Sirens and Scales

by Kellie McAllen

  “Kseniya? The door?” Djibril asked.

  She glanced up at him, then peered back down at Elena. An idea wormed itself in. So she turned the screen his way and spoke out loud. “Lena, meet Prince Djibril. Gabe, this is my cousin, Elena.”

  “Hi, hottie,” she heard Elena say in her sing-song voice.

  Djibril gave that cocky smile that had made him so famous with the tabloids and affected a small wave.

  Kseniya turned the phone around, catching his arched eyebrow, then handed him the keys to the front door. While he opened the door and directed the driver in with their luggage, she returned to the conversation.

  “So,” Elena started. “Gabe, eh?”

  Drat, she so wanted to wipe off that knowing smirk on her cousin’s face. “That’s how he’s asked me to call him.”

  And frankly, she hadn’t meant to call him that. The name had just popped out. She’d refused to use it before, because doing so would mean a certain level of familiarity she wasn’t ready to have with the—she had to reluctantly admit—gorgeous male specimen undertaking this mission with her.

  Elena giggled. “Okay, fine. Getting off your case now. So, London. What are you guys even doing there?”

  She shook her head. “Long story.”

  Which she also couldn’t divulge to anybody not involved with the task. Even her beloved cousin.

  “Any idea when you’ll be back?” Elena’s face fell suddenly. “I need to go to the healer’s house in less than a month, Kiki. No one knows when I’ll be back. I … I need to see you before I go.”

  Kseniya sobered, too, yearning now to reach out across the screen to hug the poor girl. This apprenticeship would take her at least a decade away from her family and anyone she even knew. Her years of medical school in Moscow had been nothing compared to this.

  “I promise you, my darling. I will be home before you leave.”

  Elena gave her a tremulous smile and blew her a kiss, as if words proved too much to force out of her clogged throat right then. Kseniya understood, and she blew a kiss back before cutting the call. Pensive, she stepped into the house and paused in the entrance lobby.

  The front door closing with a soft thud jerked her out of her somber mood, and she stared wide-eyed at Djibril standing across from her. They were alone now.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  She forced a smile. “Nothing. It’s a … family matter.”

  Belatedly, she realized this could be construed as being rude. But when she peered at Djibril, she found not a frown but a concerned furrow on his face.

  When he gently grabbed hold of her elbow to then take her into the front room, making her sit on the plush couch, a stunned numbness prevented her from protesting, instead letting him take her over. The energy pulsing through her at his touch proved more comforting somehow, telling her she did well to let him take care of her, no matter how much her mind protested.

  The dragon energy didn’t lie …

  He sat down next to her, one long leg crossed over the other, ankle over knee, his whole body angled toward her, as if ready to listen.

  “Go on. Talk to me,” he said, further reinforcing her initial assessment.

  If she were to look this in the face for what it was, she’d almost say Djibril Vasiliev was trying to be a friend to her right then.

  She blinked. No, she must be imagining things again. He despised her, didn’t he?

  But then, he reached over and settled his index finger under her chin, making her look up at him. Gentle heat diffused from the point of contact down her neck and throat, reaching her heart to warm up the cold that generally suffused her rib cage.

  And when she looked into his eyes … Those flames again, burning brighter now, pulling her into the depths of his gaze, of his soul …

  Strangely, the heat didn’t bother her. She liked it. She wanted it. Who had ever heard of ice and fire mixing? This was the peak of insanity.

  Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips to bring a semblance of moisture back. His eyes followed the trailing of her tongue, and before she knew it, it was no longer his finger under her chin but his whole palms holding her face and his lips on hers.

  Wait … Crown Prince Djibril Vasiliev was kissing her? Her?

  As her mind battled out with this startling realization, her body received a different memo, one that ignited all her senses and made dry heat combust in her every cell, the fuel necessary for this conflagration to continue burning being more from him. More of everything.

  No, in fact, he wasn’t trying to be her friend. Again, the energy never lied.

