C9 Fairy tales

Date = 31 October

Place = San Francisco (paintball place)

POV - Melaena

A siren rips through the air — loud, brutal — and I flinch, clapping my hands over my ears like the world just cracked in half. For one panicked second, my heart forgets how to beat.

The signal of a win. Somebody grabbed a flag.

I quickly look over, and then a big smile spreads across my face. Luke is jumping up and down, green fabric whipping through the air like a victory banner.

I drop my hands to my sides, breath rushing out of me in a laugh that feels half hysterical, half euphoric.

We won.

Jackson stops shooting his brother, and Ilkay jumps up from his hiding place and slowly walks over to us with Enrique in tow.

The air smells like dust, sweat, and adrenaline. Somewhere close, a camera hums — the lucky bastard Kiara mentioned, catching our chaos forever.

“Congratulations,” Enrique says, clapping Damion hard on the back — way too hard. On purpose.

Damion barely flinches, but I see the tension ripple through him.

Then Enrique’s eyes drop to my front — paint splattered across my chest and ribs — and his expression snaps dark.

“Who the bloody hell lit you up like that?”

The irony almost makes me laugh.

“Chloe went full murder mode,” Kiara chirps, strolling over like she didn’t just survive combat. “Emptied her gun on Mel.” Then she wrinkles her nose at Damion. “But this idiot body-shielded her. Took a shitload of hits.”

I look at the back of his overall, the black fully encased in green. Layered.

Shitload is stating it mildly.

My own hits throb — two on the boob, two on the ribs, one on the arm. They sting like hell, sharp reminders pulsing under my skin. And yet … compared to him?

Enrique’s brow lifts as he looks at Damion, something shifting in his gaze.

“Thanks, bro.”

“Just doing my job,” Damion shrugs it off like it’s nothing, jaw tight, eyes down. No big speech. No bravado.

Luke barrels into us, vibrating with joy. Damion scoops him up and tosses him into the air.

“We WON! We WON!” Luke screams, laughing so hard it sounds like pure happiness.

“Yeah, you were awesome, dude,” Damion says, warmth threading his voice.

It hits me harder than any paintball.

Enrique slings an arm around my shoulders and leans in. “Bitch. Nobody hurts my sister.”

I snort, shaking my head. Funny, considering he was shooting at me five minutes ago.

“Or?” I wait, and when he only frowns, I elaborate: “Those kinds of threads usually have an ‘or’ attached to them.”

Blank stare.

“Ug, you’re useless.” I shove him away, lift my gun, and before he can blink again — POP.

Right on the ass.

He yelps, jumping like his pants are on fire. I chase him, firing three more times, black splattering the backside of his green slop.

Damion howls with laughter. “Serves you right, asshole.”

Enrique glares at me, revenge flashing in his multicolored eyes — cold, sharp — then it fades.

He sighs, drapes his arm around my shoulders again, and steers me toward the parking lot as if nothing happened. Kiara hooks into my other arm. Damion beside her.

The battlefield behind us buzzes with laughter, boasting, and victory. My body aches. My nerves are fried. My heart is still racing.

And somehow, despite the bruises and the chaos, I feel warm all the way through.

We regroup with the rest of the warriors — green and black overalls mashed together in the parking lot in front of the reception lodge. Most of them splattered with blobs of paint, their helmets already discarded.

We stop at Damion’s red Ford pickup, its hood covered with his logo, and Kiara leans back against it with a dramatic sigh, like a soldier returning from battle.

Across the lot, Ren is deep in what appears to be a serious conversation with Chloe. Her green overall is unzipped far enough to qualify as a cry for attention, offering him a front-row seat to a red lace bra and a pair of breasts that could have their own gravitational pull.

I register it. Objectively.

And then … nothing. No jealousy. Not even a flicker.

Ren looks up and catches me staring. He smiles faintly, like he thinks he’s winning something.

Bless his delusion.

