by Leigh, Lora
“Sons?” Ilya stared into the shadows of the room, not even daring to hope.
“A dragon creates a dragon, but it is his mate that nurtures, that gives mercy and compassion to the babe’s strong heart. I’ve told you this, Ilya. Rarely is a girl child born to a dragon, though your grandmother says one is coming soon.”
Mercy, compassion. Nurturing.
“Then explain what fucked up with me?” he grunted. “Even you know the darkness that lives inside me, Grandfather.”
His grandfather breathed out heavily.
“Fate will be cruel when a man denies it. Fate creates legacies, and those who will build upon it. Your father was strong. A warrior. A man of strong beliefs. He did not believe in what he could not see. The dragon called and he fought him, enraging the creature until he took the ink only to halt his fury.” Heaviness filled his grandfather’s voice and his heart, Ilya knew. “As I told him, the dragon can only guide you and only then if you open yourself to the song of his language.”
The song of his language.
More and more often after meeting Emma Jane he awoke with such a song like a vibration around him, pulling at him. There were those times when he knew dragon blood kin were near, when he sensed the dragon guards just out of sight. There were those times when his grandfather sent them against his objections.
“Grandfather, I have my ink and would mark my balaur pereche should my dragon release to one of us the image of his mate,” he made the formal request, the heir to the Dragon, who led the tribes.
“We are already on our way, though your dragon guards amass not far from you. The call they’ve heard has only grown more strident these last days.”
Yeah, he could see that, he guessed. Son of a bitch, this dragon shit was hell on a man’s nerves. He’d learned not to believe in fairy tales or legends, yet he felt as though he were living just that.
His grandfather chuckled as that thought went through Ilya’s mind.
“All dragons must know the darkness and suffer in it before they will find their light. It is the light that guides their wisdom and the strength of the next generation. Your mate Ilya, she is your light. She is the only thing that can still that darkness within you.”
And on that, Ilya cut the call.
Gustov Dragonovich laid the phone on the table in the RV traveling ever closer to the grandson who was more a son.
He sighed heavily once again and met the worried gaze of his still beautiful wife, Valaria. Age and all the lines of life’s travels were etched into their faces, but all he saw was the woman who stole his heart when he saw her smile.
“He is in turmoil,” he acknowledged. “What he senses is in conflict with all he knows. And all he knows is stained in blood. Lorena will haunt him as long as she lives.”
“Someone needs to kill that bitch and her demon husband,” she said, her pretty brown eyes snapping with her anger.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, holding his secrets for now, because sometimes in the telling of them, secrets are revealed. “Perhaps. But remember, love, dragons are sneaky creatures for a reason.”
chapter eighteen
Ilya jerked the door to the guest room open as Emma Jane was preparing to rap her fist against the wood. Who was more surprised, her or Ilya, she wasn’t certain for a moment, then decided it was most likely her. All he did was lift a brow and stare at her fist before meeting her gaze. The dragon watched her with careful curiosity, waiting to see what she’d do next.
“What is going on? And what the hell do you mean, you’re the reason I was attacked? No one could have known anything but for the fact that we had dinner with Nik and Mikayla,” she argued, disbelief completely filling her as she faced him. “You are making me crazy, Ilya.”
And that damned tattoo was more amused than outraged.
“Come on.” Stepping from the room, he gripped her upper arm gently and led her down the hall to her bedroom.
Escorting her inside, he closed and locked the door, breathing out heavily and shaking his head.
“I should kill Ivan.” He pushed the fingers of one hand through his hair. “That bastard has been the bane of my existence since I was five years old. Just one problem after another.”
But it was said fondly, like one brother about another.
“Yeah, I can tell he’s a real pain in the ass.” She gave a roll of her hand. “Get to it and tell me what the hell is going on.”
His eyes narrowed on her, the gleam of pale green glittering between thick black lashes. That was a sexual look, one of pure intent with no explanations forthcoming.