  Her lips parted, allowing his tongue entrance. The hold of his solid palms increased just a tad along her jawline as he pressed closer now, taking what she was offering and coaxing more from her, a request she willingly responded to.

  Her hands came up to grasp the lapels of his shirt, to run along the smooth skin of his warm neck, to graze the mildly scratchy sensation of the slight regrowth of hair on his shaved head.

  His touch moved down, pushing her jacket off, touching her flesh, caressing, kneading, taking her up to heights she’d rarely seen as he lay forward and pushed her back into the sofa. His big body covered hers, and it felt so right, the realization stunned her.

  Kseniya couldn’t say when their clothes had flown off, when they’d become naked with their skin melting against each other’s and their limbs entwining in a sinful tangle. He caressed up her arm, then down her side, over her hips and thighs, spreading fire everywhere. His chest pressed to hers, he kept kissing her, never breaking the connection as their bodies joined, becoming one for a split second. Just like that, their contrasting natures fused together, until she was unable to tell one from the other.

  So right.

  New sensations built inside her, amplified by the fact she’d never been with another dragon before—only humans. She felt herself soaring as if in beast form, flying above a magnificent mountain, the deep blue ocean beneath her. Nothing beat that feeling—except perhaps this. Except Gabe’s touch. Adrenaline flowed through her, driving her higher and higher … Soon, orgasm raced through her, breaking her into tiny little pieces as he also shuddered against her, gaining his release.

  They’d come together. When did that happen, ever? Not to her.

  When the storm abated, she lay there panting, out of breath in a sort of suspended reality. Heat and cold swirled within her lazily, engaged in a sensual dance. From the corner of her eye, she checked him out. A film of sweat clung to his skin, and his eyes were closed as his chest heaved with exertion. The air fairly crackled around them like a giant plasma ball embracing them. From deep inside her being, her dragon roared, echoing in her mind—an unmistakable call through all her senses, to let her know something momentous had just occurred. Something her dragon already seemed to know …

  Wait, what? Panic started to set in.

  What had really happened there? She’d had whirlwind sex with the man she abhorred, with the enemy, even.

  Her wide eyes took him in, every inch of golden brown masculine perfection, as horror now flooded her.

  Then, seemingly recovered, he propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her, eyes narrowed.

  A sigh escaped him. “We’re not enemies, Kseniya.”

  She blinked. Had he been thinking the same thing as her? He couldn’t have read this from her mind—they weren’t in dragon form to be able to speak telepathically.

  So yes, it must be that he’d had the same thought process.

  “Do you regret this?” he asked.

  It seemed to her she heard a hint of trepidation in his voice. Did he have doubts? Looking into his eyes showed her the flames once more, but they appeared subdued, guarded. Almost apprehensive, she’d say. And this made her think. Did she regret this? It had taken her by surprise, and that was an understatement, but she couldn’t deny this thing had been building ever since they’d laid eyes on each other, even before the king had bound them together.
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  So no, she didn’t regret this. However, she never mixed business with pleasure, so what was she going to do now? Bridges burned and all that—there was no going back.

  She gazed into his eyes again, then licked her lips. “No, Gabe. I don’t regret this. Do you?”

  “No.”

  A single word—two letters—but she heard so much in there. Things she couldn’t acknowledge, let alone address right now. Her life allowed no place for this, whatever it was. And with the heir to the throne, no less. Her family’s sworn enemy. She repressed the urge to shake her head—the same head she needed checked.

  Best she didn’t delve too much into this state of affairs. Not right now. There’d be time for serious stuff later.

  “Kiki?”

  “Yes?”

  “This couch is getting a little cramped.”

  A burst of laughter gurgled out of her, then she grew quiet as she looked into his handsome face.

  “What?” he asked after she’d perused him for long seconds.

  “It’s the first time you’ve called me Kiki.”

  “You called me Gabe. To my face. Twice already.” A hint of humor rumbled in his tone.