Before I can look away, Chloe suddenly launches herself toward us with the force of a freight train and zero brakes, slamming straight into Damion. His six-foot-one, 185-pound body locks up on impact as her arms claw around his already-bruised back.

He lets out a low, pained sound — somewhere between a growl and a curse.

Enrique reacts instantly, grabbing her by the hips and yanking her off him.

“Let go,” he snarls, eyes dark, like he’s choosing restraint by sheer willpower.

Almost just as fast, Damion shrugs free and steps back — behind me.

Coward.

Chloe’s mouth opens, probably ready to unleash hell, but she’s cut off by Ilkay’s booming, obnoxiously cheerful voice.

“Undefeated legends!” he announces smugly as he and Axel strut toward us, guns slung like action heroes. “Not one shot!”

Jackson appears behind them like a demon summoned by arrogance and — without hesitation — POP POP shoots them both on the back.

“Fuck!” Ilkay yelps as they jump in unison, spinning around to find Jackson wearing a grin that should be illegal.

“And now you’re not,” Enrique adds smugly, enjoying this far too much.

I have crackbrains for brothers.

Logan takes his revenge immediately, firing from the side. Jackson didn’t even see it coming. Ilkay uses the distraction and fires back, nailing Jackson square in the chest.

He doesn’t react, but his expression screams cold revenge.

Enrique laughs so hard he forgets self-preservation — so they all turn on him.

Axel shoots Logan. Logan shoots Ilkay. Enrique opens fire wildly, rotating like a broken sprinkler.

Sean — Damion’s teammate — wanders over, his overall still suspiciously clean. The boys notice this injustice instantly and gun him down without mercy. Sean curls in on himself, shielding face and crotch, taking hits along his side like a champ.

Ren dives behind a car.

Damion shoves Luke into the cab of his truck like a seasoned battlefield dad.

And then all hell breaks loose.

A full-blown, no-helmet, no-mercy paintball massacre erupts in the parking lot. Testosterone, stupidity, and leftover adrenaline collide in the most male way possible. I instinctively jump between Damion and his truck, very aware that I do not want another paintball to the boob.

Thankfully, it seems this has devolved into a pure dick-measuring contest. Kiara and I are spared.

Praise be …

Eventually, ammunition runs dry. Guns click uselessly. And just like that, the chaos dissolves into laughter — grown men comparing welts, bruises, and near-misses like it’s a badge-of-honor convention.

“I swear,” I mutter to Kiara, “males will compare anything — from dicks to toenails.”

She snorts. “Tomorrow they’re all going to regret being this stupid.”

Oh, absolutely.

I catch the reporter nearby, his grin sharp and satisfied. He’s already got gold footage, and the night hasn’t even started yet.

They may be idiots. But at least they’re not boring idiots.

A young female worker makes her rounds with a tray of antiseptic wipes and immediately lights up at the sight of the boys. Like someone just turned on a neon sign in her brain. It’s nothing new.

She flashes a smile that’s more lust than friendliness.

“Hey, hotness,” she purrs at Damion. “Need me to doctor your boo-boos?”

She’s practically undressing him with her eyes.

I roll mine so hard I almost sprain something. Kiara snorts beside me.

“Nah,” Damion says easily. “I’ve already got someone for that.”

He plucks a packet from the tray and presses it into my hand. “Since it’s your fault, my back looks like a watercolor painting gone wrong.”

Well. I guess I owe him.

He shrugs out of his overalls and ties the sleeves around his waist, exposing his back.

… Oh.

It looks bad. Worse than I imagined. Bruised, scraped, dotted with angry red welts like he pissed off a very artistic hornet.

He leans forward onto the bonnet of his truck. I start at his left shoulder, dabbing carefully, sympathy guiding my hands. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance, muscles coiled despite his attempt at looking relaxed.

He flinches when I touch a spot where the skin has split.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Liar. A proud, obstinate, textbook Alpha male liar.

