Dragon's Possession_BBW / Dragon Shifter Romance

by Isadora Montrose

  “Alberto Junior says his father is going to throw us into the street,” Matteo said.

  “Was he mean to you?” Nicole asked wearily. Fortunately Alberto Junior was not in Matteo’s class. He was three years older, but he seemed to spend a lot of time picking on Matteo in the schoolyard. It was a good thing that Matteo was tall for his age and sturdy with it. Otherwise most days he would have been beaten up.

  “He used his words,” Matteo said scornfully.

  “Sticks and stones,” Nicole began the rhyme.

  “Will break my bones,” Matteo chanted. “He doesn’t dare to hit me.” Matteo made a fist.

  “Didn’t Mother Superior speak to you both about fighting?” Nicole tried not to laugh. One of Alberto Senior’s grievances was the bloody nose his son had received from his much younger cousin.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think that’s why Alberto Junior doesn’t want to fight.” Matteo smirked with masculine satisfaction. Nicole blinked, startled. Just for an instant, her precious son had resembled his arrogant father.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The cloudless sky was a black bowl sprinkled with stars. The new moon was a slender white curve above the Andes mountain range. The fierce, unrelenting wind the locals called the Zonda gusted hard and dry across the grasslands. The wind had dropped all the moisture it had collected from the Pacific Ocean over the mountain range in a series of spring blizzards and as it grew more arid, had grown hotter and more powerful. Now, it swept across the open pampas creating dust devils and sucking water from all it touched.

  The tall grass flattened under the onslaught, bowing and rising in rippling waves. The small herd of cows huddled under the single, barely leafed, thorn tree turned their patient faces away from the desiccating blast and stoically chewed their cud or slept. The rhea sleeping on the ground atop his vast clutch, extended his wings a little further to protect his eggs from the dehydrating Zonda.

  The viscacha rats scurrying amongst the stems crouched as a great shadow passed overhead. Nothing swooped. They ran thankfully back into their burrows. The rhea pulled his tiny head out from under his wing and scanned the sky. He had seen that shape before, and it no longer frightened him. He blinked his red eyes and went back to his doze.

  Only the city of gray termite mounds, each as tall as a man, were unaffected by the raging blast. For the two men who squatted in their midst, the concrete-hard nests provided some shelter from the dust-laden Zonda. To the great dragoness darting far above them the men might as well have been invisible, so well did they blend into the baroque towers the insects had constructed.

  Despite the dusty air, Lars Lindorm and Waimarie Te Paka followed the dragoness’ aerial dance with unblinking eyes as she swooped and circled overhead. Her plumage flickered purple, green and blue as if she were some magnificent glowing celestial object. Her path was traced by a flaring, luminescent trail.

  The fury of the raging Zonda seemed to energize her, for she turned her long purple muzzle into the full force of the gale and let it fill her outstretched wings like a sail. She hung above the grasslands like a huge plasma kite, while her sinuous tail lashed back and forth resisting the Zonda’s efforts to blow her to the South Atlantic.

  She whistled a single long drawn-out note. Lars felt the sound pass through his entire body. Lust immediately gripped him. He longed to take dragon and join this strong and playful female in her dance. He resisted her lure even though every cell in his body was drawn to her. Who was this siren who could so disturb his dead heart?

  The dragoness lost interest in her solitary sport. She ceased her display. Her glowing wings began to flap as she turned out of the wind and soared. She rose higher and higher in a widening spiral before plunging into a high speed dive. Lars and Waimarie caught their breath, certain they had been spotted. But the dragoness pulled up at the last minute and flew away from the city of the termites towards the few dots of light that represented the village of Santa Rosa del Pampas.

  As she passed over the termite mounds for a third time, both men ducked instinctively. The dragoness whistled plaintively a second time. The haunting cry gripped Lars again. A powerful yearning seized his heart. Only the great discipline of his training prevented him from echoing her mating call. He exchanged a rueful glance with Waimarie who only raised his brows. They both knew this female was ready to choose a mate. She was a prize waiting to be claimed.

