Dragons Sky

by Noah Harris

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Dragons Sky

  Paranormal Shifter – M/M Navy Seal Book 4

  Noah Harris

  © 2017 All Rights Reserved

  Disclaimer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are all invented. Any similarities to real people, places, events, living or dead are all unintentional.

  This book contains sexually explicit content that is intended for a MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY.

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  Contents

  Dragon Sky

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Dragon Sky

  Arulean Black has never quite been the same since the wars that devastated dragon-kind, decimating their numbers and forcing them into hiding. He lost many loved ones and watched the weredragon race crumble, all the while unable to stop these events from happening. With the distance between him and his mate further than ever, Arulean lives as a shadow of his former self, drifting from one day to the next and haunted by the guilt of their history. When the last of the Elders dies, Arulean decides it is time to call for a Summit, a meeting of all the dragon kings across the globe, to determine what their future will hold. He is determined to keep the peace, while his mate tries to rally support for revenge. The problem? He feels like a living ghost. What he doesn’t expect? To meet a young omega with fire in his heart and heat in his eyes who makes him feel alive again.

  Rajiah Bronze has never quite felt like he belongs. He’s never appreciated the company of other dragons, and despite his mother’s urging, never felt the desire to have a mate. He’s all but convinced he doesn’t want one. He spends most of his days traveling the world and living among lesser shifters. He finds their presence much more calming than that of dragon-kind. However, when his mother dies, he’s given the task of bringing her ashes to the Summit. The problem? His older sister is pressuring him to find a mate. What he doesn’t expect? To fall completely head-over-heels for the powerful and elusive dragon king, Arulean Black.

  There are certain lines they shouldn’t cross, but those, coincidentally, are the exact lines that might be worth crossing after all.

  Chapter One

  Her scales were a blood-red mark against the orange-stained sky. The sunset cast the world in warm hues, reflecting off the clouds in splashes and colors that complemented her own colors perfectly. She twisted mid-flight, catching the winds, wings expanding and carrying her higher and higher. She pulled them in close again and, diving toward the lake below, expanded her wings once again sailing across the water, sending ripples in her wake.

  It looked as if nature was nothing more than a backdrop to her beauty, for beautiful she was, with a strong, powerful, aura cascading off her in waves. Her body was lithe and slim and quick, muscles coiling and rippling beneath her scales, body twisting and writhing in the air, wing movements precise and graceful. She looked as if she commanded the wind instead of riding on it, as if the world bent to her and her alone.

  And, once upon a time, he supposed it had. As she rose high again, soaring over the valley below their castle, she let loose a roar. It was primal, emotional, and full of a raw anguish that tugged at his heart, adding to the sharp sting of his own pain. He could practically feel it rip from her jaws, tear past the tissue, hear the blood in her throat. Dragons couldn’t cry tears in their beast forms, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hear the sentiment.

  His chest felt hollow, his heart pricking pain with each beat. He felt it pulse through him, oddly dull and muted. He knew of sorrow, and that’s what this was. He felt it in a deep-seated weariness in his bones and the sluggish way he moved. He felt it in the heaviness of his thoughts and how his stomach rebelled against food. He felt it in the way despair seemed to cling to and claw at his flesh. But all those sensations were dim compared to what they once had been.

  At one point in his life, just a few centuries ago, he would have felt them strongly. He would have been up there with her. He would have roared his pain and lost himself to the winds in a flight of mourning. He would have joined her, and they would have intertwined their bodies mid-flight, sharing pain and taking comfort in each other.

  But now, he was numb. He knew his sorrow was deep and strong, but he felt detached, as if he was watching and feeling his sorrow from high above himself, as though it couldn’t quite touch him. The fact that he felt anything at all was proof enough that this sorrow was shaking him to the core. It was leaking out of a place inside him, deep down where he buried these feelings, the deep pit of despair that he kept hidden and buried, lest they make him crumble. For he knew that if he actually let himself feel, if he let himself mourn every time they lost one of their own, he would crumble. And if he were to crumble, their kind would truly be lost.

  So, he kept his sorrow to himself, he put up a strong front. He had to be strong for himself, for his people, for his mate. She writhed in the air, ruby scales flashing like fire in the light of the setting sun, silently calling out for him to join her, to mourn with her.

  He remained where he was. They hadn’t mourned together in centuries. She was a wild creature, prone to emotions and instinctive reactions. Her wildness had once been something he admired in her. He’d loved her fire, passion, and strength. Now he saw them as weaknesses. He saw her flaws, the way her rashness could hurt them. Her emotions controlled her, and that wasn’t a quality befitting a leader. Not the kind of leader their people needed. If she couldn’t be that person, he would have to be. If they both fell prey to their emotions, then surely everything would be lost.