I’ve known enough of them to recognize the species. Grew up with a bunch of them.

Must be something about hauling a penis around all day — gives them an allergy to admitting pain.

Or any real feelings for that matter.

I press a little harder.

He hisses through his teeth.

There it is.

My fingers skim over his warm skin as I clean him up, and goosebumps bloom wherever I touch. For half a second, I wonder if he’s feeling something too.

Nah. Not a chance. I’m not his type.

I shove the used wipes into my pocket to toss later. “You’re good,” I say, oddly pleased. And I managed not to murder him. Growth.

“Did you give him a sticker for good behavior?” Logan asks, appearing at my side.

Damion straightens but ignores him.

“That’s nasty,” Jackson mutters, leaning in to inspect the damage.

“Thanks, guys,” Damion says tightly. “Really appreciate the support.”

“Next time,” Jackson adds helpfully, “maybe don’t bring your PBS to the party. Big mistake.”

“Thanks again. I’ll remember that.”

I’m still trying to figure out what a PBS is when Chloe barrels past me, and my brothers, zeroing in on Damion like a missile with emotional instability issues.

“A Psycho Bitch Stalker,” Ilkay mutters as if reading my mind. Ah. PBS decoded.

“Darling, I’m so sorry,” she gushes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Damion pulls back, and my inner bitch does a little victory dance.

Jackson shoves her aside — not gently.

“Yeah,” he says calmly, which somehow makes it worse. “You meant to hurt my sister, slut. And nobody messes with my fucking family.”

Chloe sucks in a breath and stumbles back two steps. Fair. Jackson can be terrifying when he wants to be.

“It was an accident,” she whimpers. “The gun … it got stuck …”

Sure. And I’m the Easter Bunny with a crush on Anne Ramsey.

“Alright, boys,” Dean Roile calls from behind me, clapping his hands. “Show’s over. The party’s waiting. Reaper Venue — let’s move.”

He swipes a hand over his bald head and toys with the thick gold chain at his neck. “You owe me,” he adds, lowering his voice theatrically. “The manager was about three seconds from calling the cops.”

Dean is an agent. A damn good one. He reps all the boys in our chaotic little circus — Damion was his first, the rest followed. He’s bold, muscled, unapologetically flamboyant, dripping in jewelry from shoes to chains.

The epitome of queer. And absolutely in charge.

Damion leans in and murmurs something into Kiara’s ear before circling the truck. Luke’s already sprawled across the backseat like he owns it.

“Hey, Mel,” Kiara sings.

She opens the passenger door and — before I can protest — shoves me inside and slams it shut.

The truck peels off.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Luke mutters, already half-asleep.

Kiara is dead. Painfully. At the very least, she’s on dish duty for a week.

Damion slides on a pair of Dior sunglasses, instantly transforming into the human embodiment of cool, calm, and criminally unfair.

Me? I’m a disaster. A walking, breathing, internally screaming hot mess.

He’s still bare-chested. Focused on the road. Jaw set. Shoulders broad. Skin still flushed from the chaos we left behind.

His profile is … obscene.

My fingers itch to trace the sharp line of his jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and the thought of dragging my tongue across that stubble hits me out of nowhere. I imagine how rough it would feel against my lips.

Hell. I’m a virginal slut. Pull it together.

“So,” he says suddenly, shattering my erotic spiral, “how long have you and that Ren douche been together?”

I jolt. Heat floods my cheeks. Did he catch me staring? I wipe my mouth. Was I drooling?

“Almost two months,” I say, breathless. “But we’re not … together-together.”

Why was I mentally licking his face? What am I — some kind of hormonal retriever?

What is it about this man that hijacks my body chemistry like this? Like he alone flips my switches.

“I don’t like him,” Luke mumbles from the back.

“Nobody likes him,” Damion agrees.

I stare down at my hands. Ren isn’t perfect, sure, but he’s not a bad guy. On the contrary … he’s kinda plain … normal even. He just … has questionable taste in friends.