  Lars and Waimarie stood up as Nicole’s elderly red scooter began to wend its slow way back to the houses on the horizon. They stretched their massive limbs and exchanged glances. They waited until even their powerful ears could no longer hear the little motor.

  “She knows she is a widow,” Waimarie murmured.

  “Maybe,” conceded Lars. “Maybe she was just not securely bonded to Balcazar Mendez.” His tight leather jacket strained as he shrugged his powerful shoulders.

  Waimarie shook his head. “My heart leapt when she called,” he admitted. “Despite the fact that my mate is engraved there. Is it normal for your females to be so seductive?”

  “Her plumage is unusual,” Lars said softly. “But I have never set eyes on an unmated dragoness before, so I cannot answer you.” He turned away and tried to shake off the adolescent infatuation that still gripped him. He was no kid. He was a widower still in thrall to his dead mate. Nicole Estevan y Garcia was not for him.

  The two dragons remounted their powerful motorcycles and tracked Nicole’s small scooter. They too made sure their engines made as little commotion as possible. They virtually coasted onto the narrow deserted streets of Santa Rosa del Pampas. Their prey had already vanished down one of the numerous alleyways. But they knew exactly where she lived. And they had set others to watch her house. Their motorcycles slipped into the deep shadows and passed silently through the town.

  * * *

  Hotel Vera Cruz, Santa Rosa del Pampas

  Waimarie and Lars opened the door to their room. It was empty. Through the wide-open connecting doors, they could see into the other room where two men were reading. Theodor Lindorm put his book down and stood up. Winston Te Paka in the other chair got to his feet and stretched. They nodded at Lars and Waimarie but did not speak.

  Winston closed the connecting doors and locked them as he did so. Theo activated a small circular machine on the wobbly dresser. It began to oscillate and hum.

  “She’s a dragoness,” Lars said softly into the burr of white noise.

  Theo raised his eyebrows. His bearded lips barely moved. “Waimarie already told us that.”

  “She went out to the pampas, took dragon and flew for about an hour tonight,” Waimarie said.

  “She’s hunting for a mate,” Lars added. “She’s fair game for any dragon.”

  “Landor has tried twice to abduct dragonesses made. Do you think he’s after her?” asked Winston.

  Lars and Waimarie shrugged. “Who knows?” said Waimarie. “Have George and Peter checked in?”

  Theo showed them his phone where a series of texts indicated that nothing had changed at the Villa Mendoza.

  “Rongo says the Russians do nothing but fight amongst themselves,” disclosed Waimarie.

  “Any idea why?” asked Theodor.

  “None whatsoever,” Waimarie admitted. “Russian speakers are monitoring the Buenos Aires flat. So far the Russians haven’t said anything that would give us a real idea of what their intentions are.”

  “What about Landor?” asked Winston.

  “It’s troubling. If he is holed up with the Russians, they’re not speaking to him,” Waimarie said. “If they’ve interrogated him, they have not done so where we could hear.”

  Theodor pointed at their white noise machine. “Have they got one of those?”

  “It’s possible. Those machines are not exactly high tech.” Waimarie folded his massive arms across his chest. The spiral tattoos on his cheeks and forehead wriggled like serpents in the dimly lit room. “I think we should continue to assume that the Russians will eventually head
here, with their objective being the widow and the child.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Theo. “I played tourist this afternoon. I had a good gawk at the church and the plaza. I had some coffee in a café, and asked the waiter what else tourists want to look at. He told me about the Spanish Quarter. That gave me a reason to be on the widow’s street. So after I finished my coffee, I wandered through some of the side streets.”

  “We’ve been watching the widow’s house and alleyway for a week,” Waimarie pointed out calmly.

  “You seem to have left out of your reports the fact that she rents rooms,” Theo returned with a grin. “Imagine my surprise when I saw a sign indicating that the Villa Mendoza is looking for tenants.”

  Waimarie frowned. “That’s new.”

  Theo nodded. His shoulder-length blond hair swayed. A big white grin split his equally shaggy beard. “Pretty weather-beaten and faded. But maybe they put it out and take it in as needed.” He looked across at Lars. “I think one of us is going to decide that the Hotel Vera Cruz is no longer up to his high standards. I’ll flip you for it, coz.”

