Page 1 of The Dragon’s Good Girl

Chapter One

Soren

Helen is on her knees straddling the sybian I positioned between her legs an hour ago, wrists bound behind her back, the low hum of the vibration the only sound in the room besides her breathing. She's been holding out. Stubborn woman—it's why she's good at her job. But her thighs are shaking now and each inhale catches before she can quite finish it. I slide my thumb beneath her chin and tip her face toward me. Her pupils have swallowed most of the blue from her eyes, and her lips part when I touch her.

"You've been so patient," I tell her, keeping my voice low and steady. She responds to warmth better than severity, always has. "You've earned this. Come for me, Helen."

She does.

Her whole body tightens before the release moves through her, leaving her shaking against the restraints. I keep my hand beneath her chin and hold her gaze for as long as she can manage it.

"Good girl."

I reach behind the saddle and kill the vibration. Her eyes close, and the last of the tension drains from her shoulders as she sags back onto her heels.

I give her a few seconds before reaching for the cuffs. Once her wrists are free, I turn her hands over and run my thumbs across her skin beneath the restraints, checking for tenderness. Nothing beyond the faint pink we expected. She shivers at the heat of my palms, then settles into my touch.

"There we are." I help her onto the aftercare bed and pull the weighted blanket over her. "Tea?"

She gives me a sleepy smile. "You know I'm going to say yes."

"I do."

The kettle is already filled. Earl Grey, no sugar, a little milk. Helen has booked the same monthly appointment for nearly two years; at this point, asking how she takes her tea would be stranger than simply making it.

She spends the next ten minutes tucked beneath the blanket while I sit nearby and let her come back to herself. Outside these walls, Helen is a divorce attorney who spends most of her waking hours negotiating with people determined to turn the worst moments of their lives into somebody else's problem. Once a month, she comes here and lets me take control for two hours.

By noon, she's showered, dressed, and standing at the door with her handbag over one shoulder and her professional face firmly back in place.

"See you next month, Soren?" she asks.

"You're already booked, love."

I watch until her Audi disappears down the drive, then return to the room and reset it for whoever comes next.

The sheets go into the laundry chute. Fresh linens replace them. I wipe down the leather, check every restraint point, restock the aftercare tray and replace two protein bars that expired yesterday despite Grath's insistence that expiration dates are a conspiracy invented by humans with weak stomachs.

I've done some version of this routine thousands of times. Long enough that the routine has become second nature.

Helen left relaxed and steady. She got what she came for, and I know I gave her a good session.

Inside me, the dragon never stirred. No heat beneath my skin. No smoke. Not so much as the twitch of a scale.

There was a time when I wondered if that meant something had gone wrong. Now I know better. Not every session needs to reach into me. It isn't supposed to, it's not about me. Helen trusted me to give her what she needed, I did, and next month I'll do it again.

I close the door behind me and head down the corridor.

Godric, our resident gargoyle, is in the dungeon when I pass, checking the upper restraint on the St. Andrew's cross. His stone wings are folded against his back as he gives the cuff a hard pull, frowns, then reaches for the tools beside him. He lifts a hand when he notices me, and I return the gesture as I pass.

The boudoir door stands open farther down, silk drapes shifting in the faint current from the hall. Three candles burn beside the bed despite nobody being booked in there for another two hours.

For fuck's sake.

Someone left the candles burning again.

I step inside and blow them out before one of us burns down a three-hundred-year-old estate because eight grown men with supernatural lifespans still can't be trusted with an open flame. Gael is going to find out and heads will roll.

The last fire-safety notice was laminated.