preparatory Academy. Right now I’m only a substitute/assistant.”

They waited.

“I, uh, want to finish my art certification. And someday I’ll get a master’s in education.”

Alex leaned forward. “You are an artist?”

The others also leaned in with interest.

She shook her head violently again. “Oh, no. Not unless it’s a kid’s craft or an artboard. I make some mean cutouts. And doodles.”

Everyone looked at Jasper, who shook his head regretfully. “We do not have a need for such crafts at this time.”

Huh? “Oh, no. I told you, I don’t make art professionally.”

Jasper frowned. “It is difficult.”

“What is?”

“To find the best place for you. We do not have an educational division in the Onyx Corporation.”

What? What? What?

“I already have a job,” she repeated slowly, in case her nerves had caused that part of her conversation to mislead them.

“You’ve married Pyro,” Jasper returned steadily. “That makes you a senior officer. The only question is where you’ll be placed.”

Wait.

“I married Pyro and so now I’m supposed to work here?” She didn’t remember that in the magazine articles she’d devoured. Apparently, reporters didn’t know everything. “But I don’t want to work here. Can I just be a shareholder?”

“We are not public,” Jasper said.

“And I’m not interested in a job.”

“Cheryl also wasn’t interested. She is now our Art Director.”

Amy imagined herself in heels and glossy makeup in her private executive suite. She saw herself turning on her computer and doing … what, exactly?

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think marrying into a position is the best way to run a company,” she said.

“It is how dragons have always merged resources. You have no company so you will join ours.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said firmly. “Anyway, married couples shouldn’t work together. Right now I could murder Pyro and I’m sure if we worked together I’d get so mad I’d want to claw his eyes out.”

The stillness felt so acute she heard the air conditioning of the office click off.

Jasper finally swallowed. “Please don’t injure Pyro.”

“Uh, no, I hadn’t planned on doing that just yet.”

“Just yet?”

“Well—”

“And please don’t try to claw his eyes out,” Jasper said. “He needs those to see.”

“I’m not actually—”

“Right, Amber?”

Amber, who’d been staying quiet, suddenly smiled. “It is good to be forceful. Pyro will understand your wish.”

This misunderstanding had gone too far. “I’m not actually going to claw his eyes out. I’d apply for a divorce long before resorting to violence.”

Again, the silence worried her. Like divorce was as bad as murder or dismemberment.

Well, if he was still at risk from his Empress, maybe it would be.

“Can we ease your anger with wedding gifts?” Alex asked smoothly.

“I’m not angry right now,” she said. “I mean, I am, but I’m more disappointed.”

“We understand wedding gifts are an important human marriage tradition.”

“Pyro’s lair was pretty well stocked,” she said.

“I should hope so.” Alex’s smile didn’t fully reflect in his eyes. “Or he is in no position to seek a wife.”

Ah. Right. Dragons had to “provision a lair” before seeking mates.

So, what else did she want? These dragons were rich. They could give her anything. Did she want yachts? Mansions? Trips around the world? Tennis bracelets?

Well, she was prone to getting seasick, wasn’t sure about home ownership, and Pyro could fly her anywhere — and frequently did.

Diamonds might be cool.

She thought of her camisole and jeans. They were still crumpled up on the floor of the closet. “I’ll have to talk to Pyro.”

“Nothing we can give you right now?”

“I need some clothes washed.”

At her description, Alex clicked an intercom. “Send a hundred camisoles to this address. Also, a hundred pairs of jeans in our AX model size.”

“I don’t need a hundred,” she protested. “I don’t even need one. Just a washing machine.”

He ended the call with a smile. “Now you will not wish to divorce Pyro. And you will be happy to accept our job.”

“I don’t…” Ugh. She rubbed her forehead. Her headache lingered and although they spoke English, she felt like she needed a translator. “What is up with dragons offering random people jobs? This is the second time in a week one of you has offered me unwanted employment.”

The dragons moved in their seats in surprise.

Alex leaned forward again. “Sard Carnelian offered you a job?”

“Yes, drawing Zentangles.”

“What are those?”

She encircled her wrist; the bracelet had been confiscated. Well, she had given it to Sard. Anything to get herself out of his office. “Do you have a napkin and a pen?”

They found the objects. She took a deep breath, starting her meditation, then drew the four corner dots, the border, and her sections. She filled each section with repeating palm leaves, pineapple scales, and bubbles. It was relaxing; even in the middle of this interrogation, she finished her square feeling more in control.

“Zentangles are a form of structured doodle using repeating motifs. The borders and whatnot are for guidance. Go with whatever looks good in the moment. Through deliberate practice, Zentangles are a method for uncreative people to discover their inner creativity.”

The dragons studied her napkin.

Jasper covered his mouth. Amber leaned back in her chair and looked thoughtful. Alex continued staring.

Somehow, she felt like she’d exposed a secret. “What is it?”

Alex tapped the square. “This bears some resemblance to dragon family crests. Heraldry identifying aristocrats. However, the designs are unusual.”

“Sard said the same thing. He wanted to commission ten million.”

“Ten million?”

“Unique designs. I offered to teach a class instead.” The important thing was the method. Anyone could draw Zentangles. Even dragons. “He declined.”

Jasper appeared to do a quick calculation. “Ten million unique designs would be enough to adorn the non-aristocrat families on Draconis and the Outer Rim.”

Alex looked up. “Would Sard dare sell heralds to non-aristocrats?”

“It would be lucrative.”

“But risky. Copying the aristocracy too closely risks the notice of the Gentleman’s Society. No one survives one of their inquests.”

They mused over her design.

Amy understood the gist of their discussion even if she didn’t get caste societies. India and Britain had long histories, and she’d taught them, but like Jim Crow laws of the last century, the pointless cruelties seemed unconscionable.

In America today, all that mattered was cold, hard cash. Few things were denied the truly rich.

Amy’s goal as a teacher was to help her students whether they were rich or poor, sick or healthy, of one ethnicity or another, receive an equitable, high-quality education.

“Draconis Palace hasn’t enforced sumptuary laws in a generation,” Amber finally said. “The Gentleman’s Society has not investigated human-form clothing. They will not investigate a human ‘doodle’ craft.”

Amy cleared her throat. “Should I have told Pyro?”

“Yes.” Alex leaned back. “This knowledge could have changed our fates.”