I stare in stunned silence as a motorcar bumps and grinds its way down the rough, overgrown pathway leading to the main road. The voice is coming from the backseat, and it’s a woman’s voice. Clean and confident. Strong and sweet.
I strain my eyes to get a look at her face, her lips, her eyes, her hair. My body is rigid like a post, and although it has been decades since I even saw a woman, let alone took a lover to my chambers, this feeling is too strong to be just loneliness and lust. This is something else. It is a sign just like being able to look at the sun was a sign. Certainly, it appears to be a coincidence that this woman chose this moment to show up. But coincidence is fate’s secret weapon. Coincidence is fate knocking on the door to see if you will answer.
And so I answer, and the moment I speak the sun bursts back into the sky, blasting away the cloud cover and shining down on me.
“I am Easton, Lord of Dragonswain Castle. And that sounds expensive,” I say, placing my big hands on my hips and standing tall as the taxicab stops. “And prejudicial.”
“Easton! Hi! I recognize your voice from the phone call. You’re taller than I imagined. Though I imagined you being pretty tall. But you’re taller. Also, what sounds expensive and prejudicial?” says the woman in the backseat. She’s struggling to open the door of the clunky old cab, and I take a breath and watch for a moment before making my way over.
“Your pronouncement that the old drawbridge cannot be salvaged,” I say, reaching for the door handle and gripping tight. I pull hard, and then I stagger back when the metal handle comes off in my hand.
I hold it up and scratch my chin with it. My arms are bigger than tree-trunks, and I have ripped all sorts of things from their natural locations with my strength. But I know that strength, and I did not apply even a fraction of it to this poor door handle.
“Hey! You’re paying for that!” shouts the taxi driver. I grunt and toss the door handle into the front seat. Then I reach for the back door, grasping it firmly but carefully so I don’t rip it off the hinges.
Except I do rip it off the hinges, and I am seriously perplexed at this newfound strength that makes me feel like I could spin this car on my little finger. I glance up at the sun again, narrowing my eyes and clenching my jaw as I slowly start to understand what’s happening.
My Dragonblood is heating up.
My animal is drawing close.
My time has indeed come.
“Which means only one thing,” I whisper as I toss the disembodied car-door over my shoulder and peer into the backseat to the source of that sweet voice. “It means you’re my mate.”
3
ELLIE
“I’m your what?” I say to the giant of a man who just ripped off a door handle and then the entire door like this is a cartoon. I’d noticed him from way down the road (if you can call this goat-path a road . . .), and to be honest, he’d scared me a little.
It doesn’t help that he’s wearing a leather vest with inlaid steel and bronze like this is still the 1500s or something. Those breeches and boots look even older than the vest, but all of it looks surprisingly clean. In fact the boots have been polished so well the old leather gleams. The metal links and inlays on the vest have been shined and sharpened, and even the breeches have a neat crease down the center like they’ve been ironed!
I notice all of that now, but I didn’t when I first saw him.
No, when I first saw him from a distance, all I noticed was his face.
His shockingly scarred, beautifully broken, hauntingly handsome face.
A face with a story behind it.
A story that I want to hear.
A story that I want to rewrite.
A story that I want to be a part of.
“Fix your own damned door,” Easton is saying to the taxi-driver when I finally break away from his mesmerizing face, pull myself back from those burning green eyes, that stubborn chin that juts out like a savage piece of rock, that neck thick like a bull’s. “And take it with you when you leave!”
“Just put it on my credit card,” I whisper absentmindedly to the driver. I’m still staring at this beast of a man, this artifact from another time, a man who looks like he fought a pack of wolves and somehow made it out alive. Hell, maybe he even won that fight! Look at those hands! Thicker than my thighs, with fists like sledgehammers! He could probably rip that old drawbridge out with his hands and build a new one in a day! What does he need me for?