But so does Logan, for that matter.

“That guy is all wrong for you,” Damion adds, eyes still on the road.

“Oh, sorry,” I snap. “I didn’t know you’re an expert on how I should live my life … just let me get my notebook so I can take notes.”

My voice is icy. I hope he hears the bite in it. The audacity of this man is astronomical.

“Well,” he says evenly, “he’s cheating on you, for one. Might want to write that down.”

Unlike me, he’s maddeningly composed. Relaxed grip on the wheel. Expression unreadable. That infuriating, laid-back control he wears like a second skin.

And still — I want to kiss him. This man. Why HIM?

Yes, he’s devastatingly attractive.

But so are Axel and Ren. And that puppy trainer, Alejandro? That man is offensively hot.

Yet my brain gland is dead frozen around all of them. Nothing. No spark. No static. Just … zilch.

Total brain-freeze.

While with Damion, my neurons are on fire.

“There’s no spark between you,” he says casually, like he’s reading subtitles in my head. A low chuckle follows. “I can read you like a magazine, angel.”

I scramble for a topic change. I don’t want to talk about Ren. I don’t even care if he’s cheating. It’ll bruise my pride, sure — but it won’t hurt like the zoo night did.

I’m already gearing up to end it. Ren is temporary. A curse-breaker.

I glance at Luke for backup. He’s out cold. Fast asleep on the backseat.

Great.

“Why did you protect me from Chloe?” I ask the first thing that jumps into my head.

“Instinct,” he answers. Then, softer, “Or maybe I didn’t want Jackson hunting me down.” A pause. A breath. “Or maybe I didn’t want you hurt.” His voice dips to a husky simmer. “Make your pick.” It is a hell of a multiple-choice.

The raspy croak in his voice pulls me to look at him. For just a second, his calm cracks. His hands are tight on the wheel.

“I … it doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. “It was sweet.”

Then, because my parents raised me right, “Thank you.”

“You think I’m sweet?” He dips his chin, peering at me over his sunglasses.

Our eyes meet — and I forget how breathing works.

“I think you can be,” I admit. “Just … not with me.”

Oops. Brain-to-mouth filter officially dead due to overactive hormone balance.

“Why’s that you think?” His voice is low now. Dangerous.

I don’t want to think. It’s a dangerous topic.

“I don’t know you that well,” I chirp, forcing brightness.

“Oh,” he says, faintly disappointed.

“But,” I continue, steamrolling ahead, “I picked up a few things. You’re great at sports. Very active. A total adrenaline junkie … a risk taker — even when you race. You’re a San Francisco Boy. Your favorite color is black. You wear Dior Homme Sport. Because you are sponsored. Hate Brussels sprouts, love DQ takeout. You are martial arts obsessed, and wear size eleven shoes. You’re an outdoorsy, camping type. Choose dogs over cats. Have a near-perfect GPA. Only date brunettes. Don’t do relationships. Are terrible at bowling and even worse at croquet. You wear only CK underwear and sleep in the nude.”

I exhale.

“But I don’t actually know you.”

“And here I thought I was a pretty decent bowler,” he sneers.

“Nope, you officially suck. Even more than Kiara.”

“Duly noted, angel.”

And just like that, we’re talking. Really talking. Like normal people. For the first time after the zoo.

And somehow … Angel sounds a hell of a lot better than babe.

My eyes betray me first. They skim his face — strong jaw, arrogant mouth, that infuriating calm — then slide south like they’ve got a death wish. Bare chest. Low-slung coveralls. A body carved by bad decisions and good genetics.

My throat goes dry. Other parts … decidedly do not.

“Are you seriously checking me out right now?”

I snap back like I’ve been caught shoplifting dignity.

“Yes. No!” Flip.

How the hell did he even see? His eyes never left the road.

He laughs. Deep. Easy. The kind of laugh that settles low in my belly to make it quiver.

