Dragons Sky

by Noah Harris

  If we can’t protect those weaker than us, then what good are we?

  “One large pack, hmm?” He said, a small smile forming. “I like the sound of that.”

  Rajiah smirked, nuzzling into Arulean’s side, arms tightening around his waist. “I thought you might... I was thinking we could call ourselves the Shadow Pack.”

  He paused just outside the doors to the castle, turning to face Rajiah. He was close, his warm, sweet scent wrapping around him, marking his skin and clothes. He loved the omega’s scent. He loved him. He raised an eyebrow, ghost of a smile on his lips. “The Shadow Pack?”

  Rajiah was grinning, eyes lighting up and crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, because you’re all dark like a shadow, the shadow that watches over us. But also, because our pack will be dedicated to keeping shifters safe and hidden from humans. A shadow.”

  He chuckled softly, leaning forward until his forehead was pressed to Rajiah’s. “Our pack. The Shadow Pack. I like that.” He breathed. “No matter where we go, or where we settle, we can offer others a safe place to live.”

  Rajiah’s smile softened, leaning into Arulean’s touch. He snaked his arms around his neck. “That sounds perfect.” He breathed, eyes half lidded and lips parted. “Kiss me?”

  And he did. He wrapped Rajiah up in his arms and pulled him tight, lips slow and languid as they tasted each other, bodies melding into one. His heart pounded in his chest, his head dizzy, his limbs light, his stomach fluttering. Their future was uncertain, as all futures were. But there was one thing Arulean knew with the upmost certainty: he loved this man, and he would do anything and everything to keep him at his side.

  “I love you,” He murmured against his lips.

  Rajiah chuckled, the sound low and sweet, making the happiness in his chest bubble and pop. “I love you, too, you big idiot.”

  Arulean pulled back just a little, enough to give Rajiah a puzzled and amused look. “I do not think anyone has ever had the audacity to call me an idiot.”

  Rajiah’s grin was like the sun. “Well, get used to it. Cause I’m not going anywhere for a long, long time.”

  He liked the sound of that.

  The end.

  ***

  Notes from the author: Beloved reader, I hope you have enjoyed reading Dragon Sky! It truly has been a pleasure writing it. Although the story may be over you didn’t think I would let you go without a special reward? As thank you for reading Dragon Sky in the following pages I’m including a steamy Jaguar Shifter novella, never published before. I hope you enjoy it. Once again, thank you so much for reading my Sailing Deep Series. Don’t forget to connect with me via email.

  Bonus Book

  Rowland “Charge” Sorrenson is a mechanic hightailing it across the United States and as a man that could shift into a large Brazilian Jaguar, tails were always involved. He’s loaded what belongings he has into his babied – mostly – corvette and is heading east. Miami was calling! Atlantic blue waters and parties that could go all night long; a siren’s song to his hot-blooded nature. While he started life in sunny California, he had spent the last decade in Sin City; and though he had resisted the call of the lights and neon, life had still found a way to go sideways. A couple of hours from the eastern edge of the biggest obstacle between him and Florida, Texas, and the detours and crazy drivers of Houston claim the corvette as a casualty. Stuck, Charge manages to get the car off the interstate while squinting through thick plumes of smoke. After a moment of wallowing, he walks a couple of blocks to the only lit building in the near vicinity, a bar.

  He had only hoped to find an outlet to plug his phone into; instead, Charge found trouble stumbling out the door of the bar. Fleeing the bar, if he were a technical sort. Trouble, it turns out, has a name – Jon – not to mention the most glorious cars (yes, with a ‘s’) Charge has ever seen. As they get to know one another, Charge has to wonder if saving Trouble would prove to land him with another albatross around his neck, or the absolute reward.

  Take a bite out of classic cars while indulging in the budding romance between the flashy west coast mechanic who delights in breaking stereotypes and a smooth Texas cowboy who has spent most of his life keeping his head down.

