Dragon Protectors: Shifter Romance Collection

by Lola Gabriel

  “Ah, Your Highness! How lovely of you to join us! Can I offer you a cuppa?” Professor Kincaid called sarcastically. The rest of the class tittered. “I am afraid I have sent the cabana boys out for grapes, but they should be back soon to fan you with palm fronds.”

  “I’m sorry,” Poet replied quickly. “My dog—”

  “Your dog ate your homework?” he interjected, and there was another round of nervous laughter. Poet wished the floor would open beneath her and swallow her whole. “That excuse is so undergraduate, Miss Mueller.”

  She lowered her head and sank into her chair, swallowing the embarrassment in her throat.

  “As I was saying,” the grey-haired curmudgeon continued, casting Poet a dark look. “In all parts of the world, on every continent, there have been mass similarities, dating back to before Christ. It has puzzled anthropologists and archeologists for centuries, given the seclusion of some sects until recent history. That is where those harebrained, pseudo-science nut jobs begin touting about ancient aliens.”

  Poet pulled out her laptop and tried to catch up with the class, her ears honed on what Professor Kincaid was saying.

  “This is not news to any of you as graduate students, of course, but I would like your final paper to reflect something about these remarkable findings, however you would like to incorporate them. You know that the final paper will be worth twenty-five percent of your grade.”

  There was a low groan among her classmates, but Poet was not concerned. She was looking forward to finally unveiling her research. She had worked hard on her paper.

  Professor Kincaid retreated to the podium, his hand on the trigger to the projector, and he began to discuss recent discoveries in China. Poet leaned forward with interest.

  Is he going to say what I think he is? she wondered, her heart catching.

  One of Poet’s biggest fears was that her discovery was going to be exposed by someone else before she was able to publish her thesis. But when the professor continued to speak, Poet realized that it had nothing to do with her research, and she settled back against the wood chair.

  “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” Mya Christensen whispered, elbowing Poet in the ribs uncomfortably. “I think you like it when the old man checks you out.”

  “No!” Poet denied hotly, a blush coloring her cheeks at the thought of something so vile. She scowled at Mya. “Shut up!”

  Her classmate leered at her, winking a dark brown eye at her. “And yet you blush like you secretly hope Old Man Kincaid will bend you down in front of the hall and ride you like a cowboy from the goldrush.”

  “Will you please shut your trap? I am trying to hear what he’s saying!” Poet snapped, her face crimson with humiliation.

  Of all the seats to take, you had to find one beside Mya. She’s so nasty and mean, Poet thought, furious with herself for not paying closer attention.

  Mya was reminiscent of the mean girls often found in high school. She was probably Poet’s penance for never having to deal with women like that when she was younger. She couldn’t escape them her entire life, could she?

  “He’s just rambling about the same shite he’s been going on about all semester, anyway,” Mya told her in a bored tone. “You didn’t miss anything. I think he’s forgetting what he’s teaching.”

  Poet knew the professor was retiring soon, and she wondered if his advanced age had anything to do with it. From what she remembered, Geoff Kincaid had been a fixture at Oxford since the late sixties. If anyone was due to live in the sun, it was him.

  Still, Poet knew she would miss the old man, even though she was scheduled to graduate in May. She looked at him as a mentor, even if he saw her as a perpetually late thorn in his side.

  “How is your thesis coming along?” Mya asked, and Poet wished she would stop talking. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than necessary. Moreover, she simply did not like Mya. It was as if the girl had always harbored some secret resentment toward Poet, even since they were undergrads.

  Lately, Poet felt as if Mya’s animus toward her was growing, but she had no idea why. Perhaps it was all the stress of midterms coming up to her. It seemed to her that everyone hated her.

  Poet nodded, reluctant to talk about her research while also not wanting to be rude to Mya, who was at least acting half-civil in that moment.

  My God, this is Mya acting half-civil, Poet thought in disbelief. She really is a bitch, isn’t she?

  “When are you going to tell us what you’re working on?” Mya insisted, and Poet bristled.

  Because of who Poet’s father was, she wasn’t taken seriously often, but Poet had worked hard over the years to build her reputation as a diligent student, impressing even her most hardened professors.

  Professors like Kincaid, for example.

  However, her fellow students seemed more taken by her title of princess than by the brain tucked behind her shoulder-length waves of blonde hair and her pert, freckled nose.

  “When it’s published,” Poet mumbled. “Like I keep telling you.”

  Of course, as soon as she spoke, Professor Kincaid looked at her with scathing rheumy eyes.

  “Is it not bad enough that you interrupted my class by being late, Your Highness?” he snarled, curling an already arthritic finger at her in reprimand. “You have to talk, too?”

  “You can just call me Poet,” she quipped lightly, even though her face burned with humiliation.

  Professor Kincaid’s eyes flashed with fury as the students chortled. “Why do you bother coming to my lectures, Miss Mueller?”

  “To learn, sir,” she answered promptly. “You have a lot to teach.”

  “And yet you seem to absorb none of it,” he growled, but Poet knew he did not believe that. It was merely his way to assert his authority by embarrassing her in front of the class, and she should have been used to it by now. He was just so good at it, though. “I would like to see you after class, Miss Mueller,” Professor Kincaid continued, his mouth forming a line of contempt.

