Lethal Nights

by Leigh, Lora

  His grandparents, dragon team, and security force followed, ignoring the Homeland Security agents who started to protest. Started to because men they knew not to fuck with called them back.

  It was time to take his dragon mate home. The grandparents were there, his ink was there, and his dragon was ready to mark her.

  chapter twenty-four

  One week later

  The dragon song woke him. It wasn’t often he heard it, the haunting, mystical notes drifting through his senses, there but not.

  He’d never been able to make sense of the reality of dragon song. It wasn’t music notes, wasn’t really a song. The sound would have been deep and filled with bass if he could tune it in fully in his head, he always thought. But there was no tuning it in, there was just the knowledge of it calling him, pulling at him.

  His first memory of the dragon song had been when he was three. Hungry, hurting from Lorena’s cruel blows, and wanting only to close his eyes and disappear. That song had held him.

  Opening his eyes, he stared up at the ceiling, the sensation of the skin his dragon was part of ultra-sensitive, uncomfortable.

  And that song …

  Beside him, Emma Jane shifted, the hand that lay against his chest caressing the mating mark he carried there, stroking it lovingly. She seemed to enjoy that quite a bit. He knew he damned sure did.

  Yeah, he was crazy, stupid in love. He hadn’t had a restful night’s sleep in a week due to the need to just watch her, to be certain she was actually lying there beside him. He’d refused to allow the guest room in the house to be used, because people wandered at night and when they wandered it woke Emma Jane.

  The bruises from the explosion in the office, and the horrific one Lorena had given her, were finally fading away. Had Vladimir not killed that bitch, Ilya would have done it himself for that act alone.

  And the fact that Vladimir had done it still had the power to shock Ilya and Rurik as well. His half brother admitted there were days he was afraid it was a dream.

  Thankfully, it was no dream.

  “Sounds pretty,” Emma Jane muttered, shifting against him, mumbling again before running her hand over the tattoo on his chest once again.

  Tilting his head, he couldn’t help but grin. His Emma Jane did have a habit of talking in her sleep, he’d learned.

  Easing her gently to her back, Ilya rested on his side, just staring at her. The way her hair framed her pretty face, the delicate arch of her brow, the fragile line of her jaw.

  Lifting his hand, he couldn’t help but brush his thumb over her lips, loving the feel of them. There was nothing about his Emma Jane that he didn’t love.

  “Are you waking me up?” Her lashes lifted, her gaze drowsy and languorous. “I was having a wonderful dream.”

  “Were you then?” He grinned. “About me, of course.”

  She lifted her arms over her head, gave a little stretch, then looped them over his neck with a smile.

  “Did you know dragons can sing in my dreams? Like the haunting, deep-throated sound filled with mystery,” she sighed, her smile filled with remembered joy. “It was beautiful.”

  Oh yeah, he knew dragons sang.

  “As beautiful as you?” His lips lowered, brushed over hers as he pushed the blankets past her naked, sleep-warmed body

  “Hmm, I’m not nearly that beautiful.” The fingers of one hand trailed over his shoulder, his chest, and began to make their way down to the thick crest of his cock.

  He was iron hard, his balls drawn tight. Her thumb stroked over the damp head, then, as she stared up at him, her eyes heavy lidded, she lifted her tongue and licked the taste of him from her thumb.

  Fuck.

  “Oh, baby.” He smiled slowly. “That is very bad.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to spank me?” She lifted, her thighs parting at the touch of his hand, giving him free access to the sweetest pussy in the world.

  “Oh, I’d say you’re definitely getting spanked.”

  Emma Jane breathed in against the rush of pleasure as Ilya’s lips slanted over hers, his kiss becoming carnal, greedy. A branding of her senses all its own.

  His lips plundered her kiss before nipping at her lips, the line of her jaw, and continuing along the column of her neck. She loved his lips, the dominant kisses and sharp, heated little love bites.

  “Ilya,” she moaned, the heated rush of need building quickly.

  He bit her shoulder, licked the little wound.

