Lord of Chaos (The Dragon Demigods #7) - Charlene Hartnady Page 0,4

the collar and clip on the leash. If I hurry, I might still make it back to the shelter before it closes for the day. “I’ll be back. Clean up!” I growl at Stephanus.

He frowns. “There are no dishes.”

Sex has clearly destroyed a part of his brain. “I’m talking about the condoms. And that throw. And while you’re at it, burn that sofa…or take it. I don’t care which.” I turn and leave.

I open the car, and the dog jumps right on in. “I’m taking you back, and you aren’t going to give me ‘the look’. Are we clear?”

I need to stop talking to the dog like this. It’s crazy!

I slide in behind the wheel. Ten minutes later, we arrive. The gate is closed and locked with a chain and padlock. I run a hand through my hair. Fuck! “That’s great! Just great!” I mutter to myself as I look at the times on the sign next to the gate. It’s the weekend. The shelter closes early on the weekend. “You’re going back tomorrow,” I tell the dog, who looks pleased with herself. I know I’m probably imagining it. “Also,” I tell her. “I’m going out tonight, so you’re home alone.”

3

Rage

I fucking hate this place.

I hate people.

I hate my life.

I consider going home. Better yet, I could head to shifter territory and lose my human skin for a couple of hours. Take to the sky and fly hard. Who am I kidding? As much as the prospect of picking up some woman irritates me, I need the release. It’s been at least six months since I last came here.

I hate it.

I hate this.

As much as I want to leave, I don’t. I turn to the bartender. “I’ll take a double of your best single-malt whiskey. No ice…splash of water.”

The bartender lifts his brows for a second and then inclines his head. This place is as exclusive and as upmarket as it gets. You need to be a member to be able to step through the door. The annual membership is insanely expensive. The whiskey I’ve just ordered won’t come cheap. I don’t care. It’s the best thing here. I’ll savor it. Then I’ll pick someone I think is capable of dealing with my needs, and we’ll leave.

I sigh.

I need to fight too. To pound into someone. I make a mental note to have a talk with Manny in the morning about scheduling another bout. The last one with West left me…cold. He threw in the towel. I need to pound my fists against flesh. I need to knock someone the fuck out.

I take the glass from the bartender and give him my credit card. Transaction complete, he hands me back the plastic, and I turn around, facing the stage. There will be various performances tonight. Right now, a large woman dressed entirely in leather is beating the crap out of some asshole. He’s strung up with rope to the point where he can’t move. Judging from the size of his boner, he’s loving every hard blow to his body. He moans every time her leather crop makes contact with his skin, which is red and glowing.

I look away, feeling bored. There is a couple fucking on the sofa. At least they’re being somewhat discreet. She’s riding the hell out of him, her little dress covering where their bodies are joined.

I feel nothing.

Less than nothing.

“Hey, handsome…” A gorgeous blonde sidles up to me. I openly appraise her. Her heels are so high I’m not sure how she can walk. She’s wearing fishnet stockings. They’re tacky and unnecessary. Then there’s the gold hotpants and nipple caps to match. Her tits are full and firm. In short, she’s a knockout.

I still feel nothing.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I tell myself not to dwell on the answer to that question because I ultimately know why I am the way I am. Dwelling on the why will tear me into pieces from the inside out.

“Do you want…um, maybe…” she pulls a plump lower lip between her teeth, “um…to go to one of the rooms?” She quirks a brow. I notice how her throat works.

I definitely don’t want to use one of the rooms in this place. I prefer the five-star hotel just two blocks from here. Problem is, I don’t think this little honeypie can handle me.

The crop cracks harder, and I hear a loud-ass groan. The guy on stage just lost his load. The leather-clad dominatrix is whipping him, using firm strokes,