What does he need me for, I think again as I stand on the rough ground, my luggage all around me. The taxi screeches off in a cloud of dust, and I swallow hard as I look up at the man. Once again I’m captivated by those scars, mesmerized by how he’s looking at me with a confidence masking a vulnerability that tugs at my heart.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I say when I realize I’m staring. “I don’t mean to stare.”
The man shrugs his massive shoulders. “You can stare,” he says with a nonchalance that has an edge to it. I can tell he’s self-conscious about his scars, but there’s also an underlying belief in his own worth that I sense can’t be shaken. This man has seen some shit in his life, but he’s still here. Still standing. It’s the winner that gets to remain standing, right?
I smile hesitantly and look down at my luggage. It’s way too much, I suddenly realize as I face the annoying truth that I don’t even have enough hands to carry all this shit, let along the strength to lift the big suitcases!
“I see you packed the new drawbridge into your suitcases,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he assesses the luggage situation. “How did you get all this stuff into that shitty little taxi?”
“It wasn’t easy,” I say, touching my hair and shifting on my feet. “To be honest, I think I left a couple of bags on the sidewalk in Glasgow.”
“Nothing important, I hope,” he says, grabbing the two heaviest bags with his left hand and scooping up all the rest with his right. I wanna ask if I should hop on for the ride too, but I think better of it.
I shrug. “Nah. Just my passport and all my money. Don’t need that, do I?”
He laughs, his voice thundering across the open land, his dark hair shimmering in the sun. “Nope,” he says. “I would’ve taken your passport and your money before locking you in my castle anyway.”
“Is that how it’s done in Scotland?” I say, touching my hair again like a nervous schoolgirl. Which I’m totally not. Not normally, at least.
“Do I sound Scottish?” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder as he strides down the path towards that shambles of a drawbridge.
“Actually, no,” I say, scampering a little to keep up. “You don’t sound Scottish at all.”
“You know why?” he says, stepping onto the drawbridge, which creaks and sways like it’s about to give way. He stands in the middle of the bridge and looks back at me, his scarred face darkened by the shadow of the castle.
“Why?” I say, frowning as I approach the drawbridge and peer into the deep moat that’s cut around the castle. The water level is low, and I can’t see all the way down from this angle. But I get a creepy feeling from the moat. I sense something moving in there—and not just the water.
“Because you aren’t in Scotland anymore,” he whispers, beckoning to me to cross the bridge. “This is my land. My castle. Mine!”
The word “mine” snakes across the air like a viper striking home, and I recoil at the sharpness even though it’s not directed at me. I don’t think it was directed at anyone, actually. He didn’t spit the word out in anger. The only emotion I picked up from the way he said “mine” was straight-up possessiveness, a need to claim, a drive to own, a lust for taking something and keeping it locked up forever.
“Locked up forever,” I whisper to myself as I gingerly place my right foot on the old wood. It’s only now that I think back to the offhanded comment he made about how he was gonna lock me up in his castle. I’d laughed at the comment, but it doesn’t seem that funny now. I think back to Frannie and how we’d jok
ed about this being either a reality show or some serial killer shit, and as I scan the dark stone walls of the massive old castle, I don’t see any camera rolling, which means it’s serial-killer for the win.
I place another foot on the drawbridge, holding my breath as if that’ll make me lighter. The man is staring at me, those green eyes focused and bright. I sense he’s waiting for me to cross this bridge, and I get the weird feeling like if I step across I’m making a choice.
A choice that’s going to change the course of my life.
A choice that’s going to change everything.
Two more steps and I stop again. Now I’m thinking about what Frannie whispered to me about fate, about how fate works by lining up coincidences, offering you choices, opening up paths and seeing where you step, leading you to a bridge to see if you’ll cross it . . .
The bridge creaks as I try to cross, and I freeze again like this is about more than just shuffling my feet across some old wood. I’m not scared that the bridge will break, and it’s not just because I’m an engineer with enough sense to know when something’s about to give way.