  “The things I want to do to you, Emma Jane,” he groaned, his lips moving lower, his kisses becoming hungrier. “Love your nipples.” His tongue stroked over one. “Let me have those pretty nipples, baby.”

  He sucked one into his mouth, licked at it, and sucked her firmly as her fingers threaded through his hair, her nails raking at his scalp. Like a man desperate to memorize the taste of a woman, he moved from one breast to the other, devouring her nipples and enslaving her senses.

  He nipped at the tender buds, licked the little hurt, then did it again before sucking the hard tip. Hard flashes of sensation raced from her nipples to her womb, where they sent spasms of greedy pleasure rushing to her clit.

  “Oh God, Ilya, it’s so good,” she gasped. “I love your mouth on my nipples.”

  He jerked back, ignoring her cry as he pulled her hands from his hair and brought them to her breasts.

  “Let me see you play with them,” he demanded, his expression wicked. “You make your nipples feel good and I’ll see what else I can make feel good for you.”

  Tentatively, her expression dazed and filled with excitement, she cupped her breasts, her fingers finding her nipples, gripping them, rubbing over them.

  Hell, he wasn’t going to make it long, he thought. But when did he ever make it long with her?

  Moving over her, he pressed her thighs apart, lips lowering to her abdomen, his tongue stroking lower. Her hips arched to him, her gasps driving him crazy with the sound of her need.

  He nudged her legs apart, bending her knees, opening her fully.

  “Sweet baby,” he whispered. “So damned good.”

  His tongue licked through the flushed, moisture-glazed folds, the taste of her filling his senses with sweetness, driving him mad for more.

  Emma Jane lifted to him, crying out as she felt his fingers easing into the heavier layer of slickness, stroking it, easing it lower to the sensitive, much smaller entrance of her rear.

  There his fingers rubbed, pressed, had her craving more.

  The deep male groan that vibrated against her clit had her crying out, jerking against his mouth. Her head tossed on the pillow, her hips arched, and a shattered cry tore from her as she felt the first finger penetrate the tender entrance he was caressing.

  “Just a minute, baby.” He lifted, reaching for something, but before she could make sense of the move he was back, his lips on her pussy, his fingers teasing her tender rear entrance again.

  His lips were at her clit, licking, flickering over it, driving her insane as she fought to increase the pressure. At the same time, slick and cool, two fingers pressed against her, parted the ultra-tight flesh, and began pushing inside.

  “Oh God, Ilya,” she gasped.

  His fingers slid free, returned slicker, parting her, pressing in.

  “Fuck, baby. Your sweet ass is so tight. Just let me inside, baby, let me have you.”

  He pushed inside her again, retreated, returned, spreading a heavy lubricant with each slow thrust of his fingers inside the tender entrance.

  And still, his lips, his tongue, tormented her clit, keeping her on edge, desperate for more. The bite of heat at each inward push of his fingers, each thrust inside her rear, had her senses humming in anticipation, the slight pleasure-pain of his fingers making her crave more.

  “Oh, Emma Jane, sweet baby,” he breathed against her clit, easing his fingers free of her again. “Turn over here, baby. Let me see that pretty ass.”

  He held her as she rolled to her stomach
before he positioned her on her knees, her rear lifted to him.

  His fingers returned, lubricating her further, making her slick and so very hot. They slid inside her, the bite of sharp sensation flashing through her senses and only making her crave more.

  She was burning inside, outside. Desperate for every sensation now, every flash of agonizing pleasure.

  When his fingers returned again, he eased three fingers inside her ass, ignoring the thrusts of her hips, her shattered cries. Each shallow thrust and retreat worked his fingers deeper inside her, until he was gripping her hip with one hand and, stroking inside her ass with his fingers, making her mindless. That was what did, he made her mindless.

  “Ah, Emma Jane, almost, baby,” he crooned, his fingers sliding free of her again only to return again, lubricating her further. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he groaned behind her. “Fuck, you’re so tight you’re going to kill me.”