  I

  The first sputter he ignored. However, it was followed by a second and a third, Rowland “Charge” Sorrenson started praying. The ’87 Corvette had been giving him trouble for a while, but then it had started wheezing the last hundred miles on the interstate. He had managed to make it to Houston, but he had hit a detour – and then another.

  “Fuck!” Charge snarled in the dark as the driver ahead of him hit their brakes for some inexplicable reason. “Why do they feel the need to have construction on all of the roads at once in this damn city?” He wondered out loud.

  After hauling ass down 93 from Las Vegas to Phoenix, Interstate-10 was supposed to have been the road to take him across the country. It had been doing its job wonderfully until he had gotten to Houston. Suddenly, he had intercepted a series of asinine detours and what had to be the craziest drivers outside of L.A. or New York; at least Charge’s impressions of New York drivers. New Yorkers were steadily losing out to the crazed pace at which Houstonians either tore up or crept along the asphalt.

  I-10 to 59, 59 to 610, and 610 back to I-10…Well, if I can ever make it back to I-10, he amended. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Charge knew he had jinxed himself.

  A heavy clunk sounded within the confines of the car and the whole thing started to vibrate. Within the time, it took for his heart to beat, Charge was hissing at the sound of shearing metal. The sound would be ghastly for anyone, but for a shifter, someone who could shift their bodies into that of a fearsome predator, it was torture. If he had been one of the canine breeds, he likely would have started howling; however, as a Jaguar, he had a little more class. Still, he couldn’t prevent the hiss slipping between his teeth as his ears protested.

  He briefly considered deluding himself that there was nothing wrong, that the ‘Vette could keep going, only then, the engine started smoking. He couldn’t dispute the fact that the display of oil-stained smoke was rather impressive as it heralded a dismal diagnosis. He eased the car to an off-ramp and hoped that no one called the fire department.

  Sputtering and rattling, the corvette nosed down the off-ramp. Alarmed to find the area seemingly still and quiet for the night, Charge turned down one of the side streets and slowly crept through along. He managed to cut through a couple of neighborhoods, keeping an eye out for a more lit area and hopefully somewhere to park his car.

  After easing the ‘Vette around a corner, across a narrow street – slipping from a blatantly more affluent neighborhood into one that was distinctly less so – Charge felt the car give a heavy heave before it shuddered once and finally died. Considering he hadn’t been able to get any momentum going since getting off the freeway, the car hardly rolled another few feet before it too stopped and sat as still and silent as the engine that once powered it. Charge considered venting his frustration on the steering wheel. Instead, he leaned forward and dropped his forehead against the faded and cracking leather wrapping the wheel with a thud.

  “Fuck,” he muttered hopelessly. Charge indulged and wallowed in self-pity for another five minutes before he sat up and devoted serious thought to his options. Snarling under his breath, Charge finally shoved out of the driver’s side door and stomped to the front of the still smoking hood. He maneuvered the catch on the hood, lifted it, and attempted to wave the smoke away. While, unlike normal humans, he had the night vision of his animal counterpart, Charge still couldn’t see clearly through the still billowing smoke.

  Not that I have the tools to fix it, he groused – his voice sneering in his head.

  That had been the final straw. What had made him throw up has hands and abandon Las Vegas after calling that twisted bitch of a city home for several years – his ‘roommate’ had pawned everything of value, including all his tools, and, as a mechanic, that had
been the absolute betrayal.

  Charge still flinched when he thought about it. He would have thought himself beyond feeling the stings of betrayal, considering he had grown up on the streets of Los Angeles, regularly betrayed, before hightailing it to Sin City to try his luck at life. Of course, if he were really honest with himself, that was why the betrayal hurt as badly as it did – Sammy, his now-ex-roommate and fellow feline shifter, an ocelot, had made the move to Las Vegas with him.

  They had been a pair on the streets of Los Angeles. Two shifter cubs that had found themselves alone and doing anything imaginable to avoid being picked up and dumped into the full human system, they had teamed up and had somehow managed to survive. And then Sammy had been sucked into the whirl of lights, bells, and chance. When the snake of chance had reared back and bitten him, Sammy had resorted to swimming with sharks. Eventually sharks bit too.

