Dragon's Possession_BBW / Dragon Shifter Romance

by Isadora Montrose

  Nicole didn’t notice George Te Paka as she pushed the wrought iron gate open for her scooter. She jumped when Lars held it for her. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him. In front of her, lurking in the lee of the wall of the house opposite, George mocked Lars with a silent smile. Lars put his fingers to his lips. He didn’t want to share this quarrel with his friend.

  He helped Nicole into the courtyard and insisted on re-barring the heavy wooden door. The beam wouldn’t keep a strong and able man out, and it was no barrier at all for a dragon. But it was better than leaving the door open. She locked up the Vespa as if it were made of solid gold. Perhaps it was precious to her. He was on her heels when she went into the house. The lock on the kitchen door was stiff. He wanted to push her to one side and turn the key himself, but he forced himself to be patient and let her do it.

  She ran water in the sink and filled a glass. “Do you want some?”

  “Thank you.” He accepted a tumbler and filled it at the tap.

  “I thought you said you were going to guard Matteo,” she accused.

  “My assignment is to guard you.” He kept his voice flat and nonconfrontational. This was not up for discussion. “The house is being watched by my friends. No one came or went while we were gone.”

  “What do you mean your friends?”

  “I told you, the Council of the Guild of Dragons wants you protected. There are eight of us in Santa Rosa del Pampas. Our mission is to guard you. And we expect trouble.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and sent a text. In a few moments his phone pinged. “But not tonight.”

  “What you mean, not tonight?” Nicole demanded.

  He shrugged. “All indications are that the Russians are still in Buenos Aires. But eventually they will come,” he warned her. “It would be better if we left sooner rather than later. Let us take you to safety. You and the boy. I can promise you that those villains won’t be as nice as I am.” He took a big step backward from her. It would be all too easy to grab her by the shoulders and bend her will to his with force. If it was at all possible, he wanted to avoid that.

  Some of the tension went out of her when he stepped away from her. “I’m going to bed now. Be quiet, I don’t want Matteo to wake up.”

  He set his glass beside hers in the deep sink. “Yes, ma’am.” He followed her up the stairs.

  “Good night,” she whispered in the hall.

  “Good night,” he echoed. But Nicole didn’t go into her room. She went into the sprat’s room. Lars trailed after her.

  She straightened Matteo’s covers and tucked his arms under them. She smoothed the boy’s tousled hair and kissed his cheek. She turned to leave the room, and collided with Lars. His arms went around her quite naturally. She was trembling. He just brushed his lips against hers. Her trembling increased, and not in a good way.

  He let her go completely and stepped away. “I was just going to check the window.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was breathless.

  She was standing where he had left her when he turned back after making sure that the shutters were latched and the heavy wrought-iron barrel bolts on the casements were securely in their holes at the top and bottom of the window frame. And the dresser still holding the window shut. He moved the glass jars of stones to the floor.

  Nicole’s arms were folded and her fingers were playing with her elbows. “Why did you do that?” she whispered.

  “Keeping the bedroom windows locked is safest. And if those jars broke, it would not make Matteo’s escape safer.”

  She shook her head. “You know I don’t mean that.”

  “You looked like you needed kissing.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Which was unanswerable, unless they wanted to squabble like five-year-olds. “It’s late. You better get some sleep.”

  “I’m going to lock my bedroom door.”

  They both knew that wouldn’t keep him out. But Lars nodded peaceably. “Make sure your own window is secure. Lock the exterior shutters too. If somebody tried to come in that way, the noise alone would buy you some time.”

  She drifted out of the room ahead of him without saying anything more and vanished into her own room. Lars went back to bed. Tonight, he hadn’t gotten the sleep that Waimarie had expected him to. And he was now so revved up that he doubted he would sleep much in what was left of the night. On the other hand, he did have a great deal to think about.

  Since he had flown with Nikki, Lars had felt a possessiveness that disturbed him. How could he forget his grief so quickly? Be so fickle? Was Annalise so little to him that he could transfer his feelings to another woman in the blink of an eye? Nicole needed him. Or someone. But was his bruised and aching heart of any use to her? Would such a sweetheart want to spend her life with a taciturn and moody Swede?