  With each retreat, his fingers returned, slicker, worked inside her, pulled back, and repeated until she was bucking against him, poised on the edge of a hunger that was becoming unbearable.

  “Here we go, baby.” He moved behind her, one hand gripping her hip firmly, the other guiding his cock until the engorged crest pressed against the flexing opening. “Breathe in, honey. Slow and deep.”

  She breathed. His cock pressed against the nerve-laden entrance, parting her, stretching her, burning her.

  She fought to breathe, to process sensations she’d never known before, had no idea could be so destructive.

  “Now, baby, breathe for me.” He paused, the pressure at her rear a blistering tease she had no idea how to ease. “Now, Emma Jane. Breathe, baby.”

  She inhaled.

  Flash fire rocked her, streaked up her spine, then back down. She could feel the once-untouched tissue, flexing, rippling around the intrusion.

  “Fuck,” he groaned behind her. “That’s it, baby, milk my dick. So damned sweet.”

  “Ilya,” she gasped, panting, racked by sensations she fought to make sense of. “Ilya, help me.”

  A heavy caress along a rounded curve had her jerking, driving into the heated slap of his hand.

  “We’re almost there, baby,” he groaned. “Come on now, breathe in for me.”

  She inhaled, then exhaled on a scream of pure sensation as she felt the engorged head of his cock stretch a tighter band of muscles as his hand landed on her rear again. Behind her, his harder groan, one of agonized male pleasure, came as he began working his cock inside her with short, shallow strokes.

  Sensation raced through her. The feel of his cock buried up her ass, the desperate ache in her clit, her pussy. She was wanton, out of control with need.

  Emma Jane pushed her hand down her body, between her thighs, as Ilya gripped her hips and buried full length inside her.

  Years of fantasy, of need, of hungers she’d never understood, and now she let them free. She sent two fingers burrowing inside her pussy, the heel of her palm rasping her clit.

  “Oh fuck, yeah,” he groaned. “Ride your fingers, Emma Jane. And I’ll fuck this sweet, pretty ass.”

  Her fingers buried deep as he began moving, thrusting inside her hard and deep, thrusting every thick, iron-hard inch of his cock inside her before drawing free and thrusting back. And Emma Jane loved it. The pleasure and pain, the feel of his cock throbbing inside her, the brutal flash of sensation, the whirling chaos of ecstasy that began whipping inside her.

  When he came over her, his hips shuttling faster, his cock shafting inside her, his teeth bit into her shoulder and she shattered. The muscles gripping his cock, her fingers, tightened, rippled, and she felt herself disintegrating from the inside out, buried in such pleasure.

  A pleasure that only increased as Ilya pushed in deeper, harder, the buried full length. She could feel his release, each violent pulse of semen jetting inside her, extending the pleasure tearing through her. She could feel his release pumping inside her, filling her rear, marking her in a way she knew she might never completely understand.

  The white-hot flash fire left her wasted, collapsed beneath him, her breathing harsh as she fought to get her bearings, to recover from the heavy shudders still trembling through her.

  Behind her, Ilya’s breathing was hard, rough, as her inner tissue continued to ripple and stroke the hard flesh penetrating her.

  “Balaur pereche,” he whispered at her ear, the lyrical sound so beautiful, his voice that deep dragon rasp she so loved. “Te iubese. I love you, my Emma Jane. My dragon mate.”

  chapter twenty-five

  He loved her.

  Emma Jane was keeping her dragon.

  The next day, she watched as his grandfather retouched the tattoo on his face, telling her softly how Ilya would now become the head of the Dragonovich family. It sounded rather formal, but she’d learned since Ilya had come into her life that Romanians had a romance and a mysticism all their own.

  When the ink was finished, the skin still a bit reddened, the ink appeared a bit more silvery black, the dragon’s eyes no longer red, but a pale green to match Ilya’s, and he was still flirty all the same.

  When his grandfather finished, he handed something to Ilya, then everyone left, leaving her and Ilya in the kitchen alone.

