Dragon's Mate: A DragonFate Novel (The DragonFate Novels Book 4) Read online

  He was alone, naked, and two seconds from the biggest climax of his life. He clenched a fist and pounded it against the floor.

  So close.

  She’d planned it that way.

  Why?

  Rania was losing her edge.

  How had she come so close to making love with a dragon shifter? Was she losing her mind, too? Why would she even risk the possibility of conceiving a Pyr son? Maeve would probably count that as nulling out Hadrian’s death—one more dragon shifter cancelled one less—and would insist that she fulfill another assignment.

  She’d flung herself out of the lair and into the forest nearby, shifting shape so that she manifested there as a swan. She’d managed to seize her clothes on her departure, but not her dagger.

  Rania felt flustered and chose the swan form on purpose. It gave her a moment to collect her thoughts. In swan form, her thinking was much more linear, so it seemed irrational that she’d forgotten her objective for even a moment. She groomed herself, smoothing her feathers into place with deliberate gestures. It was impossible to miss the cut wing feathers, which didn’t help her to dismiss her thoughts of Hadrian.

  The sooner this dragon shifter was dead, the better.

  Rania sorted out her clothes, hidden beneath her feathers. She had to be able to shift smoothly and not end up in her tights in a tangle. That calmed her, too. It was imperative that she retrieve her knife, and not just to finish the assignment. It was part of her collection and specially selected for this assignment. It was sharp and lethal, a beautiful weapon that she could rely upon.

  She wasn’t going to start having doubts about the untimely demise of this dragon shifter. She’d chosen Hadrian, and there was no changing that now.

  He was the one.

  Rania realized that there was a car driving down the narrow lane that led to Hadrian’s lair. She moved closer to watch, curious, still in her swan form. The car stopped at the last curve and she could see that a woman was driving it. The woman studied the vehicles in the driveway as Rania watched. There were two Land Rovers, a blue one and a green one. The blue one had been there when Rania had first arrived, so the green one must be Hadrian’s. The woman’s indecision was as clear as her longing, and Rania wondered who she was—and what she had to do with Hadrian and the Pyr.

  The woman was pretty, with long red hair that she’d tied up in a ponytail. She frowned at the house, seemed to wipe away tears, then shook her head with frustration. Was she a girlfriend? An admirer? Rania wasn’t sure, but she memorized the license plate for future reference.

  The woman backed up the car and abruptly turned around, grinding the gears, then drove away from the lair so quickly that Rania had to jump back to be hidden in the shadows.

  Once the woman was gone, Rania shifted back to her human form. The clipping of her feathers had followed her between forms: her fingernails on that hand looked as if they’d been trimmed shorter than the others. Rania wished she had a way to make the nails on both hands match.

  Maybe she’d use Hadrian’s clippers once she’d finished her assignment. She smiled at the image of herself, fixing her nails over the body of her victim. No, she’d go straight back to Fae to collect the reward she’d earned. There’d be no more time in the mortal realm than was absolutely necessary.

  Rania turned up the collar of her coat, shivering a little at the cooler air. Her resolve grew. It would be evening soon and she wanted to ensure that Hadrian didn’t live to see the dawn. This assignment would only get harder the longer it lasted, given the persuasive charm of this dragon shifter. As she walked toward his home, that white glow began to burn a little brighter and she steeled herself against the direction that it turned her thoughts.

  She wasn’t going to think about being cheated of a second massive orgasm.

  She wasn’t going to go back for more of that.

  She’d wait until the Pyr went to sleep, then strike like a cobra in the night.

  Hadrian would never know what had hit him—and he’d have no chance to persuade her to forget her oblication to Maeve.

  By dawn, she’d be done.

  Three

  Why had Hadrian’s mate disappeared in that exact moment? Why would she sacrifice that pleasure?

  Something else was more important.

  Maybe she had doubts about the firestorm.

  It only made sense that she might be uncertain about having his son. He’d lived his whole life waiting for the firestorm, but it was a big expectation to spring on someone within moments of meeting.