  The boy was a different proposition. Lars’ feelings for the fireling were uncomplicated. He liked the boy. Matteo was sweet, spirited, intelligent and full of mischief. No man could ask for a finer son. No dragon could wish for a braver, more compassionate fireling. And the widow came with the fireling. That combination would tempt a better man than Lars Lindorm would ever be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nestor Oblimov leaned back in his first class seat and tried to enjoy his upgrade to business class. It figured that his ‘stewardess’ was the gaunt man with unsmiling eyes, rather than the cheerful broad who had greeted him. But the seat was wide enough for his shoulders, and there was room for his legs, which there hadn’t been on the flight to Amsterdam. He bared his teeth at the attendant and asked for vodka.

  He wished that he and Shir were traveling together, but although Dva had briefed them together and told them they had been assigned the godforsaken task of sorting out the Argentinean screw-up, they had been permitted no opportunity to confer. Dva was nobody’s fool. The old son of a bear undoubtedly had his reasons. And Oblimov figured he knew what they were. Dva did not want him and Shir to collude where they would be overheard. As if Shir was dumb enough to swallow the cock spit they were being force fed.

  It was plain that Dva’s instructions that the dragon-spawn were to return safely to Russia was code for – Odéen wants blood but not theirs. Which meant those festering pimples were the ones responsible for turning Argentina into a clusterfuck. Every time those showers-of-dragon-shit got into the picture, everything turned into ripe sewage.

  In the face of failure, as usual Odéen wanted blood. Which meant Oblimov and Shir were expected to begin with executions. He was going to have to kill the only fucking guys who might have some fucking usefulness on this piss ass job, so that those dick weasel dragons could go home to mama. When the hell had the organization started to rot?

  All Odéen cared about was those dick weasels. What the fuck was so special about a set of shit-for-brains flying fucktards? It was bears and tigers that had always been the backbone of the organization. Bears and tigers who were loyal to Odéen and Dva, and Tree. Who brought in the fucking profits year in and fucking year out? Dva had not so much as hinted that Odéen had become a cock-waffling cock-monkey, but then he wouldn’t. However, Nestor had been dry behind the fucking ears for a couple of fucking decades. Christ-on-a-flaming-crutch. He and Shir were done like fucking dinner.

  He ran his tongue tenderly around the false crown on his back teeth. Was he really supposed to believe that activating it would bring assistance, if he were to be captured like one of those piss-ant dragons? As if. Odéen’s displeasure meant fucking termination. Always had. He was no butt plug to swallow that fucking fairy tale. Only those cock-up dragon farts had bought that ass bite story.

  “Vodka,” he growled again at the attendant at his elbow.

  The bastard pasted a grim smile on his face and handed him a glass and a bottle. “Ice, sir?”

  “Nyet.” Fucking vodka wasn’t even cold. Nestor tossed it back and held out a hand for another. Wordlessly the ‘stewardess’ handed it to him and wheeled his cart to the next set of seats. Fucking dild
o.

  * * *

  The flight from Istanbul emptied slowly into the Buenos Aires airport. It was close to midnight and the immigration officer was bored and sleepy. He flipped through Oleg Shir’s battered passport. “Señor Popov,” he asked in Spanish, “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “Business,” Shir kept his voice pleasant.

  The officer cycled through the rest of his routine and concluded by asking to see Shir’s return ticket to Moscow and his reservations at his four-star hotel.

  “Enjoy your stay, Señor Popov.” The official handed back Shir’s forged passport.

  “Gracias, Señor.” Shir joined the exhausted passengers waiting at the baggage carousel.

  He took a cab to the hotel, registered, and was duly escorted to his room by a uniformed bellman. The bed looked inviting after sixteen hours straight of traveling, but Shir only lay down long enough to make the bed look slept in. He hung some clothes in the closet, took a shower, and brushed his teeth. He dressed himself in the uniform of a janitor, slicked his hair back to reveal a widow’s peak, and left the hotel room gripping a well-used cloth tool bag in one big hand.