  Her lips parted in wonder as he went to one knee, asked her to marry him in the deep rasp he got that indicated stronger emotion, and at her teary “yes” slid the obviously old, exquisite diamond on her finger.

  “My dragon mate,” he whispered, turning her hand to stare at her inner wrist before turning it again to run his thumb over her lower arm. “Will you let me ink you?”

  He looked up at her, his pale green eyes brighter, filled with love. With love, for her.

  “I would love to have you ink me,” she whispered.

  “Here?” His thumb stroked over her wrist. “With my dragon?”

  She smiled. “Yes, Ilya, with your dragon.”

  Minutes later, his dragon team, his grandparents, Ivan and his wife and her brother were once again in the kitchen, watching silently as the lights were turned off and the candles were lit.

  There, in the chair he had sat in himself while his grandfather had refreshed his dragon, Emma Jane sat, her arm resting on the table, staring at Ilya as he began. He didn’t need to sketch the image on her skin, he explained. His dragon was as familiar to him as his own face.

  “We light candles for new ink,” he explained, though he used the electric needle. “Where skin shifts with less effort, and the muscle is more dense, is far easier to sense with candlelight. And because the bond between a man and his woman deepens with the intimacy of candles.”

  Emma Jane watched, curious, amazed that she felt no pain as the ink was placed beneath her skin.

  “Each artist mixes the ink himself. What marks your skin I had prepared myself. Ivan brought it when he first arrived.

  The needle moved over her skin, then his fingers, testing the muscle, the feel of her flesh before he resumed.

  “There are those that say the dragons live and breathe upon the flesh of dragon blood,” he stated, his gaze lifting a moment to meet hers. “Some say they flirt or glare in rage. The gift of the ink and the one trained to lay the color in just the right manner, in just right position, can give the appearance of life, or knowledge. And all dragon-sons, heirs or artists chosen to lay the ink, have an instinct for that placement. It is not done quickly, nor is it done without reason. The image comes to the artist, no pattern is needed.”

  As he talked, his words washed over her, holding her. The legend of the dragon tribes, the sons and heirs and where it all began was told. Those who watched ebbed and flowed through the room. Coffee and food were consumed by everyone but Ilya and Emma Jane. Morning became noon, then flowed into evening. Candles burned away, others were lit to replace them. And in that moment between night and morning, Ilya leaned back in his chair, realizing, only as he finished, how stiff his body had become.

  But his dragon marked her n
ow. It twined around her left wrist and rested against her forearm. A promise of his protection, a warning to anyone who would harm her. As he looked up at her, a grin tugged at his lips. Her head rested on her other arm as she dozed, her breathing deep and even.

  Only the dragon guards still held vigil, and as they realized he had finished, they gathered around her in a semi-circle, and with Ilya, whispered the words of the Dragon Song.

  When they finished, Ilya picked up his drowsy mate and carried her to their bedroom.

  There, tucked against his heart, held within his arms, his woman slept, her protection assured. His woman.

  For the first time in Ilya’s life, he slept, knowing he belonged.

  He belonged to his Emma Jane.

  The Dragon Song

  We remember when you walked the land, regal and wise, benevolent and proud.

  We remember your rage when they came.

  When your mates were stripped of their hides, your babes spilling their blood to the land.

  We remember your sorrow when we found you, once a clan so large, to become so few.

  We fed you from our stock.

  We brought you black stone to replace your fire.

  We led you to that place that the ancients call that place not known.

  We returned to our homes.

  We returned to our farms.

  And the invaders had destroyed all we owned.

  Lead them to the beasts, they demanded. The one of legend, strength, and wisdom. We told them you were not known.

  They searched the mountains high.

  They searched the mountains low.

  They burned our homes, they raped our wives, they killed our stock and stole the black rock, leaving us cold.

  And still we cried, you we did not know.

  We would not go to you.

  We would not sing the mournful call.

  We did not betray the legends, we refused to reveal what we did not know.

  And so the day came that we like you, once so many, became so few.