Chapter 9

"What the hell is the matter with you?!" she screamed.

When Gajeel recovered from the initial shock of her anger, he closed the door to their room to keep her voice contained, locking the deadbolt. She had started pacing furiously.

"Stupid, Gajeel," she muttered.

He didn't know whether to challenge her or be turned on by her. She was turning an impressive shade of red. From her elegant neck to the crown of her blue hair, a mixture of embarrassment, rage, and beer. She had paced a few steps away and he took advantage of the lull, pulling his cloak off from around his shoulders and tossing it over the back of a rickety chair.

"Why're you mad, shrimp?"

She turned on him, "Why'm I mad? Because you almost hurt that guy! All of them!" she gestured wildly, and pointed her finger into his chest, "He was stupid, but wouldn't've felt the need to stop you if you weren't hurting me!"

He grabbed her offending hand angrily, throwing it down to her side. She jerked the sleeve to her right arm down, extracting her limb from the collar, and brandishing her bare, imprinted muscle. Red bands circled it, clearly defining where his fingers had been. It would bruise, certainly. He felt a deep sense of remorse when he also noticed a similar purplish marking around her wrist, from when he had grabbed her days before. His eyes tightened with anguish when he realized she probably had more around her neck, hidden by her cerulean locks.

"You can't treat me like a rag doll," her fuming continued, "if you'd've asked, I would've come...you big gorilla," she tacked on the insult as a last minute jab. Though it did not faze him.

He approached her with heavy steps, tossing her body over his shoulder, and dumping her on the bed. She lost her breath to object, but immediately righted herself to stand on the mattress, his back turned away from her and walking towards the door. He hadn't said a word, just stood there as she raved with a blank expression. Did he even hear her?! She looked around for something, anything to chunk at him. She spied a metal vase on the nightstand.

He needed to leave, to clear his head. Pantherlily was in the stables; he could check on him, make sure he hadn't chewed through the doors to prove a point. That is, until a hollow, metallic clunk echoed against the back of his head. He stopped in his tracks, glaring over his shoulder at the seething culprit. She was unafraid, but alcohol did that to people. He had meant to knock her down, put her in her place. He intended to belittle her, bring her to her knees. He was going to give her a true reason to never cross him again. He was the Black Steel Dragon, after all.

But there was fire in her eyes; a defying glint that he recognized. With every step his anger dispersed, bleeding out like hot air leaks into the cold night. He moved too quickly; he was already in front of her. The bed, plump as it might be, was low, almost set flush against the floor, but it had an advantage. While on the floor, she was only as tall as his chest. Now, standing on the pallet, she was as tall as he was.

Her gaze didn't falter. His blood red eyes hypnotized her like a cobra and its prey. He broke eye contact first, for a millisecond, sparing a fleeting glance to her lips, coming back to her eyes. The uneasiness in the atmosphere caught fire, and she blinked. Now taking him in, his warm eyes bespoke a loneliness and longing she had only heard about through her books. In truth, he was not as frightening as she first thought. He could have killed her, or let her be killed, a long time ago. Yet, he hadn't. Either the reports were wrong, or this was a different man.

She brought her hands up, fixating on his parted mouth, and leaned into him until she could taste his ragged breath on her tongue. She touched his hard jaw with gentle fingertips, hoping he would kiss her and release her from his fiery, blood red spell.

A light knock sounded at their door.

They halted, reality rearing itself. He was the first to turn away, and stomp towards the door. A boy stood on the opposite threshold, their saddle packs in hand. Gajeel took them and nodded his thanks. He closed the door slowly, not sure how to return to the room and face the humiliation that awaited him. He wanted her, bad enough that he regretted not kissing her. He should have kissed her.

An ugly truth erected itself from the back of his mind. This was not the plan.

He set the bags on the desk and gutted up enough courage to at least peek to see what she was doing. Her one arm still hung out the top of her dress, and she was sitting, not standing. She crossed her ankles, hands folded carelessly in her lap. She didn't appear sad, just pensive. She tore into the awkward silence with a breathy statement.

"We should go to bed."

He nodded in agreement. It had been a difficult couple of days and some peace would be welcome. However, he wasn't about to sleep on the floor, and the chair didn't look as though it could hold his dead weight on its best day. He gave a fleeting thought to sleeping with her, but would not allow himself to continue that as it would be giving in to the erogenous part of his brain that always managed to get him in physical trouble where she was concerned.

She shimmied under the thin blanket, not bothering to change her clothes for she had no others, and flopped onto the only available pillow.

The pallet could comfortably fit two people with enough space for a small third person. She patted the space in front of her, suggesting her so-called bodyguard join her. She could tell he wanted to decline, but too many nights in the wilderness made him too weak to refuse. He tossed his shirt and boots, taking a second to distinguish the light from the candles, and crawled into bed.

Their previous almost-kiss did not ignite another heady moment when he laid down with his back to her, leaving a full body of space between them. He decided to sleep on top of the blanket and use his arm for a pillow. In truth, he needed proper rest, and a scrawny, blue-haired temptress was not going to prevent that. He felt her curl against his back, her forearms pressed flat to him and her head between his shoulder blades. She wasn't nearly as cold as before and he was grateful for that.

"Sorry for hittin' you," she whispered.

He wasn't expecting her to speak and when she did, he didn't move.

"Sorry fer grabbin' you," he answered.

He could feel her smile and he reacted in kind.

The rain had managed to lighten, but would not cease until the wee hours of the night. The occupants of room seven slept soundly after a while and did not notice the shifting shadows beneath the bolted door, nor did they notice the handle of that locked door turn for entry.