“D for dynamite?” you whisper, for once mindful of everybody’s ears, although it doesn’t matter when another explosion drowns out your words. You’re starting this chapter the same way you start every chapter, with nothing under your feet and no idea what’s coming next, and you’re afraid of what might happen if BTS lets go of you. He seems to know what he’s doing. And he’s trying to help—a definite perk in a world where it seems like everyone is out to get you. We’ve also established your attraction to him is off the charts. You’re in no hurry for this hug of necessity to end.

And then your feet touch solid ground, and he shouts, “What do you think you’re doing?”

You’re back in the conservatory, which has seen better days. Broken glass and assorted plant parts litter the scene. The chef and security guards one and two are hiding behind the overturned table. It provides little cover for them. You have no trouble seeing security guard number two’s hands on the ominous plunger atop an ominous box, and when you follow the box’s ominous wires to an ominous block of dynamite at your feet, the sense of foreboding overwhelms you. You know they probably won’t push that plunger down with BTS standing right next to you. His employees display a shocking level of devotion to him. They’d never hurt him. You, on the other hand…

You shove BTS away and bolt from the scene.

“Y/n! Wait!”

You ignore his shout and keep running. Your mind is racing as fast as your feet.

B for banana peel. C for candlestick. The chef with the candlestick in the conservatory? Really? you rage at me.

Yes, really. Everybody likes a good game of Clue. You should watch where you’re going, though. It’s nighttime in this world, and if you’re not careful—

“Augh!” you shriek, tripping over something in the dark and sending yourself sky-high. Well, not really, but you are airborne again. Maybe I should give you wings. This is happening a lot, and BTS is not always around to catch you. Like right now. You just face-planted in the grass for the second time in less than an hour.

“Are you okay?”

The roared question startles another shriek out of you, and then you remember the iridescent dragon with the voice that matches neither her size nor her personality. You lift your head, and there she is, flitting around you with obvious concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I—” You try to stand and squeak as pain shoots through your right ankle, and then you fall on your rear with a thud. Twisted ankle. Bummer. But that’s the first injury you’ve sustained in this story despite three attempts on your life, so on the whole, you’re doing pretty well.

Very funny. I could use a little help here, you think.

“Y/n! Are you okay?” BTS is asking this time, and he drops to his knees beside you, surveying you for any damage. Under normal circumstances, you would feel self-conscious about your wrinkled, grass-stained blouse and your skirt riding up to expose an extra couple of inches of thigh, but nothing about your circumstances is normal.

He’s breathing hard from chasing you. His pectoral muscles are straining against his buttoned shirt, and a thin layer of perspiration has broken out on his forehead, blending with the dried blood from his head wound. The iron and salt mix with his natural scent to create an intoxicating bouquet. His eyes wander down your legs to your feet, and he shuffles toward them, reaching out a gentle hand to touch your ankle, which is already swelling. You lick your lips.

“Does this hurt?” he asks, poking your ankle.

Your stomach growls. “A little.”

He sits back on his haunches and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “And now you’re hurt. Great. Please don’t sue me for this.”

“Wasn’t thinking about it,” you say, barely thinking about the conversation.

He scoops you into his arms and stands, bringing his neck very much within biting distance, and your heart is now trying out for a marching band again. One bite. One little bite. How much could it hurt?

“I should just take you home and be done with this,” he says, oblivious to the danger. “But my car’s in the shop, and my driver’s license is expired, and there’s no way I’m letting my chauffeur drive you home. He’d probably drive you straight off a cliff at this rate. Do you have anyone you can call to pick you up?”

His vein is throbbing in his neck.

“Nope.”

“Then I guess you’re staying here tonight. You’ll be safe in my room, at least. I don’t allow any servants in there unless I give them express permission. The bed’s plenty big enough for us to keep our distance, and—”

Uh oh. “There’s only one bed?”

He glances down at you. “Why would I have multiple beds?”

