5. CiCi

Opening my eyes, the bright light from the end table lamp obscures my vision for a moment until my eyes adjust. Looking around, I don’t recognize where I am. I am lying down, fully clothed in my work attire with specks of blood splattered across my chest and stomach. My boots are situated neatly by the door of the room. The back of my head is throbbing as I raise my hand and run my fingers through my matted hair. My hand runs along a slightly shaved area at the crown of my head, and I feel rough stitches sewn into my scalp. The skin around the laceration is hot and tender, and the throbbing increases the longer I stay awake.

Groaning, I throw the sheets off my body and attempt to sit up in bed. Within seconds, the room begins to spin and I feel an overwhelming sense of nausea take over.

“It’s best if you lie back down,” a quiet yet coarse voice says from the foot of the bed. “You have a mild concussion.”

When he rounds the bed to sit next to me, I scoot to the head of the bed, wrapping the sheet around my body as if it were a blanket of protection.

“W-What did you do to me?” I tense up, becoming defensive as I remember the forceful conversation we had in the booth.

Ignoring my accusation, he looks down at his hands, twirling the ring on his finger. “What do you remember about last night?”

“You being a douche, and then I walked outside to chase a guy who stiffed me.” Trying to rack my brain for clues, coming up useless, I continue, “After going outside, I don’t remember much.”

I pause. “Did you drug me or something?!”

He looks up, horrified at such an accusation.

“How would I have possibly done that?”

“I don’t know, Drake Reign, Mr. All Powerful. You tell me,” I snap, clutching the sheet closer to me. I know my accusations are empty. His reaction says it all. On top of the fact that I’m still fully clothed.

“You were attacked by four members of Las Serpientes.” He pauses for a moment, before continuing, “You’re safe now.”

Relaxing my muscles and gripping the sheets, I look up at him. “Are you sure about that?”

Miniscule as it may be, I see him flinch at my words as though I hurt him.

Silence falls around us for a moment, when my eyes gaze over the tattoo of his left hand. I didn’t get a good look at it last night in the dark bar, but in this room I can see the intricate drawing of a dragon. When his fingers move, the dragon looks as if it is dancing across his hand.

A gasp escapes my lips.

“Draco. The Dragon. Y-you’re him.”

His eyes meet my gaze, yet again filled with sadness and torment at the mention of his secret identity.

“How can you say you wouldn’t hurt me when you ruthlessly murder people every night?”

“I didn’t hurt you.”

“How do I know that?”

He pulls his phone out of his jacket, pulls up something on the screen, and presses the play button. The closed circuit street camera footage from last night begins rolling across the screen. From the moment I stepped outside, I was doomed. I never saw them lurking in the shadows. They grabbed me and pulled me into the darkness. One of the unlucky ones attempted to fire his gun at me, but I was able to kick it out of his grasp as he was firing off the shot. The bullet ricocheted off the ground and penetrated him. The way I am standing over the guy as Drake bursts through the doors and down the steps makes it seem like I was proud of myself.

He’s accompanied by one other person who I don”t recognize, which is odd to me because I always heard The Dragon worked alone.

There is no audio to the footage, but I can see him yell something at the man who then runs off. As Drake turns around, he catches me in his arms, carefully assisting me to the ground. The last few seconds of the video remind me of how a man would hold his lover. He held me close to his face, gently wiping my hair from my eyes, whispering words to me that I don’t remember, nor can I hear now.

When he tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket, he looks at me, “How did you figure out who I was?”

“First off, that mask does nothing to hide those mysterious eyes of yours. And second, that dragon tattoo is a dead giveaway.”

If my concussion isn’t fucking with my head too much, I feel like I can almost hear him quietly laugh to himself.

“Yeah, I keep hearing that.”

After a few beats of silence, I reach out to grab his hand, causing every muscle in his body to tense up.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Saving me.”

“I didn’t save you. I just didn’t hurt you.”

The pain in his voice is unbearable, like he wants to say so much more, but he is at war with himself. I resolve to let it go, knowing he lost his father the same night I lost my parents, and I don’t know what emotional state he is in.

Looking around the room, I recount all the rumors I have heard about The Dragon. The way he enjoys tormenting his victims before he takes their lives. How he got his name in the first place, by burning the symbol of a dragon into their chests. How much pain could this man really be holding on to?

He is a murderer, for fuck’s sake.

“I would never hurt you,” he repeats himself. “But that doesn’t mean I am a good man, Cecilia.”

“Saving someone’s life is the very definition of a good man, Drake.” I counter back.

“No Cecilia, I’m not. I have a lot of blood on my hands.” He looks down at our hands, which are still touching, as if the blood is practically pouring over them.

“Yes, I know. I’ve heard all about the big, bad Dragon. You kill criminals.” I pause for a moment. “What confuses me though…is you are supposedly a criminal yourself. You’re Drake Reign, Dante Reign’s heir. I may not know specific details about you, but I know you continued to run the weapons trade after your father…” My voice trails off as his face twists into frustration.

I try to recover from my blunder and softly say, “but a notorious crime lord wouldn’t save a helpless cocktail waitress in a dark alley. If anything, you would have used me.” My voice barely registers as a whisper.

“I prefer the women I fuck to be coherent and consensual,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

Feeling like I just kicked his puppy, I immediately regret those words.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

He rips his hand from mine. “It’s fine.”

Rising from the bed, he glowers down at me, “You need more rest. Take that white pill on the nightstand. It’s pain medication. And drink that glass of water. Doctor’s orders.”

He begins to walk off, but I can feel myself growing agitated at being told what to do.

“Oh, so now you’re a bossy crime lord and a doctor, are you?”

Striding back over to the bed, he grips my jaw firmly in his strong, rough hand, and carefully tilts my head up.

“You haven’t seen bossy yet, princess.” His dark eyes stare into mine and I can feel the hair on my arms stand up as his heated gaze continues to penetrate my own.

He grabs the pill with his other hand. “Open.”

My mind says to fight him on everything, but my body is screaming to let him do whatever he wants.

I open my mouth.

He places the bitter pill on my tongue and grabs the glass of water, bringing it to my lips.

“Drink.”

The cool liquid flows across my tongue and down the back of my throat. Closing my eyes, I try not to focus on the fact that he is watching my every move as I swallow the pill down. I can feel his rough thumb gliding across my chin, causing my body to shudder.

“Good girl.”

Concussion or not, I shouldn’t be feeling the heat flourishing low within my stomach, but the way he looks at me could definitely incinerate any woman’s panties.

I’m going to have to tell Miranda that.

My eyes widen and I try to jolt back up out of bed, but the dizziness returns as soon as I do.

“Oh God! I need to call Miranda! I need to let her know I’m okay.”

“I’ve already taken care of that. She knows that you’re safe.”

He must notice that I am swaying because he strides over and catches me before I fall forward. Luckily for me, I land in his arms, bracing myself against his broad chest. Underneath my palm, I can feel his racing heart beating.

My heart begins to pound in my ears and my skin feels hot.

“Please, CiCi, rest,” he whispers as he lowers me back onto the bed, curling my legs up under the soft sheets, and propping pillows all around me like I am a baby and am going to roll off the bed.

It feels as though I am laying on clouds. My eyes begin to betray me and grow heavy.

The last thing I remember before succumbing to dreamland is Drake Reign rubbing my forehead softly, and me calling him a ‘bossy asshole’.