  So he let her mourn, but he didn’t join her.

  He watched her flight long into the twilight, long after the sun set and the moon began to rise. He watched her body twist and writhe, heard her screams and cries, heard as sorrow gave way to anger, and then give way to sorrow once again.

  He was never particularly close to his mate’s mother, and from what he’d known of Lyphnia, neither was she. But her mother had been a prominent figure among the weredragons, an alpha female and a strong leader, and one of the last known breeders. In fact, she was widely recognized as the Great Mother after having given birth more often than any female or omega dragon in history. She had been incredibly fertile for one of their kind, and as
such, she had dedicated her life to being a breeder, a title that was increasingly rare among weredragons, whose birthing rates were very low; therefore, anyone able to give birth and keep their species alive was highly regarded.

  She continued to give birth long after most dragons would have been considered infertile. She had been a miracle and a blessing among their people. And now she was gone.

  She had also been one of the last of the Elders. Those belonging to the previous generation of weredragons had been alive for several millennia and helped build their power around the globe. The greats had established their power before passing on the world to their children. Lyphnia’s mother had been the last breeder among the Elders, the generation that was more fertile than his own. She had been nearly six thousand years old when she died. There were a few other Elders alive, but no one quite knew where they were. They had long gone into hiding, choosing to live out their days in solitude, apart from shifters and humans alike. They became hermits, removed from a society that had long since passed them by, waiting in peace until their own passing.

  The Great Mother had been the last Elder active in dragon society. With her death, all of dragon-kind felt a loss, a sense of abandonment, hopelessness, and of knowledge that new times were indeed here. They had all felt the passing of time and the changes since the war and the purge, but this was a confirmation of the new age. Their last ties with the past were severed. This was no time for uncertainties, but decisiveness.

  And it was time for Arulean to assert his authority once again and truly bring his shattered people back from the brink of extermination, to keep them safe and ensure their survival.

  He turned away from his mate’s mourning flight, ignoring the dull tug in his chest as he turned back to their castle. He strode through the dark, stone corridors, letting the familiar chill seep into his bones and bring with it sharp clarity.

  The Great Mother’s death was a long time coming, and her life had become one of the biggest roadblocks in his striving for peace. Without her in the way, he could finally put safety precautions into place, and work on saving his people. His biggest obstacle now was Lyphnia, his own mate and very much her mother’s daughter. But she could be controlled and kept in check. Her wild emotions and rash decisions could be reined in as long as he kept their mateship bond intact.

  They may not have shared a bed in several centuries, he may not feel more for her than a sense of nostalgia and bitter resentment, and she may hold little more for him than nostalgia and thinly veiled contempt, but he would hold their mateship bond strong.

  For the good of his people, his own happiness could be sacrificed.

  After all, it was his fault they were in this situation to begin with.

  “Sire, the queen approaches.” The dragon spoke softly, bowing respectfully to Arulean’s back.

  Arulean hummed his acknowledgement, but did little else. He remained where he stood, next to the large lodestone, hands hovering over its surface but not touching. He could feel its power humming in the open air, an increasing pressure in the space between them, like static aching to spark. He kept his eyes closed as he spoke, “Thank you.” Truth be told, he had felt Lyphnia’s presence nearing them long before the announcement. “You may leave us.”

  There was a hesitation. “Sire…” the man said, his voice uncertain.

  Arulean opened his eyes, half-turning to look at the man. He stood tall, as most dragons did, but it was more due to his presence than stature. He wore the robes suited to his station, black with gold and silver markings. His hood was down, and the tattoos that adorned his shaved head were visible, runic markings disappearing down his neck. As the keeper of the lodestone, his status was high, but he was weak in comparison to Arulean’s aura. Not even he was above a king.

  Still, Arulean understood his hesitance. His job was to look after the lodestone, after the ashes of their ancestors, to keep the connection between them all open and active. He was loath to leave anyone alone in the chamber, especially if that person’s temper was as volatile as Lyphnia’s, and especially given her less than stable emotional state.

  Arulean gave him a small smile, a mere quirk of the corners of his lips, and tried to soften his gaze enough to convey understanding. “I will keep her under control. You have nothing to fear. As well, I do not believe either you or your acolytes will want to be around when she is here,” he said, not unkindly. It wasn’t a warning or a threat, just a statement of fact. Her sharp tongue was well known, and her courtesy did not extend to those she considered beneath her, which consisted of anyone without dragon blood. And Jorra’s acolytes were all shifters of other breeds. Gone were the days when there were enough dragons to hold all the positions.

