Crouching Tigress Horny Dragon (Fire Mates #3) (13 page)

Saw Ryan flung backward through the window, his face etched in rage and agony…

He shifted in her mind, transformed into the red dragon she’d been hunting for two weeks. Who would have thought only yesterday, she’d planned to kill him with her own crossbow? Was the weapon still hiding in the saddlebag compartment of her bike, waiting for her to use? Was her bike still in the alley behind the bar she’d finally tracked Ryan to?

“It is,” a familiar male voice said above her. “But I think you’ve got a parking ticket.”

Deanne jerked her head up, a soft gasp falling from her as her gaze connected with Ryan’s.

He stood beside her, dressed in what were clearly not his clothes, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie snug on him, the black camouflage cargoes swimming on him so much, a distant part of Deanne wondered how they didn’t fall from his hips.

She stared up at him, her heart wild. “I shot my father in the face with his crossbow,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered himself down to a crouch beside her and brushed his knuckle over her cheek.

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” she continued.

“No matter what it is,” he said, cupping the side of her face in his palm, “I hope you’ll let me help you through it.”

She swallowed. Closed her eyes.

“Deanne?”

His soft murmur caressed her mind.

“The mating fire has passed.”

He was correct. That hungry, insatiable need to be with him, to fuck him and be fucked by him, was gone.

And yet…

Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. “Are you sure?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am. It’s been more than twelve hours since you strutted into the bar, offered to buy me a drink and then demand I dance with you.”

Deanne’s tummy fluttered. “So why then do I still want to be with you?”

His smile stretched wider. Turned into a grin both playful and full of an emotion she could only describe as hope. “Because I’m the most incredible, amazing, sexy, funny, awesome, witty, intelligent guy you’ve met in your entire life and you want to spend the next five hundred years getting to know me better?”

Hot tears stung her eyes as a wobbly laugh fell from her. “That could be it.”

He pulled a smugly elated face. “Hell yeah, that’s it.”

“What happens next?” she asked. “I’m not going to lie, I feel very messed up. Is there such a thing as dragon-shifter therapy? Because I think I’m going to need it.”

He smoothed his thumb over her bottom lip. His eyes softened as he drew his head closer to hers. “Ours is an ancient and close-knit society, babe. And we always help our own. Always.”

She closed her eyes and turned her face into his palm, pressing her lips to its center.

Our own.

The words filled her with an optimistic warmth and sense of belonging unlike any she’d felt before. And then she frowned. “What about what happened in your hotel room?”

He echoed her frown, although there was no anger in his eyes. “Yeah, about that…you kinda blasted me through a window.”

Guilt laced through her. “I didn’t want my father…Julian…to kill you. And that’s what he wanted to do.”

Ryan let out a soft chuckle. “Trust me, the feeling was mutual. But I figured you were protecting me.
And
him. Which I understand. It was a fucked-up situation.”

“It was.” Her throat thickened. The memory of her father’s cold hatred, rage, and disgust twisted her stomach.
Was
he dead? She doubted it; she’d only shot him in the cheek, but at close range with a high-powered weapon designed to pierce the hide of a dragon. And if he wasn’t dead, was he now in the hospital? Would he accept what she’d so violently and wordlessly demonstrated? That their relationship was over? Or would he come after them both? Kill them both?

If he tried, what would she do? Kill him first? Or try to talk him out of it?

Frown deepening, she swallowed. “Hotel security arrived just as I… They saw me holding his crossbow. Saw me…”

She faded off. Grief sliced at her, followed immediately by anger at the man who’d robbed her of everything she was meant to be. Meant to have.

Ryan brushed a knuckle over her cheek. “The other thing about dragon shifters? We’re rich. Like, filthy rich. It’s a perk I can’t really explain. Has something to do with how long we live, ancient connections, and wise investments. And rich people can afford to pay smart people,
influential
people, to make things go away. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always the Cleaners. Those guys know how to make a mess like this disappear quickly.”

Deanne let out a ragged sigh. “I don’t even know how I should be feeling right now. About me. About you. I can’t believe you came and found me, after what I did to you in the hotel.”

He leaned closer and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “However you want to feel, babe. I’m here for you, no matter—”

A faint, single crunch of gravel underfoot sank into Deanne’s ears. A single step with a distinct weight shift she knew well. Recognized through decades of schooling.

The step of the man who had trained her to hunt. And to kill.

She spun around, her heart smashing into her throat at the sight of Julian standing on the gravel path.

Oh God, he found it. He found it, and he found us.

His right cheek was a hunk of raw, torn meat. Blood oozed down his jaw, glistening in the cold morning sun. In his hands was his crossbow, its blood-drenched bolt cocked and leveled at her.

No. Not her. Ryan.

Single-minded and determined. That was her father. That had always been her father, and it seemed a crossbow bolt to the face fired by his daughter didn’t change that. He had a target in his sights and nothing would stop him.

Nothing.

His gaze flicked to hers. Their eyes locked.

“No, Julian
,” she pleaded, feeling Ryan rise to his feet behind her. Feeling his rage begin to boil the air… “
No. Stop. Please. Before it’s too late.”

“For the glory,” she heard her father whisper, his focus sliding back to Ryan.

He squeezed the trigger.

Her world erupted into fire. Exquisite agony and pleasure engulfed her. Her bones torn and remade. The molecules of her very existence altered. She changed. Transformed.

Shifted.

In a heartbeat.

Just one.

And as Ryan’s rapture filled her head, as his voice sang in her mind—
my dragon!
—Deanne planted her clawed front feet on the ground, snapped open her wings and incinerated the crossbow bolt cutting through the air toward her with a single blast of fire.