She moved several feet away from him.
“I want to know why you have this wild-assed idea someone is trying to kill me because of you. You can’t just throw something like that out and walk away,” she informed him with a hint of anger. “Especially when it doesn’t make sense.”
“I have enemies, Emma Jane. Russian enemies, as well as Romanian. We do not forget slights as Americans do. Vengeance, under certain circumstances, can follow from one generation to the next. Killing the offender is not considered the ultimate vengeance. Killing those they care for though is.” He stared at her with an edge of torment in his gaze. “I have such an enemy, and somehow, they realized you are important to me.”
Dragon’s mate, he’d called her, Emma Jane realized, the light to his dark. And he had an enemy who knew it.
That was bad, Emma Jane thought, for her it was incredibly bad.
Clenching her hands together, she swallowed tightly, seeing the rage still burning in his eyes.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, her voice trembling with the tears she wanted to shed for him. Tears he would never accept. “I can’t stay locked in the house twenty-four-seven.”
“I’ll fix it, Emma Jane,” he swore to her, striding to her quickly to take her into his arms and stare down at her with such a savage hunger she nearly lost her breath at the sight of it. “I’ll fix it, baby.”
Before she could she could ask how, before she could do more than part her lips, Ilya’s head lowered, his lips covered hers, and instantly the raging hunger burning in him surrounded her. And she reveled in it.
Her arms twined around his neck, her fingers sinking in his hair as she went on her tiptoes to get closer to him. His hands stroked over her back, pushed beneath her top, and found sensitive bare skin.
The rasp of his callused palms stroking from shoulder to hip, his short nails scraping against her, his lips and tongue stroking hers, drawing her deeper into a hunger that pulsed with tormented need.
His hands moved from beneath her shirt, gripped the hem, and pulled it up. She barely had time to lift her arms and the tank top was gone. One hand pushed between their bodies, licked the metal tab of her cutoffs, and pushed them, along with her panties, to the floor. A second to get rid of her bra and he was lifting her, pushing her legs around his lean hips as he released his jeans and drew the heavy flesh beneath the material free.
“I can’t wait,” he groaned, his lips moving to her neck, exciting nerve endings that were way too sensitive. “God, Emma Jane, I can’t wait.”
Her back met the wall and, cupping the curves of her ass, he lifted her until she could grip his hips with her knees, and he guided the thick erection in position to take her. A shattered cry escaped her as his lips covered her nipple at the same time the broad crest of his cock began pushing past the slick folds between her thighs.
Any bruises she had were forgotten. Pleasure, sharp and intense, overcame her senses. With both hands cupping her rear, he lifted her, then let her lower on the throbbing flesh. The firm suction of his lips on her nipples, one after the other as he worked his cock deeper inside her, taking her with hard, quick thrusts, retreating slowly, then filling her again, intoxicated her senses.
The friction of the hard throb of his erection, the feeling of being stretched, being taken by her dragon, was addictive. She was greedy. She wanted more and more, no matter how many times he t
ook her, all he had to do was touch her, look at her … God, all he had to do was breathe for her to want him
“Ilya,” she gasped, her legs tightening around him as his hands separated the curves of her rear, his fingers stroking through the narrow crevice.
The rack of agonizing pleasure she felt poised on became thinner, sharper. As his fingers played and the thrusts inside her became harder, she could feel the sensations gathering inside her, the tension becoming sharper, drawing her tighter.
When one finger pieced the entrance to her rear and entered with a shocking surge of piercing pleasure, she came and cried out sharply. When he added another and pushed inside her again, the white-hot explosion of piercing sensation, a pleasure that rode that sharp divide into pain, shattered her. She felt her senses disintegrating, exploding, ecstasy rushing through her with a force that seemed never ending.
It was never ending, because he wasn’t finished. When the first hard waves of her orgasm came, his fingers eased free, and he turned, making the trip to the bed. He lifted her free of the still furiously hard shaft.
