The Dragon Billionaire's Fated Thief

Vesper

The neon-soaked streets of Las Vegas blurred into streaks of electric color as I twisted the throttle, my motorcycle roaring beneath me like a living thing. The wind whipped through my emerald hair, and the vintage arcade tokens threaded through the strands clinked together in a rhythm that matched my racing pulse. My denim jacket—hand-painted constellations and stolen casino chips sewn into the fabric like badges of honor—flapped behind me as I carved through the night.

I loved this city at night. Loved how it transformed from a gilded cage of daylight propriety into something raw and honest once the sun went down. But right now, after twelve straight hours of work, I loved the promise of a cold drink and a warm body even more.

The upper districts blurred past first—those pristine streets where vampire old money and human political elite kept their mansions behind gates that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. Their world of champagne fountains and blood-diamond chandeliers held no interest for me. I'd stolen from enough of them to know their wealth was just another kind of prison.

The middle districts came next, where successful werewolves ran security firms and witch consultants lived in comfortable condos, playing by society's rules in exchange for their piece of the pie. They'd traded their wildness for stability, and I couldn't decide if that made them smart or sad. Probably both.

Finally, the streets narrowed and the buildings grew more honest in their decay. Here, in the forgotten corners where rent was cheap and questions were cheaper, was where I belonged. The Moonlit Menagerie sat tucked between a pawn shop and a closed-down laundromat, its entrance elevated a few steps above street level like it was too good for the gutter even if it lived there.

A grin spread across my face as the bar's familiar neon sign came into view. My day job—if you could call a series of highly illegal acquisitions a job—was finally over. Now the real fun could begin.

I revved the engine once, twice, the vibrations humming through my bones like a promise. The elevated entrance practically dared me to do something stupid, and I'd never been good at resisting dares. I angled the bike toward the steps, popped a wheelie, and launched upward. For one perfect, weightless moment, I was airborne—then the tires slammed back down with a satisfying thud that rattled my teeth.

I spotted an empty space between a rusted pickup and a garish orange coupe that screamed "midlife crisis." Most people would've slowed down, carefully maneuvered into position, maybe even used their brakes like responsible adults.

I wasn't most people.

I cranked the handlebars hard right and threw my whole body into the turn, sending the bike into a violent drift. Because why the hell not? Drifting worked just as well as brakes—better, even, with the added bonus of looking badass.

The tires screamed against pavement, laying down thick black streaks as smoke billowed around me. The bike slid sideways toward the empty spot, and I timed it perfectly—jumping off mid-drift, my heavy boot kicking the kickstand down in one smooth motion as I landed in a crouch.

Perfect.

It was going to be perfect. I could feel it.

I snapped my fingers without even looking back, that delicious tingle of fae magic rippling through the air. The engine cut. The keys flew from the ignition. I caught them one-handed, already turning toward the bar entrance with a satisfied smirk on my face.

My telekinesis was getting so much better. Soon I'd be able to—

CRASH.