  He recalled that ring on the chain around her neck and wondered if there might be another reason. Was she in love with another guy? Was that part of the reason she’d agreed to Maeve’s bargain? Or had her heart been broken so badly that she never wanted to get involved with anyone again.

  When it came to his mate, Hadrian had questions for his questions. He pushed his hands through his hair, then frowned at the realization that it was the second time she’d disappeared. She’d vanished into thin air when they’d been fighting, too. Plus, an ability to spontaneously manifest elsewhere would explain how she’d gotten into his lair without tripping any alarms in the first place. The dragonsmoke wouldn’t have been an obstacle to her, but the plain old alarm system should have worked. Make that three times. Hadrian had to admit that he hadn’t been thinking clearly since arriving home, thanks to the firestorm and the fact that his mate was trying to kill him.

  He had to lift his game or she might succeed.

  Alasdair was sure the firestorm was real, but maybe she was deliberately using it against him. She might take advantage of how distracting it was. After all, she had motivation. She was trying to save herself and her twelve brothers. Hadrian could understand that.

  He had to be ready when she returned. He pushed to his feet and picked up his clothes. Hers were gone, which meant she’d made some fast moves. He was impressed.

  Where had she gone? There was no glow from the firestorm, so she wasn’t close. He supposed the possibilities were infinite—or close to it. She might even have gone to Fae. He had no idea.

  When would she be back? Hadrian doubted he’d get a lot of warning when she did return. She’d probably manifest right beside him, a blade at his throat. His heart skipped. She was a hunter: she wouldn’t take the chance of the firestorm’s light announcing her approach.

  But he had her knife. She’d definitely come back for her weapon.

  She’d tried to retrieve it twice already.

  He picked up the dagger and took it with him into the bathroom. If she wanted to reclaim this weapon, she’d have to fight him for it first.

  He eyed his own reflection before turning on the shower, noticing how the kiss of death had changed. He turned his head and it caught the light. It looked like a piece of embedded jewelry, but its chill went right to his marrow.

  Was the firestorm the reason it hadn’t worked? Or was it just working slowly? Hadrian wished he knew.

  His mate might wait until he was asleep to attack. That’s what Hadrian would have done in her place. He’d have to be both lucky and fast to evade her then.

  He had to find a way to improve his chances of survival.

  What if he didn’t survive? Under a hot stream of water in the shower, he forced himself to consider the worst case scenario, of dying soon, before satisfying the firestorm. What a waste that would be! But sadly, it wasn’t out of the range of possibilities.

  He wasn’t going to wallow and he wouldn’t feel sorry for himself. He would make a plan and execute it—no pun intended.

  He’d make every moment count.

  The first thing Hadrian had to do was start replicating those gloves. If nothing else, he’d leave a legacy that counted. He called to the guys in old-speak as he dressed so they’d know they wouldn’t be interrupting anything when they returned to the house, then considered her dagger again.

  Why this one?

  Hadrian picked up the knife, testing the weight of it in his
hand. It was a good weapon, well-balanced and beautifully made. It was ornate and unusual, and its characteristics might give him some insight into his mate.

  “What’s that?” Balthasar demanded when Hadrian strolled into the kitchen. He was already making pasta and Alasdair was stirring sauce. They were both trying to avoid showing their curiosity, but Hadrian thought his lair reeked of their unasked questions.

  “The weapon my mate used to try to kill me,” he said, setting it on the counter.

  “This time,” Alasdair added. “Last time, it was her kiss of death.”

  “Which apparently should have worked.” Hadrian addressed Balthasar.

  “That’s probably Lila’s doing,” Balthasar said. “Anticipating two kinds of shifters helping each other would be a stretch.”

  Hadrian shook his head. “She said it shouldn’t have made a difference. It’s a wound no one can heal.”

  “Then why aren’t you dead?” Balthasar asked. He got pasta bowls from the cupboard and the two Pyr served up a hot meal.

  “I’m not sure that she even knows.”

  “Trust you to break the rules,” Alasdair teased and they grinned at each other.

