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.

The sound of metal meeting metal shattered my self-congratulation. I closed my eyes, already knowing what I'd find when I turned around. Sure enough, my bike had drifted just far enough—too much momentum, apparently—to kiss the bumper of that garish coupe. Well, "kiss" was being generous. More like aggressively made out with it.

"FUCK! Which brain-dead piece of shit just hit my car?"

The voice that followed was exactly what I'd expected—pure testosterone wrapped in an expensive suit. I turned slowly, keeping my expression neutral as I took in a man who clearly thought his car was a personality trait. Gym-rat build, tailored suit straining against muscles that screamed insecurity, face already turning an impressive shade of purple.

"Hey! Yeah, YOU! Stop right there!"

I raised one hand in a lazy wave, my version of an apology, but my feet kept moving toward the bar entrance. I had exactly zero interest in spending my evening dealing with this.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" His voice pitched higher, disbelief mixing with outrage. "Get your ass back here and deal with this! We're calling insurance, or the cops, or—do you even HAVE insurance? Because you sure as hell can't afford my Levante!"

I paused at the bar's entrance, one hand already on the door. The smart move would be to ignore him completely, but I'd never been particularly smart when it came to resisting the urge to be a little bit of an asshole. I glanced back over my shoulder, letting a smile play at the corners of my mouth.

"Here's the thing," I called back, my voice carrying that particular brand of casual indifference that I knew would infuriate him further. "You might not know this about me, but eight PM is when my actual life begins. Everything before that? Just survival. So I'm afraid I don't have time to stand around and play insurance adjuster with you."

His face went from purple to almost crimson. I could practically see the steam coming out of his ears as he started to storm toward me. Before he could close the distance, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the Patek I'd liberated from the mayor's office that morning. The diamonds caught the neon light, throwing rainbow fragments across the pavement as I tossed it to him in a perfect arc.

He caught it on instinct, his anger momentarily derailed by confusion. "What the—"

"Don't be so dramatic," I said, already turning back toward the door. "I didn't say I wouldn't cover the damage. That should more than handle it."

I watched his face as he actually looked at what he was holding. The confusion shifted to disbelief, then to suspicion so thick I could've cut it with a knife. "Fuck... this is... are these real diamonds? This is a Patek Philippe Nautilus?" His eyes snapped back up to me, narrowing. "This has to be fake. This is worth more than my car! HEY! Get back here!"