I try to snap back some dignity. “I’m just hungry,” I try to say as casually as possible. “You?”

“Yes,” he smirks, “But not for food.”

My self-control clocks out early. The quiver turns into a full-body shudder. Holy hats. This man is a walking heatwave.

He slides his sunglasses onto his head, mussing his hair, and finally looks at me. Just one glance and something ignites between my legs, shoots straight to my brain, and turns it into warm soup. His near-nudity is not helping. At all.

But I’ve been burned by him before. Badly.

I’m not that teenager anymore — the lonely kid with a stupid crush and too many empty rooms in her heart. Mom dead. Dad gone. Kiara skeptical. Uncle John, bless his soul, is emotionally constipated. And my brothers are built like fortresses.

Love existed, sure — but it wasn’t exactly tender.

Actually, the zoo incident might weirdly have been a gift. After the last tear dried, I scooped up my wrecked heart and taught myself to handle my own problems. I threw myself into art. Sports. Sweat. Focus. And slowly found myself.

I’m nineteen now. Tough. Grounded. A woman who knows better than to play with fire. If I do something, it’s because I want to, not because I’m forced to.

“You said we needed to talk.”

He faces forward again, posture snapping rigid, like someone just installed a steel rod up his ass.

It can be my imagination.

“Now’s not the time.” Or not. His voice is stiff, too.

“Why?” I stare at my hands, hating the tiny flicker of hope that sparks anyway.

“I don’t want to talk while I drive.”

Fair. Logical. Annoyingly sensible.

“Not a great multitasker?” I tease, trying to ease the tension.

Instant payoff — he relaxes, laughs.

“Oh, I’m excellent at multitasking. My body’s managing at least five things right now.”

“Five?” I scoff. “Impossible. Men max out at two. One being breathing.”

He grins. “Well. I’m driving. Talking.”

“That’s two.”

“Breathing. Feeling pain.”

Four.

Then he looks at me. Slow. Intent.

“And I’m undeniably hard.”

My brain blue-screens.

My mouth opens. My lungs forget their job. And without permission, my eyes flick down. To look at it.

And ‘it’ moves. Just … moves. Like it knows I’m looking.

I combust. “Fuck.”

He groans softly. “Staring is not helping.”

I whip my head up, back down again, then forward, mortified. “Sorry. I just — I’ve never —” Abort mission. Shut it down.

“I fill awkwardness with blabbering,” I mutter. “It’s a flaw.”

“Blabbering is not the problem,” he says quietly. “You are.”

That’s it. Rage ignites — hot, fast, familiar. “You know what? You and your dick can go to hell.” I’m glowing, and I’m sure my one eye is twitching.

“Oh, baby,” he says smoothly, “hell’s my second home.”

“I hate you.”

Silence stretches, heavy and electric.

“You know love and hate are closely related,” he says, smug as sin. “So maybe you’re actually in love with me.”

He watches me through his lashes, gaze sharp enough to cut straight through skin and bone, down to every thought I pretend not to have.

It’s unsettling. Terrifying. Magnetic.

“Pfft,” I scoff. “Devils don’t love.”

“Then you don’t like me?” His voice dips — almost disappointed — and my heart does something stupid and traitorous.

“I’ve been there,” I say sharply. “Done that. Got the butchered heart to prove it. You weren’t the knight I thought you were.”

He exhales, tension leaking through his voice. “Oh, love. I’m no knight on a white horse.”

No argument there.

“I’m more like a demon in jeans on a black bike,” he adds softly. “And instead of saving you, I’ll pin you down and ruin you beautifully.”

I swallow. Lock my legs. Lick my lips. Everything hardens that shouldn’t.

He smirks. He knows. My body knows. But my brain is still figuring it out.

“So,” he murmurs, “you want a fairy tale?”

I meet his gaze, steady despite the chaos buzzing through me.

“Not really,” I say. “I just want something real.”