No, I think as I glance up at Easton. He’s the reason I’m not scared. I feel like I can’t be scared around him, that not only would he never hurt me, he’d hurt anybody who threatened me, destroy anything that gets too close. I see it in the way he’s looking at me. I sense it in the way he’s standing on the bridge, his rock-hard body coiled like a spring, like he’s ready to leap across and save me if one of these planks gives way.
But still I hesitate on the bridge as the symbolism of crossing over to Easton gets to me a little. My heart beats faster, and I’m short of breath. A part of me says go ahead. Another part draws me back to safe, solid ground. The air is still like a graveyard, almost like the breeze is holding its breath to see what I’ll do!
The self-imposed tension is almost too much, and I’m on the edge of losing my nerve and running from the future that lies within that dark castle. But then I hear something move in the moat below me, and when I look down through the holes in the wood I see a mass of swirling, twisting, snapping . . .
“Motherfucker!” I scream, and now I’m running so fast I get to the other side before my swear-word gets there! I’m hopping up and down, brushing myself off like the snakes are all over me, crawling under my skin, slithering through my hair, trying to get into my head!
“They don’t bite,” comes Easton voice through my yelps and yips, and then I hear his deep, throaty laugh. “Wait. No. Yes, they do indeed bite. Especially the double-headed serpents. One of the heads will sink its fangs into you, and the other will immediately try to eat you. Pretty good teamwork. Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”
4
EASTON
“This isn’t a room,” she says when I push open the heavy oak door and step into the space reserved for guests. “It’s a football field.”
I stride to the middle of the room and drop all her suitcases at once. Each one lands upright, and I grin and clap my hands like a magician applauding himself. I can barely describe the light that fills my heart, and I have only been in Eleanor’s presence for a handful of minutes!
Though I am already aching for a handful of her, I think as I feel movement at the front of my breaches. My balls feel heavy and full, and my cock is throbbing like it knows our time has come, that our patience has been rewarded.
Our mate is here.
My smile is brighter than the sunlight that bursts into the room when I draw back the old velvet curtains. It took me three days to clean the guest chambers. Who knew three centuries of cobwebs would be heavy enough to break a wheelbarrow!
I stand by the windows and watch Eleanor survey the room. She is perfect in a way I could not have imagined. Pretty like a rose. Hair like brushed satin. A laugh that makes me want to sing. A smile that makes me want to dance. And curves that make me want to—
“I want to take a bath,” she says from somewhere inside the winding passages of the guest chambers.
I follow the sound of her voice and then gasp when I see her body silhouetted against the stone archway of the private chambers where the women used to bathe themselves. My breath catches as the golden sunlight shines through the space between her thighs, casting her body in a glow that makes me want to go full-dragon on her.
I already feel my Dragon rising inside me, sense my Dragonblood heating up. I may have questioned my faith for centuries, but in the end a man knows what’s in his blood.
And what’s inside will eventually come out.
“So long as no snakes come out of these pipes,” she says from inside the bath chambers. “This water doesn’t come from the moat, does it?”
“It comes from a ground-spring farther up on my land,” I say, stepping towards her but stopping near the entrance. I do not trust myself to get any closer right now. There is too much happening inside me. I need to let this wild, frenzied energy burn through my blood before I stake my claim on Eleanor, before I make her mine forever, take possession of her heart, ownership of her soul. I already have the strength of ten bulls, and my Dragon is not yet fully formed in me! Yes, I need to stay back until I understand my own power, understand how to control it. If I ripped the door off a car without realizing it, it is best I am cautious with my delicate human mate, yes?
“Scottish spring water?” she says, turning halfway from the old bronze basins and putting one hand on her hip. The luscious sight of her in profile almost makes me choke, and I take a step back so the stone pillar can hide the pillar in my pants. “Is it safe to drink?”