  Lars controlled his immediate anger at Theo. He reminded himself that he was not at the mercy of his instincts. Nevertheless, he pulled his lucky coin out of his pocket.

  Theo’s eyes danced with amusement. “Okay,” he said chuckling. He tossed Waimarie the coin. “I call tails.”

  Waimarie flipped the coin on his large thumb. He caught it and turned it upside down on the back of one great brown hand. “Heads it is. I think I foresee a quarrel between you two lovebirds.”

  “A quarrel sounds exactly right,” said Theo. “It will explain better than sudden high standards why one of us remains here.”

  “I suggest a very loud and very public fight,” directed Waimarie. “Perhaps after breakfast?”

  “Sure,” said Lars. “How do I hear about the widow’s rooming house?”

  “The truth is always best,” Theo pointed out. “I saw the sign and told you about it. You’re jealous because you think I’ve been flirting with someone I met at the Hotel Gloriana.”

  “The hell you have,” Waimarie glared at Winston. “When were you over there?” His eyes interrogated the younger Maori. Winston shook his head.

  “I stuck my head in,” Theo said. “After I’d had a tour of the Spanish Quarter. It is, as you said, a brothel. Or at least it rents rooms to prostitutes. Naturally, I was propositioned.” He flexed his broad chest. “It makes sense that Lars got jealous when he found out. Not that I went upstairs, you understand, but jealousy doesn’t have to have any basis in reality.”

  All four men chuckled.

  “True enough. Let’s turn in,” advised Waimarie. “We should get some sleep. If the Russians do figure out how to get here, we’ll need to be fresh.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  September, Kiev

  Boris Chekhov was waiting in his well-lit office when his computer alarm went off. He immediately rose from his desk, opened his door, and looked out into the hall. “Your monitor, Yuri.” He held out an imperative hand.

  The bodyguard frowned. Like Boris, Yuri Dov was a bear shifter. He caught Boris’ anxious vibe. His grip tightened on his Kalashnikov and he swept the corridor with suspicious eyes. Then he glanced behind Boris and relaxed fractionally. “What if someone attacked you, sir?”

  Boris raised his eyebrows. “That is why you are stationed here. I will come to the door when my business is concluded.”

  “Yes, sir.” The bodyguard retrieved a small device from his breast pocket and reluctantly handed it over.

  “Thank you, Yuri.” Boris placed the electronic monitor in the lower pocket of his suit jacket. It slipped instantly onto the stick already concealed there. His hours of practice had paid off. He withdrew his hand and casually adjusted the flap over the pocket. The bodyguard braced his weapon across his chest and faced the hall. Boris shut his door on Yuri’s back.

  He followed his routine, all the time conscious of the live recorder in his pocket. His nerves were jumping despite the fact that this was not the first time he had activated the monitor in preparation to betray his Number One. He strode over to the windows. Far below, piles of dirty snow impeded well-wrapped pedestrians. Winter had come to Kiev some time ago. He closed the blinds.

  Returning to his desk, he began the protocol demanded by Odéen. He shut down all the programs on his computer, except the video conferencing app. He double-checked that the wall behind him was blank. The camera that ceaselessly watched him, and which was supposed to be secret, was in the ceiling. He had taught himself never to let his eyes look for it. Never to acknowledge he was being surveilled.

  Last of all, he turned on the video feed and waited motionless for his superior to call. When Number One spoke, however, Boris could not control his jerk of surprise and fear.

  “The reports from Argentina are displeasing, Dva.” The voice was abrupt, chilly, and passionless. And all the more terrifying because, as usual, Boris’ screen was blank. The Boss was Number One – Odéen – Boris was Number Two – Dva. Odéen continuously reviewed his Number Two, but Boris seldom saw the Boss’ face. The rank and file never.

  “Landor has been captured.” Boris murmured. Sweat beaded on his face. He struggled to keep his breathing even.