  “It’s an expectation I don’t mind challenging,” Hadrian said, his gaze drawn back to the dagger before he sat down. “Thanks, guys. This smells great.”

  “Hunger is the best sauce, as they say,” Balthasar agreed easily.

  “So?” Alasdair demanded as soon as Hadrian had taken a bite. “Did you satisfy the firestorm?”

  “No.”

  “What?” his friends demanded in unison.

  “She can vanish into thin air.”

  The other two Pyr exchanged a glance. “Is that a swan maiden thing?” Alasdair asked.

  “Or just her thing?” Balthasar asked.

  “I think it’s her thing. She’s an assassin for the Dark Queen, and has to take thirteen lives to free herself and her twelve brothers. I’m number thirteen.”

  “As if Maeve would keep any deal,” Alasdair scoffed.

  “I mentioned that to her. She seems to trust Maeve.”

  “But she’s a swan maiden,” Alasdair said. “That makes her a shifter and puts her on the list of Others that Maeve is planning to exterminate.”

  Hadrian shrugged. “She doesn’t seem to think that applies to her. I wonder why.”

  “You won’t be able to do much about it when she finds out she’s wrong about the Dark Queen,” Balthasar noted. “You’ll be dead.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hadrian said.

  “You said you were number thirteen,” Balthasar said. “When she kills you, she’ll go to the Dark Queen and find out that there’s a technicality and that the deal isn’t done after all. You won’t be able to defend your mate.”

  “I understood what you meant. I just think we might be able to free her brothers another way.”

  “Which means you need to change her mind.” Balthasar shook his head at the low chances of that.

  “Why you?” Alasdair asked.

  “She had to pick one of the Pyr. She hates blacksmiths, so I won the lottery.”

  “Why?” Balthasar asked.

  Hadrian shrugged again. “I don’t know yet.”

  “You might never know,” Balthasar noted.

  “She could have picked Quinn,” Alasdair said.

  “She said she doesn’t want to orphan his kids.”

  Balthasar laughed. “An assassin with a soft spot. That’s interesting.”

  “It’s an inconsistency, which is interesting,” Hadrian said.

  “Maybe it’s because of the firestorm,” Alasdair suggested. “It might be making her sentimental.”

  Hadrian snorted, unable to imagine that possibility. “No. I think it’s about principle.”

  “Are we positive the firestorm is real?” Balthasar asked.

  “I am,” Alasdair said.

  “Me, too,” Hadrian agreed. “It doesn’t seem to be part of her plan either. I sensed that she was surprised, too, and affected by it.” Hadrian picked up her dagger as his friends ate, and examined it, trying to avoid any discussion of how close he’d come to satisfying the firestorm.

  His tactic didn’t work.

  “But you didn’t satisfy it,” Alasdair said, insisting on clarity as he often did.

  “You’re not too nosy,” Hadrian teased and they all laughed.

  “We need to know if the spark of the firestorm will reveal her presence,” Alasdair said.

  “Like an early warning system,” Balthasar agreed.

  “I think she’ll manifest quickly and strike,” Hadrian said. “But I don’t think she’ll target you. Principles.” He nodded, convinced of that.

  “Are we going to be collateral damage?”

  “I don’t think so. But stay out of the way, just to be sure.”

  Balthasar snorted. “Don’t go confusing her motivation with yours.”

  “I don’t think we’re that different.”

  Balthasar pointed his fork at Hadrian. “That’s the firestorm talking.”

  “So, what about her knife?” Alasdair asked, indicating the weapon in Hadrian’s hand.

  “It’s a ceremonial dagger,” Hadrian said, showing his friends the curved blade. The hilt was an open oval, with a grip on one side and a dragon on the other. The dragon covered the back of his hand when he held the grip. “It’s called a bichuwa,” he said with appreciation. “I’ve never seen such an ornate one.”

  “Where’s it from?” Balthasar asked.

