Page 33 of The Dragon 1
What this psycho didn’t understand was this—myrules were the only thing keeping me human. The only thing keeping this city from burning to ash beneath my feet.
Because when my father forced me to take this power, when I wrapped my claws around the throne I never asked for, I didn’t become a king.
I became the Dragon.
And like any true dragon, I guarded what was mine with fire and fury.
Every woman who stepped into my world—whether she danced behind glass, fucked for a fee, poured drinks at the bar, or simply wore my scent on her skin—was under my protection.
They were the treasure I kept beneath my wings.
The flames I burned for.
And anyone who dared to hurt any of these women. . .who dropped severed limbs at my doorstep like invitations to war...
Was already fucking dead.
He just didn’t know it yet.
I gritted my teeth. “Reo, you saidhe. Could it be a woman doing this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The psychology doesn’t align.” Reo stepped closer and I caught the scent of old books clinging to his jacket. “Female serial killers tend to kill for power, not artistry. Not often for pleasure, and rarely with this kind of pageantry. This man? He wants you to see. Tofeelsomething. To marvel at the beauty of what he’s destroyed and he wants to piss you off.”
A chill rolled up my spine.
Reo’s gaze cut to me. “He’s communicating. Each gift is a sentence. We’re just not fluent in his language yet.”
My hand curled into a fist.
Reo frowned. “And he’ll keep doing it. Until we understand the message… or give him a reason to stop.”
Then, Hiro spoke from across the room. “So this is personal?”
Reo nodded. “It is.”
I pressed my palm to the glass and looked through the window. I didn’t like the idea of someone creeping through my city, slicing women to pieces, and treating one of the doorsteps of my clubs like it was a sicko art gallery.
Hiro left the wall and came over to me. “Let me find and track this guy.”
I didn’t answer my brother right away.
Hiro was destruction incarnate. Beautiful, effective destruction—but he thrived in close-range war. In shadows and steel. His solutions were final, his methods bloody. He didn’t trace patterns or dance with madness.
He simply found the soft spot and drove in the blade.
Tempting as it was to let Hiro off leash—send him into the dark and wait for the blood-soaked results—this situation wasn’t about dragging a confession out of someone screaming in a basement or leaving bodies in alleys as warnings.
Hmmm.
This killer was clever—a theatrical mind with surgical hands and a psychotic artist’s obsession.
A man like that didn’t fear violence—he expected it. Probably got off on the idea that we’d come at him like hounds on a scent trail, snapping jaws and blind rage.
He wanted noise, mess, and chaos.