“On your knees.” His voice was a hard growl, a dark rasp as she glimpsed the lust burning brighter than ever in his pale green eyes.
He didn’t wait for her to find the position he wanted. Turning her, he pulled her hips up until her knees were balanced at the edge of the bed, then his fingers slid in her hair, the tug of the strands an erotic pain as she lifted herself on her hands.
“There, baby.” His free hand ran over the side of her rear. “Just like that.”
His palm stroked across both cheeks and a second later landed on one side, not forcefully, but destructive all the same.
Oh God, that was good. She was panting, on the verge of crying for more.
“You have the prettiest ass,” he told her in that dark rasp his voice had become. “Let’s see how I can make it blush.”
The head of his cock pressed into her again. He thrust as his hand landed, pulled back, repeated. Controlled, deliberate, as he shook her to the foundations of her soul.
Her fingers fisted in the blankets beneath her, her head thrown back, his hard fingers holding her hair to keep her in the position he wanted her in.
“Feel good, pereche?” he groaned.
She shuddered, her vagina clenching on the flesh burrowing inside her, taking her with the maximum overload of sensation of his hand landing on her rear again. A heavy caress to each curve, his powerful body controlling hers, pushing her into that place where she was nothing but pleasure, one destructive white-hot flash of sensation at a time.
He didn’t rush, he didn’t hesitate at any time. The increased speed partnered with the increased heat on the curves of her butt, and his harsh male groans only pushed her higher.
“How beautiful you are.” The words sounded torn from his lips as he delivered another heavy caress. “Made for my touch, for my hunger. There is no other pleasure such as this. Fucking you, taking you … ah God, Emma Jane, you are clenched so tight and hot around my dick.”
He had to stop talking. She couldn’t take so many sensations combined with the dark sound of his voice.
“Ahh, pereche, you grip me so well. That sweet pussy rippling over me…” His voice harder, the words more accented, his thrusts increasing.
His hand landed on her ass again. Once more.
As she felt herself tightening for the ecstasy building inside her, he gripped her hips with both hands and destroyed her senses. The hard, driving thrusts, the abrupt penetration and release, pushed her into a cataclysm of exploding ecstasy.
The blinding waves of release tore through her, sending shudders racing through her body, tightening her to the breaking point and leaving her shoulders collapsed to the bed as she lost the strength to hold herself up.
“Ah, sweetheart, we are not done yet.” The silky promise in a dragon’s voice had her womb clenching again, but she was certain she was definitely done.
Only to find out different.
He took her like a man desperate to hoard the memory of the pleasure, pushing her from one orgasm to another, from one peak of sensation into another.
Her cries turned to whimpers, her pleas to shattered gasps, when all she could do was lift her hips and hold on to his shoulders when another implosion overtook her.
He kissed her, her lips, her neck and breasts. Licked them, bit with just enough force, just enough of a flash of agonizing pleasure, to send her over the edge again.
And he followed, plowing deep, hands locked on her hips, the powerful, muscled lines of his body sheened with sweat, his pale, pale green eyes burning bright.
She collapsed against the bed, exhausted, replete, just trying to catch her breath.
Long moments later she forced her eyes open as she felt him sit on the bed, a warm, wet cloth sliding over her arms, her breasts, and lower.
He did that every time, she thought, dazed. He cleaned the perspiration from her body but, oddly enough, left the slick essence of their releases on the folds of her pussy.
“You don’t wear condoms,” she said somberly. “You’re lucky I’m protected.”
The cloth paused at her hips for one second before he resumed the path he’d set himself on.
“I have never taken a woman without latex, until you.” The cloth slid over the top of her thigh. “I can’t bear the thought of anything between us when I feel your pussy rippling around me, coming for me. Would you prefer I wear one?”
The gleam of his eyes was still fever bright.
“No, I wouldn’t.” She wanted every sensation, every lush pleasure he had to give her.