  While Charge had managed to keep, them housed and fed, he had become increasingly frustrated. He lost count of the number of times he had popped his friend’s joints back into place after some thug had found the small shifter to issue a warning on his debts. In a desperate bid for cash, Sammy had done the one thing for which Charge hadn’t been able to turn a blind eye.

  Charge yanked himself back to the present, shaking his head roughly to clear the threads of reflection from his mind. Lowering the hood, he turned in a circle, hands on hips, and considered the neighborhood around him. His predator’s eyes narrowed and focused on the haze of light emanating from around a curve in the road ahead. He stomped back over to the car, grabbed the medium-sized duffle out of the back and snagged his phone and jacket off the passenger seat , and stalked forward, leaving the corvette tucked against the curb.

  “For such a large city, I can’t believe how freaking quiet it is at night,” Charge muttered as he trudged toward the hint of light ahead. He only hoped that whatever the place was, it was open and preferably serving alcohol. He really needed a drink.

  Jon Forrest knew he should have walked out of the bar as soon as he had seen those eyes narrow in his direction. Unfortunately, it had been a stressful day and a couple of beers had seemed just the thing. So he had ignored the considering look, and had continued to do so – clinging to hope of anonymity – after realization had dawned and the man to whom those narrowed eyes belonged had allowed his lips to twist in contempt.

  This wasn’t Jon’s first time in the bar, but it was the first time he had run into someone he had known during his formative years in it. Charles Able. Jon still knew his name – and now, more than ever, wished he didn’t.

  Please – please let him just glare at me. Please don’t let him make a scene. Jon privately prayed the refrain over and over, all the while not really believing.

  Recognizing Jon, the weathered bartender had already set an opened bottle of Jon’s preferred Texas-brew, Shiner, on the counter. s He lowered his long frame onto the stool and lifted the bottle to his lips and drank. When Able’s group quieted, Jon pulled his wallet from his pocket and dropped a bill on the counter. Confused, the bartender arched a brow at him – Jon normally ran a tab.

  “I suspect it would be better if I pay as I go tonight,” Jon muttered behind the mouth of the bottle.

  The bartender subtly let his light brown gaze slide from Jon to the table in the corner where Able sat. Reaching under the mixing counter, the man snagged a bar rag and started polishing the gouged and stained wood beside Jon’s elbow.

  “You’re always so quiet,” the bartender muttered, his words always seemed to be implied as opposed to spoken under the rough gravel of his voice. “I am surprised you’re looking for trouble.”

  “I’m not. But it fits with the rest of my day that it found me tonight.”

  “How bad?”

  “I hope that I’ll make it out the door. Wouldn’t do to give you more of a mess to clean up tonight.”

  Before the bartender couldn’t respond to that, a voice sneered from behind Jon, “Well if it isn’t Jonny Forrest the fag. Couldn’t you have done the world a favor and killed yourself by now instead of ruining my perfectly enjoyable night out?”

  The bartender’s eyes had widened. Suddenly a big hand slapped down on the bar beside Jon. Taking one last swallow of his beer, Jon set the bottle as far away as he could and was relieved when the bartender retrieved it before anyone could claim it as a weapon.

  “Hello Able,” Jon murmured, the smooth tones of his quiet voice barely carrying so that both the bartender and Charles Able could hear him. Jon braced, knowing the fight was coming, but not enthused with the idea of kissing the bar should Able think to slam is face into the wood.

  “Hello Able,” Able simpered – attempting to mimic how he imagined Jon should sound, whiny and effeminate.

  Jon could feel the sharp puff of hot breath on the back of his neck; Able was leaning in close preparing to do his worst.

  “Still trying to pretend you’ve never gone for a dick?” Able muttered. Jon could only be grateful for the rare show of discretion – not that it should matter as Able had already called him a ‘fag.’ Still, there were aspects of his life he didn’t want announced to a room full of strangers.