  Familiarity … and could that exist more between two people whose bodies no longer had secrets for one other anymore?

  “So, Kiki. Couch?”

  Carpe diem and all that.

  “I think you mean bed,” she said with a smile.

  His turn to chuckle. “Yeah. That.”

  “Stairs, then last door on the left.”

  He extricated himself from her and stood. Her yelp turned into full-on laughter as he pulled her into his arms and started to carry her toward the stairs.

  Dusk was now upon them, and they wouldn’t be meeting with Max Damiani until the next morning. Time could stand still until then …

  A soft noise awoke Kseniya later that night. Djibril slumbered away next to her, a strong arm—thank goodness his left, thus not his dominant, bulkier one—splayed across her waist and pinning her to the bed.

  She paused and listened. There. That shuffle again. Like footsteps. No, booted tread trying not to make a noise … Sharpening her dragon senses, she pulled in a whiff of air. Sweat, both male and female. Metal. Then that whiff of something chemical trying to cloy a deeper scent of rancid odor …

  Holy shit! She was smelling Kevlar, and the vests had to have been worn at least three or four times to stink this much to high heaven from body odor and humidity. And if she listened hard to the patter of the feet—yes, they were moving not heel to toe like in normal steps, but landing their weight from one side of the foot to the other, aka the spy walk that rendered footsteps silent. She was only hearing that because of her dragon senses.

  There were people inside the house, experienced ones, at that, who weren’t here for fun.

  As she glamored clothes onto her, she shook her sleeping partner. “Gabe! Gabe, wake up!” she hissed softly.

  He turned groggy eyes onto her, then they went wide as he sat up in bed. “What is that stink?”

  “A tactical team.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Come on, we need to get out of here.”

  “But, to go where? And why are they here? Whatever they are.”

  “Glamor clothes on, quick. For fuck’s sake, Gabe, don’t fight me on this and just do as I say.”

  A measure of frost seeped up into him as he braced himself away from her. Still, he appeared to have the good sense not to question her as he made jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved sweater materialize on him.

  Kseniya crept to the bedroom door and paused to listen. She heard five distinct treads. Holy fuck! What were five soldiers doing in her house? Cold sweat broke along her spine. Had her cover been compromised? Did they know she was Corpus? You didn’t send a five-plus team to take out a target. No, such a big number meant a hostile extraction. They must have it in for her.

  Drat, when was the last time she had been to this house? She’d come here a few years ago, after becoming fully fledged with the agency, and she’d taken a turn downstairs. In the pantry, behind a hidden panel. She cursed. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for the time being.

  She turned back to Djibril and motioned for him to follow her. There was a service staircase at the back—with any luck, the TAC team wouldn’t have it covered. Or very loosely covered. She was counting more on that.

  They managed to shuffle to the staircase and go down. The pantry being conveniently located just next to the last step, they made their way in and she closed the door, putting Djibril on the lookout.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked as his gaze darted between her and the keyhole allowing him to see inside the darkened kitchen.

  “Hold on one sec,” she said as she reached the far wall, then turned left and searched for a dent in the wood paneling. Her finger finding the notch, she pulled it open and stared at her paltry stockpile. Damn it, why had she never thought this could happen? She should’ve prepped better.

  Djibril left his post to come to her side, stopping abruptly at the sight that greeted him. “What the—”

  She sighed, already reaching for the dark gray Glock 26 9-mm semi-automatic. She’d stashed it here because it would be great for concealed carry, but thank goodness it could also deliver potent shots if needed. After checking it was loaded, she grabbed the two spare magazines on the shelf and pushed them inside her jeans pockets. Next, she reached for the small, 2-inch barrel Chiappa Rhino revolver and turned to Djibril.

  “Ever used one of those?” she asked.

  His eyes boggled. “Are you insane?”

  She thrust the gun into his right hand. “Just lift, aim, and squeeze. The recoil shouldn’t be too much for your dominant hand with this one.”

