The Glutton Dragon's Witcher Caretaker

"Thirty million dollars isn't enough." The kidnapper's boot sent the black briefcase flying, cash scattering across the floor.

He pointed at me, then at Camilla slumped unconscious against the wall, his grin nauseating. "So you pick one to take. The other stays."

Lorenzo stood amid the scattered bills, his face ashen.

When he turned and our eyes met, all I saw was suffocating calculation and struggle.

Without any hesitation, his voice came out hoarse: "I'm sorry. Camilla has a heart condition—she won't survive the night here."

He avoided my gaze, the justifications tumbling out: "I know you've always been tough. Once I get her to the hospital and secure the rest of the money, I swear I'll come right back for you."

I didn't even waste energy struggling.

Because in the next second, the kidnapper cut her bonds.

Lorenzo scooped Camilla into his arms and strode toward the exit without a backward glance.

The heavy iron door slammed shut with a deafening boom, sealing his promises on the other side.

In the cavernous abandoned factory, it was now just me and five thugs with brutish faces.

"Well, well—" the leader sneered, slapping the flat of his blade against my cheek, his eyes murky with depravation. "looks like your rich boyfriend just dumped you. But don't worry, sweetheart. We'll take real good care of you."

The men around him exchanged knowing laughs, closing in.

Watching the pure malice in their eyes, I didn't scream. I just glanced at the locked door.

"Has Lorenzo gotten far enough away?" I asked, perfectly calm.

"Yeah, that coward's probably doing ninety by now." The leader sneered, reaching to rip my collar. "Right now, it's just us and you—"

"Perfect," I exhaled slowly.

The next second—snap.

His leer froze instantly. He looked down in disbelief—the zip tie around my wrists had broken like a piece of string.

"What the—" He'd barely gotten the words out when a massive shadow fell over him.

My human body tore apart inch by inch. Dark crimson scales erupted in a seething mass.

In under two seconds, a dragon over fifty feet long, wings nearly bursting through the steel rafters, occupied the entire space.

I lowered my massive head, molten vertical pupils fixed on the five insects frozen at my feet.

"Monster... it's a fucking monster!" After a brief paralyzed silence, one thug screamed and scrambled toward the exit on all fours.

Monster? I snorted sparks. Insulting little shits.

I opened my fang-filled maw and, like snatching treats mid-air, caught the fleeing man in one bite, then swept the rest of his paralyzed buddies down my throat in one smooth motion.

Crunch. The metal zippers on their clothes were annoying.

I wrinkled my snout in distaste, didn't bother chewing, and just tilted my neck back and swallowed them whole.

Burp.

I let out a deep, resonant belch. No rush to return to human—I sprawled lazily on the factory's concrete floor to digest.

I hadn't revealed my true form since I'd been with Lorenzo. Not in years.

My sister had drilled it into me from childhood: never expose yourself in front of humans, and absolutely never eat them.

Centuries ago, our kind had been too conspicuous. The Hunter's Guild had united to exterminate us, forcing dragons underground for generations.

Only in recent decades had we dared resurface, hiding behind the cover of modern society.

My sister always said the outside world had changed. Today's humans don't deal in magic but law, don't recognize bloodlines but diplomas.

When she'd literally kicked me into human society, she'd shoved a wad of cash and a credit card into my hands along with non-negotiable rules:

"Go to school. Don't cause trouble. Don't shift. And absolutely do NOT eat people."

That last one was underlined three times.

So I'd complied. To suppress my voracious appetite, I'd redirected it toward cooked food.

Because I ate so much, my allowance evaporated fast. To keep myself fed, I'd taken an off-the-books job at a street barbecue stand.

That's where I met Lorenzo.

Late one night near closing, he'd appeared in his tailored suit, perched on a flimsy plastic stool, and caught me demolishing dozens of unsold skewers in about three minutes flat.

When our eyes met, he'd stared at the mountain of empty sticks in front of me, silent for a long moment. Then he'd actually smiled.

"I did not see that coming. You can really put it away. Let me buy you a real meal."

It was the first time a human had ever offered to feed me.

At a high-end seafood buffet, I swept through three rounds of shellfish and cleared two rounds of desserts. The servers kept peeking out from the kitchen, whispering nervously.

Lorenzo sat across from me, his cigar-holding hand pausing mid-gesture. Instead of disgust, his eyes held something like genuine amusement.

"You know," he said casually, "I could keep you fed. Want to move into my estate? Unlimited food."

The moment I heard "unlimited food," my brain conjured images of walk-in freezers packed with premium cuts.

I wiped crab roe from my lips and answered immediately: "Hell yes."

From that day on, I officially moved into his estate, enjoying daily spreads prepared by his Michelin-starred private chef.

Once, while tearing into a charcoal-grilled tomahawk steak, I video-called my sister:

"Sis, I got a boyfriend. Not only does he cover everything, he gives me an insane monthly allowance. No more working at that dump!"

My sister had gone quiet on the screen, her golden vertical pupils narrowing. "Ever seen those Lifetime movies? You sure you're his girlfriend and not just his sugar baby?"

"More like his exotic pet," I'd said, tossing a stripped bone onto my plate without missing a beat.

After all, "keeping" a dragon sounded weird and borderline perverted. But thinking of him as a long-term meal ticket and myself as a well-fed guard dog with benefits? That tracked.

My sister had rolled her eyes hard. "Whatever. If he's that loaded, wire me some cash."

"I've got my eye on some limited-edition Birkins and custom jewelry that would look amazing in my hoard."

That bone-deep draconic obsession with hoarding expensive, glittering shit—truly eternal. I'd sighed internally but wired her a fat stack anyway.

My sister and I had shamelessly burned through Lorenzo's money. He was generous with me, so I'd returned the favor when it mattered.

Two years ago, Lorenzo had walked into a devastating ambush set by a rival family.

Following the scent of blood to a highway underpass, I'd torn the burning armored car door off its hinges with my bare hands and dragged him out.

He'd had a gaping chest wound, blood everywhere, heartbeat barely there.

I hadn't known how to call 911 yet. All I knew was that a dragon's heart-scale could force a dying body to keep going.

I'd shifted to dragon and physically ripped my hardest reverse-scale from my own chest—flesh and all—and shoved it deep into his mangled wound.

Watching his torn tissue regenerate around the scale, his breathing even out, I'd collapsed face-first into the rain-soaked mud and stayed there, feverish and half-dead, for three solid days.

When he woke in the ICU, every doctor called it a miracle. He'd believed them.

As for the weird scale-patterned scar tissue on his chest, it never occurred to him what it actually was. Just some freakish burn scarring, he'd figured.

Losing that scale had wrecked me. I'd spent two weeks bedridden at the estate, pale and weak as hell.

Lorenzo had stopped by once during that time. Seeing how drained I looked, he'd only frowned slightly.

"You look like death. Are you anemic or something?"

"Maybe," I'd mumbled.

He'd nodded and never asked again.

Looking back now, he'd never actually been curious about me.

Because that's all I'd ever been to him—a pretty, well-behaved pet that knew its place. Nothing more.