Her lashes drifted over her cheeks when he finally finished drying the perspiration from her, slid in the bed with her, and pulled her into his arms. Her hand fell to his chest, against the tattoo she thought was so unique, and she fell completely into sleep.
There were things she needed to discuss with him, answers she needed to questions drifting just out of reach. But she said nothing, she couldn’t. Not when Ilya held her like this, when his hands caressed her without a need for anything more than her comfort, to ease her into sleep as he held her.
She loved him.
She loved him until when he walked away, she knew she’d grieve for him for the rest of her life. She’d go on, she’d force herself to find at least a measure of peace. But without Ilya in her life, she knew happiness would just be a glimmer of what-if.
What if she could have held her dragon? What if …
* * *
Ilya slid from the bed, careful not to disturb the woman sleeping so deeply beside him. Her palm slid from his chest to the pillow he placed against her before gently moving the long wave of hair from her flushed cheek.
Events were moving far too quickly to suit him now. Bitter acid roiled in his soul, mixing with the knowledge of what he would lose because of it.
Stepping back from the bed, he forced himself to dress, to tuck the weapon his at the back of his jeans. Pushing his feet into his boots, he left the bedroom, forcing himself not to look back at the woman who held every part of his being.
Avoiding the planks on the floor that announced anyone’s passage, he moved downstairs, only to feel Elizaveta’s weapon at the back of his neck as he passed into the kitchen.
As quickly as she tagged him, she moved back.
“I’m going outside,” he told her, his voice low. “Don’t let anyone follow me.”
She watched him through the darkness for a long moment.
“Especially her?” she asked with an arch of her brow.
“Especially her,” he agreed, and went to the door and the security plate where he laid his palm, input his code, and when the light went green and the locks automatically slid free, stepped into the night.
Standing on the porch, he inhaled deeply, his head turning until his gaze centered on the tree line to the side of the house. As he stood there, five forms slowly emerged, stopping just short of completely revealing themselves. They were sh
adowed, a part of the night, waiting patiently for whatever he’d do next.
Ilya strode across the yard to meet them, his gaze meeting each of the team individually, reasserting his command though he knew it wasn’t needed.
“Dragon son.” Django, the commander of the group, stepped forward, his right arm extending, the dragon tattooed on his forearm staring out at the world in challenge.
Ilya had marked each of this team himself. He’d chosen them, aided in training them, then walked away from them to help Ivan fulfill his plans for the Resnova fortunes. Or so he’d told his grandfather.
The boy who had saved his life countless times. Ilya couldn’t refuse to aid him. Then, once it was accomplished, Ilya had lingered despite the fact that he knew his life had to travel a different direction than Ivan’s.
The world was one of technology. Science and facts. The old ways had been forgotten, bleached by men who were uncomfortable remembering that there was actually something to fear in the dark. So they lit it up with a thousand lights, kept it moving when it should sleep, and told themselves the old ways didn’t matter because the old fears were just fears of the unknown.
Man was convincing himself evil didn’t exist, even as their children, sisters, and wives disappeared, their sons lost their wild hearts, and their morals decayed by the day. Unfortunately, Ilya knew the evil that could touch an innocent life, just as he knew there was untapped good, as well as untapped evil, in each and every man or woman.
And the five he met at that moment had learned to fight both. The good and the evil, for each held their weaknesses.
Greeting each of the team in turn, he came to the last, the deceptively fragile cousin who had suffered herself as a child, lost to the dragon families and fighting just to survive. When they’d found her, she’d been like a demon, all instinct and fury. Now she was one of his dragon warriors, the only warriors he trusted at his back besides Ivan.
“We would have been here sooner, but others thought to delay us,” Django stated as Ilya stepped into the shadows with them. “We had to kill them. We were unable to learn who sent them, but the tattoos they wore identified them as having spent much time in Vasilyev’s prison.”