  He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. She huffed. They didn’t have any time to lose, needing to get out of there and in one piece ASAP.

  “And don’t hold it like that! It fires from the lower chamber on this model, not the one up. You’d burn your thumbs with them so close to the barrel.”

  She rushed to the door and took a look outside the keyhole, her ear listening for sounds. The treads seemed far off, so they might have a chance to make it to the back door. It would be a long sprint along the exposed space of the kitchen, but it was their only shot. Carefully, she opened the door and peered out. The coast seemed clear.

  “Follow me,” she told Djibril, then went out with her gun close to her and all senses on high alert.

  Everything was quiet for the first half of their trek. Djibril wasn’t used to the layout, and he bumped into a chair at the dining table. He’d made no noise, but their luck had run out. Garbled words were spoken behind them; it seemed to her they said, “I have the shot … repeat … have the shot.”

  She was already close to the locked door, and as she turned, her eyes caught sight of the barrel of an assault rifle being leveled at them … until she gauged the aim and saw it was directed at Djibril, not at her. What the heck? She barely had time to jump in front of him and push him to the floor before the bullet was whizzing past them. Swiftly, she swerved around and aimed her gun, then squeezed the trigger on the Glock hard to override the safety and let the shot ring out.

  She hit her target in the forehead, just above the night vision goggles barring the man’s eyes. He went down without a sound, his body crumpling to the floor.

  But before she could recover, someone else appeared in the stairway and shot at them. Reflex made her throw herself over Djibril, the bullet finding her side and nestling in it with a burn of hot fire that her ice dragon swathed in cold through instinct.

  Even as pain rolled through her, she flipped onto her back and aimed her gun at the interior entrance to the kitchen. One shot, two, three—and just as many assailants going down. But where was the damn fifth fucker?

  The answer came when the glass on the back door broke and the fifth member of the team leveled his assault gun in. Kseniya tu
rned and shot, but she also heard another gun being fired. It hadn’t been from the tac team, who all had sophisticated suppressors installed on their weapons. No, it had come from the Rhino, fired by Djibril’s hand.

  She glanced over at him, seeing the glazed look of shock in his eyes, his arm still rigid with the revolver aimed at the intruder.

  She had to get them out of here. This place was compromised. After scrambling to her feet, she pulled him up, and they made their way over to the back door to exit the house, needing to step over the prone body of the woman they’d shot to get out. A quick peek at her showed two GSWs—one to the neck, which had probably nicked or shattered her jugular and killed her on the spot, and the other embedded center mass in her Kevlar vest. Both bullets were 9mm, and she couldn’t distinguish which gun the neck one had come from. It could just as well have been Djibril who had lethally shot her.

  And looking at him showed her he had come to this same conclusion. He swayed, and she reached out and steadied him. In doing so, the wound in her side started to burn again, and she hissed a long, drawn-out breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Warm liquid started to flow over her hip. Blood. Using her glamor, she applied pressure on the spot and gathered all her strength to pull Djibril with her. They had to get away.

  He came along like a meek lamb as she steered him to Notting Hill Gate Stop where the tube took them to Oxford Circus Underground Station. Thank goodness it was Friday with the twenty-four-hour tube running. No one paid attention to others on the tube, not even to celebrities. Thirty-six minutes after leaving the Kensington house, they were in SoHo.

  Their destination, Vince’s on Old Compton Street, was still open, and she sent silent thanks out that she wouldn’t have to go wake up the owner and have him open the place for them. In the darkened alley next to the bar, she paused and wrapped some more glamor around them. Under usual circumstances, they wouldn’t be allowed to alter their appearance and pass for other people, but King Anton had waived that restriction off for this mission in case they might need to go incognito.

  Using the magic pulled some more on her already taxed energy, but she forged on and leaned a little more on Djibril as they entered the place and made for the bar—and more importantly, the tall, bald man standing behind the counter and with tattooed sleeves up his bulging arms.