“You couldn’t tell your servants to stay out of another room?” you ask, doing your best not to launch yourself at his throat. “I’m not comfortable sharing a bed with you.”

“I just told you: there’s only one bed.”

You look up from his delicious neck to his confused expression. “In your room, yeah, but you live in a mansion. Surely there are other beds around.”

He furrows his brow. “Why would there be other beds?”

“Um… for any servants who live here and any guests who come to visit?”

“Servants don’t have to sleep, and I don’t have guests over.”

You open your mouth, close it, and open it again. “I’m pretty sure servants have to sleep, just like everybody else.”

The genuine bewilderment on his face is mystifying to you. “Uh, no? The chef stays in the kitchen and cooks. The security guards stand at their posts and look intimidating. The maid appears when there’s a mess and cleans it up. They’re servants.”

Let me interrupt this program to remind you that this is a web novel, and it does not have to be realistic. Rich people own companies and use them to make more money. What those companies do is irrelevant. Same with the servants. They’re nameless side characters, and in the grand scheme of things, they don’t matter.

Maybe that’s why they’re trying to kill me! you think.

It’s possible. Oh, and I really wanted to use the one-bed trope, so there.

I hate you.

No, you don’t. You’re just upset because your morals and your appetites are conflicting in a major way right now. Don’t worry. You will not kill BTS or anybody else tonight. I’ll work something out.

You don’t even have a plan?

Shush now. You’re missing the story! Well, you’ve missed the entire walk back to BTS’ bedroom, although granted, that took much less time than it should have. We have to keep the plot moving, after all. He is now setting you on his bed, which is approximately the size of Rhode Island, and your ankle has swollen up like a balloon.

“I’ll get some ice for that. Don’t move,” he tells you. Then he leaves, and you’re alone with me, your ankle, his bedroom, and oh, yes, the dragon.

She lands on the comforter next to your ankle and stretches her long neck out to sniff it. “That looks like it hurts.”

“It does,” you tell her.

“You know, you could just ask the author to heal it for you.”

You stare at the miniature dragon. “What?”

“The author. Whenever you ask her for help, she makes stuff happen. Haven’t you noticed that?”

“You know about her?”

The dragon takes flight and lands on your lap, then sits in that prim, proper way that reminds you of a cat, holding her neck straight up in the air and lifting her chin. “Of course I know about her. I’m a key element in the plotline.”

You tilt your head to the side, studying the colorful creature. “Wait. She’s adding a new prompt every chapter, right? Were you part of the last prompt?”

Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! The prompt for the last chapter was this: ‘You don't expect much excitement in your quiet garden until the day a dragon suddenly appears among the flowers.’

You roll your eyes. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you failed on that one. I expect nothing but excitement in this story.”

But it was nice and quiet there for a few minutes, wasn’t it? And I make the rules. So I did not fail, and there’s something you really should ask this adorable little dragon.

You sigh. “Whatever. Okay, so…” You study the dragon for a moment, wondering what you’re supposed to ask her, and then it hits you. “Oh! I’m sorry! What’s your name?”

A mischievous smirk curls across her scaly lips. “It’s about time! My name is—”

The door opens, and she slams her mouth shut, taking to the air and flying away as BTS crosses the room toward you with ice packs in hand.

“Here. This should bring the swelling down,” he says. He lifts your leg by the calf, careful not to touch your ankle, and sets one ice pack beneath it. Then he lowers your foot to the bed, slow and gentle, and he finishes by draping the other ice pack on top of your ankle. “Do you need some pain medicine or something?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m fine. Why are you being so nice to me?”

He averts his eyes and turns his back on you, but not before you see his cheeks turning pink. “I told you: I don’t want a lawsuit.”

You feel a smile spreading across your face. “Oh, come on. You’re in the mafia. What do you care about a lawsuit? If I’m a problem, you can just kill me and dispose of the body somewhere nobody will find it, right?”