  Silently, Jon cursed the twist of fate that had landed him facing Charles Able’s too ruddy face again after nearly two decades. Even after all the time that had passed, Jon still felt the pangs of self-disgust flaring as he remembered what had been revealed when Able and he had once been able to exist in the same room without hatred rearing its ugly head.

  They had been teammates. They had mutually enjoyed the scuffle over a dimpled, oblong leather ball. They had basked in victory and had suffered defeat. Jon wouldn’t have said that they were friends, even then, but they had gotten along well enough. However, when practice had ended too early at the end of the season and Able had led the way back to the team’s locker room – he had gotten a damning eye-full.

  Slipping away from the team earlier in practice under the guise of a recently injured knee still giving him trouble, Jon had finally worked up the courage to confess to the team’s student trainer – a male trainer, Michael. Michael hadn’t rejected Jon’s interest outright, but he had been unsure. Jon had asked his more studious classmate if he were up to an experiment to test his inclinations. After vowing that ‘stop’ was an iron-clad command and swearing that if the experiment was a bust, they would both forget anything had ever happened, Jon thought he might finally find a partner with whom he could finally experience the thoughts that made his blood pound and his mind faintly dizzy.

  They had made significant headway. Michael had been surprised by his own willingness – the lack of disgust he had always expected to feel when being caressed by another male. Unfortunately for them both, teenage hormones had raged, and neither of them stopped the momentum of their budding discovery when they should have. They went too far, in the wrong place – more importantly at the wrong time – and were caught.

  Able had been the only one to see just how far ‘too far’ was, but unlike other more forward thinking members of the team, Able had shouted loud and long – spilling every detail of the delicate situation out in the open, spreading it like a prairie wildfire through a high school in one of the most socially conservative states. It was ghastly.

  Watching the bartender’s eyes, Jon waited. He waited until a bare moment before Able’s other hand could slam into his flesh, he moved to the side and off the stool. Jon stood with careless grace, stepped around Able and had made straight for the door. Unfortunately, Able’s cronies weren’t willing to let the things end with Jon’s retreat. Two of them caught Jon by the front of his jacket and heaved him forward – obviously hoping to slam him into the wall. Only the lithe agility that had made Jon such an asset on the field, prevented that otherwise eventuality. Instead the momentum of their trusting hands sent Jon careening through the outward-pushing door, tripping over the threshold into the parking lot.

  Swearing, preparing to brace against impact, Jon could hear the
shouts of the barman and some of the other patrons that had gotten used to his occasional presence in the bar, railing against Able and the numbskulls who had just upped the severity of the exchange.

  Shitty days beget shitty nights. The thought crossed Jon’s mind briefly as he fell, then a flash of shining purple directly in front of his nose centered his attention. Fuck!

  II

  And a fucked night just got worse. Charge thought as he went down under the weight of a long-legged man’s body. He felt the expensive fabric of the man’s jacket slide over the bare skin of his arms. Charge inwardly winced, bemoaning the undeniable demise of a well-made garment.

  The pains of being a fashion whore in a fight, he sighed in dismay – he had lost more than a few good clothes to the tip of a knife or another predator’s claws.

  Charge’s ass, back, and shoulders slammed into the knobby, uneven asphalt – he barely managed to keep his skull from developing a rather personal relationship with the blacktop, as the other man crumpled completely on top of him. As he stared down at the top of the other man’s head, Charge noticed the burgeoning shimmer of silver in the other man’s hair – it was a delicate streak just off his passenger’s – for lack of a better term – temple. Pondering that shine, he wondered how old the man was as that the incoming gray was at odds with the hidden, but the firmly toned body on top of him.

  Though only a couple of heartbeats had passed, it felt like an eternity, waiting to see the man’s face. What could he say? Charge was a cat – through and through – and he was curious. Finally his passenger levered his upper body up from where he was sprawled on Charge’s chest, and flushed with embarrassment, barely managed to meet Charge’s pale golden gaze.

  “I am so sor –” before his Silver-streaked passenger could complete his apology and before Charge could really get a good look at the man, several other men burst through the bar’s swinging door into the parking lot, all of them yelling. They were obviously itching for a fight.