  The stairs were where Dva had said they would be. Shir slipped down them unseen and vanished through the fire exit that was mysteriously unlocked – as he had been told it would be. It was an unsettling reminder that even here in Buenos Aires, the eyes of Odéen were everywhere. Shir spared a thought for his family in Odessa. Magda and the children were safe only if he obeyed orders and successfully completed the mission. Too fucking bad for them all that Odéen had asked for two incompatible outcomes.

  It was a fucking given that those leaking crocks of dragon piss were behind the fuckups. But Dva had impressed on him and Oblimov that success hinged on those douchebag dragons returning safely. He could only hope that he was not being tailed, that the open fire-door was the product of a single bribed employee. Of course, if his room was bugged – as it almost certainly was, he would have to account in his fucking report for where he had fucking gone three fucking hours early.

  He chose a down-at-heels restaurant at random and sat down. He ate his way through three courses of stolid food, paid with cash, and went back out into the night. If he was being followed, the tail was an expert or Oleg would have fucking made him by now. But he had not survived seven years in the organization by being a careless butt plug. He ducked into the underground and selected a platform at random. He took the first train. A thick-ankled babushka burdened with huge parcels got on with him. She set her bundles around her feet and ignored him in favor of going to sleep.

  Oleg sat down and did a fair imitation of a working man returning home after a hard day. No one entered his carriage. Four stops along, as the train pulled into a hub, he stood up and waited to see if anyone else planned to leave. No one budged. He was alone on the platform as the train pulled away. Maybe he and fucking Oblimov were on their fucking own in fucking Argentina. He trudged up the stairs and worked out where the soccer stadium was.

  Fifteen minutes later he was standing in the middle of the field with Nestor Oblimov, apparently arguing about how best to repaint the fucking lines on the fucking grass. If Nestor was wired, Shir was doomed. But Nestor was sweating like a pig, and swearing even more than usual. They were both bears. They would keep each other’s fucking backs – for now.

  “The only way to get those hairless sacks of dragon shit back to Odéen in one piece is if we send them home now,” Nestor Oblimov said wearily. He was dressed like one of the stadium’s security guards.

  “If we do, we will be even more fucking shorthanded than we are now,” Oleg sucked on his cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “We’re supposed to execute two,” Oblimov said bleakly. “Crap on a fucking whore, Dva suggested Leshov and Stevanich.”

  “We should take out those cocksucking pustules Mischa and Nose,” Oleg said blowing smoke rings. “How the fuck will killing Leshov and Stevanich help?”

  Oblimov shrugged. “Dva said discipline first, snatching the bitch second,” he reminded Oleg. “We are supposed to eliminate those two tonight.”

  Shir reached into his tool bag and pulled out a revolver. “Base of the skull,” he said.

  Oblimov broke the weapon open. “You got one too?” he asked with his first grin of the evening.

  Shir took his out. “I understand those pussylickers still have the body in the flat. We’ll get them to dispose of Landor while we get rid of Leshov and Stevanich.”

  Oblimov slapped the other bear on his back. “Let’s get this done, buddy.”

  * * *

  Roper and Smith were huddled in the deepest shadows of the boarded up building opposite the Russians’ equally decrepit block of flats. The main tenants of the Russians’ building were squatters who ignored them. The Russians seemed to have scared off the drug dealers and whores who usually used the abandoned apartment building.

  Haki Te Paka spoke softly into Roper’s earpiece. “New arrivals at ten o’clock.” Haki watched the street through a roller blind with holes in it and binoculars to sharpen his already acute dragon vision. “The occupants are not expecting visitors.”

  That was interesting. Even though Roper could not see Smith, he knew the other bear was hearing Haki’s words. Two burly guys in working clothes swaggered confidently down the street. Roper sniffed. Bears. And by no means as confident as they were pretending. They went around to the back of the building where a door had been opened by tearing off the plywood nailed over its broken glass.