“Don’t say something like that!” He’s at his bureau now, pulling clothes out of the drawer, and you would swear the tips of his ears are red.

“Why? Because you don’t want to kill me? Or is it because…” A thought occurs to you. “Wait. You don’t want to be in the mafia, do you? Is that what the meditation and the frayed tag are all about? You’re trying to get out of the mafia? But you’re engaged to a rival mafioso’s daughter, aren’t you? What are you—”

He slams the drawer shut and storms across the room to you. “Why can’t you ask one question at a time?” Then he throws something at you and storms toward the bathroom, with little puffs of grey clouds following in his wake. A tiny lightning bolt sparks within a cloud. The subsequent roll of thunder sounds rather like a mouse clearing its throat.

You giggle and look down at the clothes in your hand. It’s a shirt that’s big enough to function as a nightshirt for you. It smells like him—sans blood and sweat, of course. You set it aside for the moment, thinking you should ice your ankle a while longer before moving, and the dragon returns. She lands on your outstretched hand.

“You two are so cute!” she gushes.

“Um… thanks. So, what’s your name?”

“My name is—”

The door bursts open, interrupting her once again. A knight in a full suit of shiny silver armor stands there, sword drawn, looking as though he just left a historical reenactment. The dragon jumps off your hand and plasters herself against your hip, where the knight can’t see her.

“Where is it?” the knight asks in a commanding voice. “Where is the dragon?”

Oddly enough, you don’t find him intimidating. You sit up straight, crossing your arms over your chest and doing a good impression of the bossy CEO you are. “This is a private residence. You can’t just barge in here and make demands like that. I suggest you leave before—”

The two security guards grab the knight by the arms and drag him out of the room. He yelps in surprise, sounding very unknightly, and as the door closes, you hear someone shout, “Deploying Plan B!”

Banana peel versus knight. That would be funny to see.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” the dragon says, doing her best to keep her roar quiet as the words tumble out of her. “It isn’t ‘the frayed tag’ or ‘a frayed tag.’ It’s Freytag, and that’s me. I’m Freytag. And he’s trying to kill me, and if that happens, you’ll never get out of this story, and I really don’t want to die, so if you could keep me alive until the end, I’d really appreciate it.”

She’s already adorable, but when she grabs your skirt with a tiny claw and looks up at you with those big, puppy-dog eyes, your heart melts.

“Of course I’ll keep you safe! I’m a vampire and a werewolf. I can handle him, no problem.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! If there’s anything I can do for you—wait, you’re a vampire? Are you, um…” She glances over her shoulder at the closed bathroom door. “Hungry?”

“Starving! But I can’t bite him, or anybody else! I’ve never been a vampire before! I don’t want to drink blood, or lick sweat or tears! That’s gross! And unethical! Well, the blood part is unethical, anyway…”

“Don’t worry. I know exactly what you need. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!” you say as she takes flight, envisioning the knight chasing her with that sword. “Where are you going? Maybe I should—”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. He’s accident-prone. I bet he got a concussion from the banana peel. I’ll be back soon!”

You have so many questions.

And then the bathroom door opens, and all of them vacate your mind at the sight of BTS. He’s wearing a blue plaid long-sleeved pajama shirt and matching pants, and there’s nothing alluring about the outfit, but it’s him. The guy who’s so hot that he puts professional models to shame. The guy who keeps making excuses about why he’s so nice to you. The guy who makes your inner wolf prance and yip like an excited puppy.

He pulls back the comforter on the other side of the bed, and then he stops. “Do you need me to help you get to the bathroom or something?”

“Oh, uh, no, I think I’ll be fine.” You get out of bed, holding onto it for support and hopping on your left foot, and he sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Hold on. I’ll help.” He comes toward you and scoops you up, and you realize you could get used to this. Being carried around, that is. Not fighting the urge to bite his jugular. You could do without that part.

The door to the hall flies open, and he spins to face it. “What are you—”

“Deploying Plan E!”