  Arulean, personally, saw no issue with having lesser shifters around. Most of those who worked in the castle and lived in the small village below were refugees, come to seek shelter and safety with the dragons, away from humans. Arulean couldn’t turn them away. As long as they bowed to his rule, he had no reason to.

  Lyphnia didn’t necessarily agree, but she had no argument against it. Their own kind became rarer and rarer by the year, and if she wanted to remain in power, she had to extend her influence to others. Lesser shifters had always been under their rule, but there had always been enough dragons for her to ignore them completely. Now, not so much.

  Jorra chewed his lip in thought, looking over Arulean’s expression before pursing his lips and bowing his head. “I entrust the cavern and the stone to you then, sire.” He took several steps back before turning on his heel and striding away. As Arulean watched, he gave a sharp gesture in the air, and several others in similar robes stepped away from their positions along the walls, slipping into double file behind him as they left the cavern and headed deeper into the mountain’s cave systems. Arulean didn’t blame their hasty retreat. As reluctant as the man had been to leave, he knew that no one was particularly fond of being in an enclosed space with Lyphnia. The dragon queen had a reputation, and she hadn’t been the same since the purge.

  Once the keepers were gone, he turned back to the lodestone. A large black and gray stone, centered in a massive cavern deep in the heart of the mountain. The roof of the cavern rose high, its ceiling disappearing into darkness. The chamber itself was wide enough to fit a score of dragons in their beast forms, the walls cut naturally from the stone. They were dotted with small holes and pockets, nearly invisible from a distance as they blended into the uneven surface. Each hole housed the ashes of one of their kind: their ancestors, their brethren.

  The entire burial chamber practically hummed with an ancient and nearly untamable power. The presence of so many all around him, as if watching him from the afterlife, waited and judged his actions. He stood with his hands sweeping over the lodestone, never quite touching the surface. It was a conduit of their blood, a way to amplify their aura out through the ties that bound their kind, a way to send out a call. But he couldn’t do it alone.

  He felt her presence as she descended before he felt the reverberation of her landing through the rock beneath his feet. Moments later there were footsteps, muted but echoing around the cavern walls. He listened to her approach through the long hallway leading to the burial chamber. Her steps were slow and measured, as they always were. She had always been one for making people wait and making sure that they knew she was doing it on purpose. It was one of the many ways she commanded power. Just as it was one of the many ways that she attempted to assert authority over him. It never worked. He was a patient man who refused to fall prey to her antics.

  Once upon a time they might have been endearing. Now they were just another of her flaws.

  “You didn’t join my flight last night.” Her voice rang out, even and calm, but as chilly as the mountain air. She paused in the entryway. Her aura was strong, easily drowning out the dull, faint pulses from the holes in the walls, but barely touched his power.

  “I prefer to mourn in private,” he said with the same amount of ease.


  “You didn’t before,” she pointed out coolly.

  “True,” He said simply. She was right. Once, when they were young and close, when their kind were at their peak, they would mourn the loss of one of their own together. They would fly together, entangle in the skies, and share in their grief by celebrating the living. But that was before death became commonplace and before he started to blame her for the deaths. “But it has been centuries since then. Now I prefer to mourn by myself.”

  “You didn’t fly at all.”

  “Flight is not necessary to mourn.”

  “It is to release the sorrow.”

  “It was not necessary.”

  “You don’t allow yourself to feel enough.”

  “You allow yourself to feel too much.”

  Silence. A standstill. One they had come to countless times before, and one they wold no doubt continue to reach. He took a step back, half-turning and looking at her for the first time since she’d arrived. She stood tall and proud, poised and dignified. Her hair was the same deep red as her scales, dark in the dim lighting of the cave. Her features, like most dragons, were sharp and angular--ethereal. Her eyes were dark, limpid pools that he knew would glisten like blood in the light. Her human body was curvaceous, indicating the fertility that she had once embodied.

  She was beautiful in an otherworldly way, just as she was terrifying. He had once been drawn to her flames. Now he realized that fire was cold enough to burn.

  He held out a hand to her, a peaceful gesture, one that would allow them to move past their impasse. “Come,” He said, voice low and kind, with a gentleness that was almost foreign now. “We must make the call.”

  Her lip curled in a small sneer, but she stepped forward, practically gliding across the floor to take his hand. “What do you plan to achieve, Arulean?” she asked, curiosity softening her tone. He tugged her forward by the hand, and she moved automatically to stand next to him in front of the stone. “You have called a Summit at the death of every Elder, and yet nothing has changed. Our kind remains at an impasse. We are independent creatures, Arulean. To try to unite us under one is a fool’s errand.”