  “I gave instructions that he was to be followed to the woman, Dva.” Odéen’s icy voice grew even quieter and less inflected.

  Boris swallowed bile. “I did not order the snatch,” he assured the screen. There was no response. “The team thought they could pry the location of the woman from Landor. And they believed they had been spotted by Guild spies. They grabbed Landor to keep him out of the hands of the Guild.”

  “I understood as much,” the relentless voice continued. “And yet no information has been forthcoming. We are no closer to putting our hands on the woman and her brat. And no one else has seen any Guild spies.”

  There was no point in arguing. Odéen didn’t argue. “That is correct, Odéen. Landor claimed not to know where she was.”

  “Claimed?”

  “He is dead.” Beneath his suit, Boris felt sweat flood his pits.

  “I did not order his death.” The frosty voice was now so low that Boris had to lean forward to hear.

  “I believe it was unintentional.” Boris infused regret into his words. “Landor became infected after his surgery. Probably sepsis.”

  “My instructions were not followed, Chekhov. You are to restore discipline. Is that quite clear?”

  “Yes, Odéen.” Boris inclined his head as deferentially as if his boss was in the room.

  “I do not accept excuses, Dva.”

  “That is understood, Odéen.”

  “The penalties for failure are to be enforced. Those renegades of yours need to be taught who is in charge in Kiev. If indeed you still are in charge?”

  The call cut off on that threat – without the usual pleasantries. Boris had no time to reply. He was left with his starched shirt sticking to his skin. He was too fucking old for this continual pissing contest. That pestilential Argentinean operation was a clusterfuck. It fucking needed to be aborted and forgotten.

  Instead, the Boss wanted him to throw even more fucking men at it – as if his motherfucking shifters were expendable. And all without a diseased rat’s ass’ hope of a fucking profit. Boris would have to pull valuable soldiers to send to Argentina to replace the one-balled losers already there. Men who would certainly die before this goat-shit orgy was done. And for what? For one cock-socket and her fucking kid. Odéen was fucking obsessed. But no one crossed Odéen – not if they wanted to live.

  Boris would have to choose men who recognized that failure meant their death – and the torture and death of their families. It wasn’t even as if he could get rid of those showers-of-shit Pavel and Zik. No, those useless limp dicks were the Boss’ pets. He was going have to send Oblimov and Shir. Those stolid bears would clean up whatever fucking crap those dumb asswipes Mischa an
d Nose had fallen into. They might even get back in one fucking piece.

  But Boris could see failure written all over this pile of camel crap in bloody letters twelve-fucking-feet high.

  He was so agitated he nearly forgot to remove the data stick before he returned the monitor to Yuri. His hands trembled like leaves in a storm while he restored his office to normality. Which the fucking ceiling cameras undoubtedly caught. He was too damned old for this double-barreled shitting derby. He needed to retire. But no one ever retired from Odéen’s service.

  * * *

  The Kiev flat was as luxurious as forty years of steady money could make it. The perks of being the Boss’ Number Two were expressed in spacious rooms and gold and red furniture. Yet Boris knew that even when he took a dump, eyes watched him. He told himself he was used to it. He was certain that his plans for Odéen remained his secret. If Odéen knew he was in danger of betrayal, Boris would already be gazing sightless from a Kiev snowbank.

  “Welcome home, my love,” said the breathy voice of his mistress. Lovely Oksanna Lebowitz had been a gift from the Boss. She was just the style of big-breasted, full-hipped blonde Boris had always favored. But did that senile bottle of rotting goat-urine imagine that, at this stage of the game, Boris Chekhov would be led around by a nice piece of ass?

  Boris swept Oksanna into his arms and kissed her heartily. She was a tall and generously built woman and she pressed enticingly up against him. “Do you want to eat dinner or me?” she whispered huskily into his ear.

  “Is that dinner I smell?” he asked stepping back from her fragrant arms. The hint of fear that had become increasingly strong in her personal aroma was lurking beneath her expensive perfume. He noted it without comment, and unbuttoned his overcoat.

  She giggled and hung up his coat in the closet. “I made your favorite.”