Incinerated the bolt.

And the man who’d fired it.

“Shit,” Ryan gasped behind her.

Shit
, he breathed in her mind.

Wings still wide, body thrumming, Deanne watched as an icy Chicago gust of wind blew away the ashes that were once her father. A sense of loss washed over her, there and gone as quickly as Julian’s remains.

Holy fuck, I love this woman.

She swung her head to look at Ryan standing behind her, awe on his human face, and blew a gentle stream of warm air at him.

He closed his eyes against the warmth for a moment before offering her a slow smile. “Ready to begin your
real
life, my Fire Mate? With me?”

If you’ll have me,
his voice sounded in her mind,
I’ll be with you every step of the way and make sure nothing and no one hurts you again.

“If you’ll have me,” he repeated aloud, placing his palm on her tail with tender care, the words low and husky.

Just try to get away from me
, she answered.

His smile widened. Relief and delight shone in his eyes. “Excellent. Feel like getting our scaly butts out of here?”

Hell yeah.

And before he could move, before he could shift into his dragon form, she launched herself into the air with a powerful thrust of her wings and snatched him up with one clawed foot.

Exhilaration rushed through her, as powerful as the wind in her face. She beat her wings—her
wings
—and soared upward into the sky, Ryan’s delight filling her heart as his laughter filled the air.

She let out a roar and swooped toward the closest sun-lined cloud.

No more hunting for her.

It was time to fly.

Savage Australis, Book 1

Dublin—Four Months Ago

T
he stink of sex, sin and death seeped into Declan O’Connell’s nostrils, overripe and acrid all at once. His lips curled into a silent snarl and he stepped deeper into the dank, dim building, the hair on his nape prickling.

This is not right.

The thought sent a ripple of tension through his already tight muscles. It
wasn’t
right. The whole night hadn’t been right; the anonymous tip about his sister’s killer, the insistence he be here—at this place—at this time, the derelict, abandoned condition of the building. It didn’t add up.

McCoy’s not here, Dec. Shit, he’s never been here. You can’t even smell him on the air. Face it—this was a set up. And you’ve just walked right into it.

The snarl on his lips turned into a low growl and he felt the muscles in his body begin to coil tighter. Stretch. Grow.

Change.

Teeth grinding, Declan forced back the beast, denying it control of his body. He didn’t know who had brought him here under false pretence—more than one person wanted him dead, and not all of them knew what he truly was. Better to walk out of the situation, not lope out on all fours.

A soft sound—barely louder than the snap of a dry blade of grass—shattered the silence of the derelict brothel and Declan froze.

He
wasn’t
alone. Someone was—

The dark blur hit him from the left. Hard.

Something large and heavy crashed him to the ground. Teeth, long, sharp and slick with saliva, snapped at his face. He was barreled across the debris-strewn floor, chunks of concrete and shards of broken glass grinding into his knees and elbows, biting into his flesh even through the leather of his jacket. His favorite Levi’s tore but he didn’t give a rat’s ass. Not with a fucking huge, black wolf trying to tear his throat out.

The animal lashed out, razor-sharp teeth missing his neck by a hair’s width. Declan felt hot saliva splatter his cheek. He struggled on his back, pinned to the crap-covered floor by the wolf’s writhing, savage weight. The stench of urine attacked his breath, invaded his senses with the mark of an animal Declan had tasted before.

His eyes snapped wide open, locked on the burning, iridescent gold stare of the wolf attacking him.

You!

The word formed in Declan’s head. Cold. Furious.

Seconds before the beast in his own blood roared into existence and he changed. Human muscle into canine. Man into wolf.

He bucked the animal off him, snapping at its soft underbelly as it flipped and twisted to the side. Warm, coppery blood filled his mouth and throat. He leapt onto all fours, staring at the black
loup garou
, smelling apprehension and pain leech from it in thick, sickly waves.

Baring his teeth, he held its gold stare, his growl low.
You’ve fucked with the wrong wolf, asshole.

“Gotcha.”

The voice—low, smug and female—sounded to Declan’s left at the exact second something sharp, pointed and icy sank into his neck, right at the spot where vein became jugular. Intense cold, like the breath of Death itself, consumed him. His muscles contracted, his heart seemed to swell and, wracked in pain, he collapsed to the floor.

Incapable of movement.

Trapped. And utterly vulnerable.

Sydney, Australia

R
egan Thomas hated the dark. The dark kept secrets. Hideous secrets. Secrets of pain and torture and human brutality. The dark allowed man to commit all sorts of horrendous acts in the name of progress. In the name of science. The dark allowed rich men to get richer on the corpses of creatures unable to defend themselves.

Men like Nathan Epoc.

Turning the narrow beam of her flashlight on the solid, steel door before her, Regan felt her hackles rise. Of all the arrogant men of power in this country, Epoc was the worst. Every day his labs in Sydney discarded close to a hundred animal corpses—all maimed, sliced, injected and tortured to death.

A snarl curled Regan’s lip. Science. To this day, she still could not decipher
what
Nathan Epoc produced in the name of science, apart from dead animals. Despite only arriving in the country two years ago, he was now one of the wealthiest men in Australia. No one, however, seemed to know what the hell he actually did. Mystery shrouded what went on behind the electrified fences and impenetrable walls of his windowless buildings, out here in the southern suburbs of Sydney.

Regan placed her black-gloved fingers on the door’s security panel—flashlight beam a narrow point of illumination in the pitch black of the corridor—and keyed in a five-digit sequence. It had taken five tedious dinners with Epoc Industries’ chief of security to procure the password: one night of bad food, bad personal hygiene and very bad wandering hands for each digit.