  Poet had to get directly to her political science course across campus, but she wisely bit her tongue. She could afford to be late for that one. Professor Simon was much more forgiving.

  “Yes, sir,” she mumbled, sinking back into her chair as the lecture hall erupted into a mocking round of “uh oh.”

  She was going to need to do some damage control if she wanted to stay in Kincaid’s good graces. Being late was just about the gravest sin she could have committed against him. Again.

  “You’re in trouble,” Mya hissed in a mocking, sing-song voice at her side. “Maybe he’s going to put you over his knee and spank you, princess…”

  Poet bolted up and rose from her seat, glancing around the room for another free seat. Listening to Mya was giving her a headache. Ignoring Mya’s taunting look and the professor’s expression of dubiousness, she scooted toward a free seat near the front.

  I really should have stayed home today, she thought sullenly, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head. The lack of caffeine was affecting her more than she wanted to admit. Her mood was effectively ruined for the day.

  There was a gentle tap on her shoulder, and Poet turned back to look at a young man she did not know. That was why the simple connection of his finger to her shoulder shocked her so much, as if an electrical current had bolted through him and into her.

  “The good news is, he’s almost done blathering on,” he offered.

  Poet could not understand why everyone felt she was available for conversation that morning. She deliberately turned her back, unwilling to engage any further with anyone, even though she remained distinctly aware of the young man’s presence at her back.

  Despite the rain, she wished she had thought to bring her sunglasses and block out the furtive looks she was getting from the class. At the same time, she wanted to turn back and stare at the stranger behind her.

  Her curiosity got the best of her, and Poet whipped her head back
around to better observe his face. For a moment, she was taken aback by his handsomeness—she hadn’t instantly noted it, having wanted him to just leave her alone.

  He was unbelievably good-looking: an angular face was encased by a shock of gleaming chestnut hair, falling into a widow’s peak at his forehead. A set of intense blue eyes clashed with hers, and Poet marveled at how similar his were to hers, a light cerulean blue that rivaled the summer skies. His bone structure suggested an aristocratic air, with its firm jawline, high cheekbones, and lips too full to stop staring at. Even though he was sitting, it was easy to see his frame was solid and firm.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Poet asked. The young man chuckled.

  “You don’t know a member of your security team?” he asked pleasantly, his eyes fixed on the professor. Poet felt a wave of shock flood through her.

  “What?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “My job,” he replied simply, sitting back.

  Poet could not help noticing the way his muscles rippled against the thin material of his cotton shirt. She tried unsuccessfully to turn her head away, marveling at just how ripped he seemed to be, but she reminded herself she was indignant, not aroused.

  He would have to be ripped as a member of the King’s Guard, she thought angrily, guiltily shifting her eyes up past his wide chest to meet his gaze in frustration. That is why they hire men like these.

  But Poet had to admit, she had never seen a man like that, on the Guard or anywhere else. She certainly didn’t remember him as a part of her team. In any case, he should not be in her classroom.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. “We had a deal!”

  The young man looked blankly at her.

  “Princess?” he began innocently. “We have never spoken, so we couldn’t possibly have a deal.”

  Poet groaned, sinking back into her chair. It was useless arguing with hired muscle. He wouldn’t know what was going on.

  Never in class! He promised! she thought furiously. The minute she was finished with Professor Kincaid, she was going to deal with her father.

  It had been an ongoing battle since she had left the Island of Luxe for school in England. The king had insisted on round-the-clock guards, while Poet had only wanted to live her life like a real woman for once. Since she had no real claim to the throne, her life did not face the dangers some of her brothers did, but that did not ease King Henry’s mind in the least. Poet was his only daughter, and even on the secluded island under independent rule, he knew about the horrors of the world.

  There had been a fierce fight about what would transpire once she arrived in England, but they had finally reached a begrudging compromise where the guards could see her outside and nowhere else.

  “Papa, I don’t want to see them!” she told King Henry. “I don’t need a constant reminder that I am different. The press has already ensured that.”

  “Of course, my love. You won’t even know they are there,” he assured her. And then suddenly, six years later, she was conversing with one of them for the first time.

  Poet’s day kept getting worse and worse.

  Professor Kincaid dismissed the class, and Poet turned, scowling at the man behind her. To her surprise, he was no longer sitting there.

  Maybe he was an agent, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the emptying hall.

  “Miss Mueller,” Professor Kincaid called her, “with me.”

  The students began to file out of the room. Poet cast one last look around for the dark-haired man, but he was gone, causing a fission of alarm to slide through her. Before she could entertain the thought a second longer, her professor’s voice rang out.

  “Are you hellbent on giving me trouble today, Poet?” Kincaid barked, and Poet leaped to her feet, shuffling down the aisle to follow him.

  “No, sir, of course not,” she replied. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  He held up a weathered hand.

  “Save it for your peasants,” he sighed. “If you weren’t so damned intelligent, I would have had you thrown from my class at the beginning of the semester. No one wants a princess running amok in their classroom, disrupting the students.”