  “India,” Hadrian said. “The name means ‘the sting of a scorpion’. These ceremonial daggers always have a curved blade. Frequently they have an oval grip like this that wraps securely around the hand as a knuckle guard.” He tested it, stabbing with the blade. “Good steel. Gold ornamentation. Very, very nice.”

  “You sound flattered that she picked a good weapon,” Alasdair teased and Hadrian grinned.

  “I am. It even has a dragon on the guard.” He turned the blade. “That’s the place for a protective demon. Hey, maybe that’s why she couldn’t kill me with it.”

  Alasdair rolled his eyes. “The ornamental dragon protected you? I don’t think so.”

  “Like to like. Who knows?” Hadrian was still admiring the weapon. “It’s ceremonial but it will definitely get the job done quickly. This blade is sharp.”

  His friends exchanged a glance and shook their heads in unison.

  “I’d rather be slaughtered cleanly with a good blade than be hacked to death slowly with a dull one,” Hadrian said.

  “There is that,” Balthasar agreed.

  “No one wants their heart carved out with a spoon,” Alasdair noted, and they smiled in unison at the movie reference.

  Balthasar finished his pasta. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Gloves,” Hadrian said. “As many as possible and as soon as possible. Thanks for dinner. I’ll probably work through the night.”

  “I can call someone about getting the window fixed,” Alasdair offered.

  A glow appeared then around Hadrian’s hand and they simultaneously fell silent to stare.

  “She’s closer,” Alasdair whispered, as if she might hear.

  Hadrian wondered whether her senses were as keen as his own. “But not approaching anymore.” The light wasn’t getting brighter. “She’s watching.” The hair prickled on the back of his neck that she was stalking him. Would she give him enough time to arm his fellow Pyr? Would she satisfy the firestorm before she kept her pledge to Maeve?

  Alasdair shuddered, then got up to clear the dishes.

  “I’ll be in the studio,” Hadrian said, rising to his feet with purpose. He didn’t want his fellow Pyr in the vicinity when his mate came for him, just in case.

  “You think she won’t come after you there?” Balthasar asked.

  “I think she has strong feelings about blacksmiths, and every tiny bit I can shake her judgment is a good thing.” He pursed his lips. “I think sur
prise throws her game a bit, and I’m not too proud to use it.”

  “We can defend you,” Alasdair offered.

  Hadrian shook his head. “Let her come. Let her try.” At the sight of his companions’ obvious doubts, he grinned. “You’re forgetting that the firestorm is on my side.”

  Night fell slowly, beautifully, darkness claiming the sky in increments. Rania watched the stars come out high overhead. Would she miss them once she was Fae? Would she be able to return to this realm once her ability to manifest elsewhere was reclaimed by Maeve?

  She shook her head, disgusted that she could be so whimsical, even for a moment. Stars were unimportant, compared to freedom.

  Rania stood, arms folded around herself, and locked her gaze on Hadrian’s lair again. She’d smelled their meal, which made her own stomach complain. When had she last eaten? She liked to fast a little before she struck a lethal blow, but this kill was taking too long.

  A van had arrived with new panes of glass for the broken window after the Pyr had eaten and Hadrian’s friends had come out to help the man carry them into the lair. It was hard to believe that his friends were both dragon shifters, as well, and she doubted that the handyman had any idea of their nature. He’d left as the sun was sinking, and the sound of his truck quickly faded from earshot. Creatures rustled in the fallen leaves of the forest, but otherwise, it was quiet.

  She’d watched the silhouettes in the living quarters, then realized there were only two figures there. That was when she’d noticed there was a light in the studio.

  An orange light.

  Rania moved through the forest silently until she was alongside the studio. She was still a distance away, so the firestorm’s light burned but not too brightly. She wished its flame was a little warmer, as she could have used the heat. At least there was no one around to notice its peculiar glow, a light in the forest where there shouldn’t be one.

  Through the windows of the studio, she saw Hadrian, silhouetted against the orange fire of his forge. He was working, sparks flying. He wore goggles, gloves and a leather apron, and seemed to be cutting something. She smelled the fire and the steel, the ash and the iron, and it should have fed her resolve.