  Smith spoke in his field officer voice that carried no further than his mic. “They have entered the building.”

  Haki listened in to the panicked squabbling of the remaining Russians. They had been arguing for days, ever since the others had left. Occasionally they went out in pairs for food. But they were in a total funk. A week with a corpse would give anyone a bad case of nerves.

  The apartment door opened. A gruff voice spoke. “Haven’t you useless dog fucking shit sticks even dumped the fucking body?”

  “We were waiting for orders, sir,” said the one the others called Nose.

  There was the sound of a blow. “Where is fucking Mischa?” asked a different voice. It was softer and more deadly.

  He was answered with a mumble. Haki suspected fucking Mischa was dead, as he had not seen the dragon shifter leave, nor had he heard his voice in eighteen hours. Someone screamed with pain.

  The first voice spoke. He comprehensively trashed the antecedents of the four thugs in the flat. Ukrainians had a well-deserved reputation for profanity. Haki listened appreciatively. After fifteen minutes of educational cursing the voice ordered the four to line up.

  “Odéen is pissed off,” he said conversationally. “Nose, do you know what happens when Odéen is pissed?” There was the sound of a slap. “I asked you a question, asshole.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nose. “D-d-death.”

  “That’s right, asshole. And you fucking showers are due to be terminated for being such stupid turds that you have no further fucking use. Shir?”

  “Ready.”

  Two heavy somethings fell in quick succession to the floor. Haki assumed bodies. “Leave them,” growled Shir. “You motherfuckers are responsible for getting rid of Landor and Mischa. Get busy. We will take care of our own fucking mess. What are you waiting for, asswipes?”

  Scuffling and low voiced grumbling ensued.

  “They are exiting the building,” said Smith unruffled ten minutes later. “Two with a roll of carpet.”

  Haki heard them return to the flat. Smith watched them stick a second roll of carpet into the trunk of their car. The car drove off into the night, with Roper and Smith tailing.

  To Haki’s surprise, once the car had vanished, new noises filled the apartment. It sounded as though furniture was being moved. And he could almost have sworn that he heard more than two voices. Within fifteen minutes, Smith was calmly reporting. “Four, repeat four, leaving.”

  * * *r />
  September, Loire-du-Bois

  “We have developments, sir,” Ivan Sarkany told Lord Lindorm. He and his brother Hugo had just been ushered into Lindorm’s palatial study in the Chateau Lind.

  Lindorm gazed between the two dragon lords. “Exciting developments to bring you both hot foot from Switzerland,” he said dryly. “Sit down. I will ring for refreshments. Wine? Food?”

  Hugo shook his head. “We dined on the plane, sir, and this news is indeed vital. Our people took two bears into custody yesterday. They were intercepted leaving the Russians’ Buenos Aires crib.”

  “Crib?” queried Lindorm. Then his handsome faced creased into a smile. “Ah, you mean their hideout. Of course. But weren’t they to be tailed?” he objected.

  “Haki Te Paka recommended that these two be picked up because they were already dead,” said Ivan with quiet satisfaction.

  “I am growing more confused, not less,” complained Lindorm.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Ivan. “Bad joke. The surveillances tapes confirm that two more Russians arrived in Buenos Aires yesterday. They have been traced.” He consulted his phone. “They came in separately. One as Pavel Lipski and the other as Gregor Popov. They are better known to Interpol as Nestor Oblimov and Oleg Shir – two hard guys from Vladimir the Enforcer’s crew.”

  “Indeed. And they were killed, you say?” Lindorm asked.

  “No, sir, they seem to have been sent to clean up in Argentina. Oblimov and Shir showed up at the Buenos Aires hideout and bawled out the ones already there. After an hour of smacking heads, they apparently shot the two bears Leshov and Stevanich. They then ordered the dragons who had watched the supposed execution to dispose of the corpses already in the flat. They meant Landor and another dragon. Twenty minutes later, Leshov and Stevanich made a miraculous recovery and departed on foot. Haki Te Paka was listening in and ordered them picked up.”