  “I am hardly a princess—” Poet started to say, and Kincaid again raised his hand to silence her.

  “I’m not here to discuss the semantics of your royal breeding,” he grunted. “As much as I don’t understand how Luxe managed to sustain itself, that is a matter for another class. Perhaps Economics.”

  Poet stared at him inquisitively. “If you’re not going to reprimand me, why did you ask me to stay?”

  Professor Kincaid grimaced. “I want you to tell me what I can expect from your thesis. You’ve been keeping it secret, and I want to know why.”

  Poet studied his face, wondering if he could be trusted. If she told him, he might think she was insane… but if she showed him her evidence, he would be as tied into it as she was. Still, it was only a matter of time before the truth came out, and it would be good to hear advice from a sound, third party.

  “I’m waiting,” Professor Kincaid snapped. “At my age, time is not a luxury I can afford.”

  Poet inhaled deeply and looked behind her to see if any students lingered in the room. She was relieved to see they were alone.

  “As you know,” she said slowly, “the idea of mythical creatures has existed for thousands of years. Since the dawn of civilization.”

  Professor Kincaid’s eyes narrowed.

  “Are you doing a thesis on unicorns, Mueller?” he demanded, and Poet laughed nervously.

  “In a way,” she admitted. “I believe I have proven the existence of witches, warlocks, and fairies.”

  Professor Kincaid snickered, turning his attention back to his papers at the pulpit. “First of all, this has been done to death. Witches, warlocks, sorcerers, fairies—this is all old news. The practice of witchcraft is still alive in the most modern of civilizations. They have been proven to exist. You are recycling an existing thesis, if not six existing papers. I expected more from you, Mueller.”

  Poet swallowed and lowered her gaze.

  “Shame on you,” he continued, grunting. “Well, shame on me for expecting more from you.”

  “My thesis is not about those creatures,” Poet mumbled, and Professor Kincaid looked up at her with myopic eyes.

  “Well?” he demanded with annoyance. “Spit it out. What is it?”

  Poet inhaled deeply. “I believe I can prove the existence of dragons. Real dragons, not just really big lizards.”

  Professor Kincaid seemed to freeze, his expression indecipherable.

  “Impossible on an evolutionary scale,” he said after a moment, but his tone indicated that he didn’t entirely believe his own words.

  “No,” Poet replied quietly. “It’s not impossible. I have proof, done my research. And not only did they exist thousands of years ago—”

  Kincaid’s head suddenly jerked up, and Poet watched his face go pale.

  “Don’t finish that sentence,” he rasped, beginning to cough, as if the mere idea was killing him.

  But it was too late. He had opened the floodgates, and now that someone else knew, Poet wanted him to know it all.

  “—they still exist today,” she finished. “There are dragons among us, and I intend to find one before the semester is through.”

  2

  Maximus glided gracefully onto the turret, his tail grazing the back of the castle as it wrapped around his massive claws curling to grip the stone. He stared out into the woods, his breath expelling in long streams against the driving rain. He was in no rush to retreat into his natural form and find warmth inside the castle, despite the chill surrounding him. He knew what waited for him inside: an irrational old man who was expecting news Maximus could not possibly provide him.

  One of these days, I am going to get out of this castle and leave Father to his own devices, he vowed, his glittering saffron eyes taking in the lush greenery without real
ly seeing it.

  Lowering his scaly head, he allowed the water to roll off his leathery skin and bounce to the ancient floor, cooling his overheated body after the flight he had just taken from Oxford. Slowly, his shape began to shift, and he reluctantly allowed himself to become human again, his broad shoulders overtaking the oily talons, his wings retracting into a muscled back.

  Maximus moved toward the small portal leading into the castle walls, wondering how long he might be able to hide out before King Rui learned he was home.

  Creeping down into the turret, a flurry of mice scattered at his footfalls, and Maximus paused to catch his breath. He found his heart pounding, but it had nothing to do with the trip he had just taken, nor with the impending meeting with his father.

  It was the image of Poet Mueller that caused his pulse to quicken, and for a moment, in the shadows of the stone walls, Maximus could almost see her, as if she was there with him. He had not expected her to be so beautiful, so fresh.

  When he stared at her face in detail for the first time, he had seen a certain vulnerability to her that had almost stolen his breath. Even in the aftermath of the rain, her soft blonde hair matted to her head, her mascara running slightly down her pale cheeks, her beauty was unbelievable.

  Watching her slip into the lecture hall, her face flushing with embarrassment, the freckles on her cheeks seemed to pop, even from the distance between them. Maximus silently willed her toward him, hoping she would take the empty seat in front of him before she settled in beside a girl with malicious brown eyes.

  Maximus had been tracking Poet Mueller for days, learning who she was and how she had come to be in Misty Woods weeks earlier. He had been pointlessly arguing with his father about the girl’s untimely appearance.

  “She must be stopped!” King Rui growled. “She will expose us and ruin everything!”

  At first, Maximus had rolled his eyes, knowing his father’s penchant for exaggeration and old-fashioned desire for war. At first, he had thought he was bored and looking for something to entertain himself, and Maximus had barely heard his father’s endless rambling about the unexpected visitor.