“High in minerals,” I manage to say, glancing down at my cock to make sure it does not cast a shadow in the entryway. The snakes did not scare her away, but it might be too early to show her this Scottish serpent. “But don’t fill up on water. There will be wine with dinner.”
Eleanor pokes her head out of the inner room and smiles. “Wine? Dinner? Am I gonna get any work done here?”
“You will find that I am all business, Ms. Eleanor,” I say with a grin. And my business is you, I say to myself as that grin gets so damned big my jaw hurts.
“So, my name isn’t Eleanor,” she says after the slightest of hesitations, like she didn’t want to bring it up.
“It is now,” I say without a hint of hesitation.
“Um, did you just change my name?” she says, stepping into full view and putting her hands on those hips again. Hips that I want my own hands on. Fuck, I don’t think I can wait. I want her now. Sitting through dinner with her without having a taste of her first would be torture worse than anything administered in even the darkest dungeon of Dragonswain.
I shrug. “You can change my name too, if you like.”
Eleanor closes one eye and raises the opposite eyebrow. “OK. How about I call you . . . Egor! You know, the hunchbacked monster from Castle Frankenstein?”
I shake my head. “I am not familiar with that castle.” Then I straighten my already straight back and snort. “And I am not hunchbacked. Perhaps you can rename my brother Fikus.”
Immediately I hate myself for the joke, and I bite my lip so hard I taste blood on my tongue. Making light of a person’s physical imperfections is unforgivable, and I wince as I catch a glimpse of my own deformities reflected in the stained glass window.
“Oh, your brothers live here too?” she says, her voice high-pitched like she’s surprised—and maybe disappointed that we aren’t alone. “Will they be at dinner?”
I shake my head. “Only Fikus lives here. And he does not enjoy company. He takes his meals in his own chambers in the South Tower.” I rub the back of my head and glance towards her suitcases. “Anyway, I will leave you to it. Do you need anything?”
She looks down and shakes her head. Then she glances up at me, and we lock eyes for a moment that sends an explosion of emotion through me. I see colors shooting across my vision, and I know in this moment that Eleanor feels something too. She might not know what it is, but she feels it non
etheless.
So I move toward her, my body drawn to hers like a magnet. Somewhere in the depths of my consciousness I see flashes of dark red wings and gleaming black talons. I smell wisps of Dragonsmoke on my breath. I feel the Dragonfire surge through my boiling blood. I am close to erupting, close to feeling my Dragon come through in all its fiery glory. This is the time, Easton. Take her now. She’s yours, and she knows it.
“Um, what are you doing?” comes her voice through my madness, and I freeze in my tracks when I realize I am almost on her, my arms spread wide like an eagle about to strike.
Instantly I crash back to reality, and without thinking I strike the wall behind her with my palm. “Spider,” I say, my eyes wide as I hope to hell she believes me. “Got it.”
She frowns up at me, and I know she doesn’t believe there was really a spider on the wall—or that I would come to her with my arms out wide and my lips puckered like an fool to kill a spider. There’s a moment of tense silence, and I almost despair at the thought that Eleanor will take her bags and walk out of here rather than deal with my aggressive—and idiotic—behavior.
But Eleanor blinks and exhales softly, and then she glances up into my eyes and nods. “Thanks,” she says, even though her eyes say something else. Something that can’t be put into words.
It’s the same thing that led her across that treacherous bridge, it occurs to me as I smile and close my fist around the imaginary spider. By God, she does feel something. She feels the draw of destiny, the pull of fate.
The magic of being near her mate.
“This isn’t a magic castle, is it?” she asks, breaking a hesitant smile that lights up her pretty face. “Two-headed snakes. Indivisible spiders. What’s next?”
I grin and pat the wall like the castle is alive. “I could show you the dungeons if you like,” I offer.
She raises her eyebrows. “To the dungeons already? At least take a girl to dinner first,” she says, those brown eyes sparkling like a brook in the springtime.
Dragon's Curvy Engineer Page 2
