by Meara Platt
He inhaled deeply to calm his mounting anger. Her continued belief in his brother’s honor was a sure way to rile him into a dragon rage. But he could never summon such anger toward Anabelle, for she was his and he wished to protect her from all dangers, including those posed by the Stone of Draloch.
He inhaled again, her scent etched into his memory and now stirring his blood with a longing that arose from a place deep within his damaged heart. Even now, the bed they shared carried her attractive scent, and when he lay beside her, it was as though they were stretched out in a field of lavender. All he wanted to do was fill her body with his dragon essence, breathe her in, hold her against his body so that he could no longer tell where he ended and she began.
All he wanted to do was protect her…his dragon mate.
Anabelle hastily donned her robe and scrambled to her feet beside him, more impatient than alarmed. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She was small and slender, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulders. What respectable dragon would ever take such a delicate young woman as his wife? Yet, from the moment he’d met her, he’d known she was meant for him and dreaded what it meant for her. Even now, he was exasperated and worried and still held grave reservations over what he’d done. He did not regret taking his marriage vows and pledging himself to her. His wife. His mate for life. But their union could mean the death of her if his vigilance ever slipped, as it had tonight.
Knowing she could have been harmed and he was the cause of it tore him up inside. “Then why say such a thing?”
“Because I feel it in my heart.”
He groaned and took her into his embrace. “Damn it, little one. I think you’re being falsely guided by the Stone of Draloch.”
Her doe eyes flashed at him in anger. “It is true. I am guided by your beacon, your divine light,” she reminded him, for that’s how he had described the Stone of Draloch to her when she’d first seen it. “But it is not controlling me.”
She shook her head to mark her own exasperation. “We were speaking of weaknesses a moment ago, but now I wish to speak of strengths. My heart is my strength. It led me to you and I will do all in my power to love and protect you for the rest of my days. Otherwise, why have me as your dragon mate? The same way your dragon blood guides you, so does my heart guide me.”
“But straight to my brother, so he can kill you as he did Gideon?”
She frowned and pursed her lips. “You still won’t listen. I had no idea dragons were so stubborn, but I’m fast learning. He didn’t kill Gideon and he won’t kill me.”
Saron clamped his hands upon her shoulders. Such delicate shoulders for a little girl with big opinions. “Don’t you dare invite him into our home. I have no wish to see you proved wrong.”
“I wouldn’t. Not even I, as stubborn as I am, would be so foolish. But he did get in.” She paused to stare at him in confusion. “I promise, it wasn’t me who let him in.”
“I know,” he said with a grim nod. “Prinny did it. As reigning monarch, although only a prince regent for now, all our lands are his by royal right. Our titles and land grants are given to us at his pleasure. Any nobleman may have his Letters Patent revoked by the Crown. This is what gives him the power to bring Bloodaxe here.”
She nibbled her lip in thought. “Then he can invite Bloodaxe in wherever he wishes. At Draloch. At Harleigh. There is nowhere truly safe if Bloodaxe wished to do us harm.”
“That’s right.” Saron was loathe to agree. “What are you thinking, Anabelle?”
“That I’m more convinced than ever that my instincts about him are right. I would have been dead months ago if he meant to harm me.” She took his hands and drew him back into bed. “If what you say is true, then Prinny has the power to admit any of the Dragon Lords into our home…any home, whether it be here in London or at Draloch…or Harleigh. What if he does? I wish to learn how to use a knife and shoot arrows. You cannot protect me every moment of my life, and I will not spend my life a prisoner in my own home. Even then I would not be safe. So let us live our lives to the fullest and do what we can to prepare ourselves for adversity.”
She shoved him onto the mattress and settled atop him, sliding her body along his to distract him from his worry. He didn’t like that he was so easily aroused by her, for he was not one to be led about by the nose. But there was no denying that she consumed him or that the looming danger heightened his yearning for her. He would take her to the Stone of Draloch in the morning. He had to convince her that she was wrong about Bloodaxe.
He thought no more about it this evening as the hot roar of dragon lust filled him. Anabelle’s soft lips were on his body, moving downward from his neck to his chest to…blessed saints! His blood turned fiery. He rolled her onto her back and moved over her, needing her. Wanting her. His lips and tongue suckling and licking the magnificent rose peaks of her breasts, his fingers sliding between her shapely legs and igniting her core. He thrust inside her, lifting her so that her legs wrapped around him and allowed him deeper entrance, allowed him to fill her with a need so powerful, he felt the ripples run through him with the force of storm waves crashing against a rocky shore.
His member throbbed to near explosion, for her tight, velvet warmth surrounded the hard length of him, and he thought of nothing but Anabelle, of her lavender scent and the taste of her silken skin on his tongue. He’d been adrift on an endless sea, searching for safe harbor. Thirsting for that which could sustain him. Anabelle was the only one who could quench this need. He wanted to drink her in, drown himself inside of her, sink into the dark pools of her eyes and never come up for air.
How bereft and dangerous he would be if he lost her.
She lay willing and eager in his arms, her body flushed with passion and her beckoning moans stirring him into a dragon frenzy.
His blood was on fire, turning molten. He throbbed inside of her, his need a dam near to bursting. She was also on the precipice, her back arched and her skin hot and pink, her doe eyes as they opened, glistening with desire. “I love you, Saron.”
He spilled his seed into her with an explosive, heaving roar and heard her responsive cries as her body joined his in a shattering climax that lifted them upward on a cresting wave of passion, lifted them so high they soared to the moon and stars. “I love you. I love you,” she whispered over and over until their wave slowly ebbed and was spent upon the shore. Finally, they both regained a semblance of calm.
No, not calm.
Just able to breathe again.
He took her in his arms and held her against his body, silently vowing to smash and burn every last remnant of the Underworld, kill every Dragon Lord and minion, if they so much as harmed a hair of Anabelle’s fiery, gold tresses.
*
Mother in heaven. Towel in hand, Saron stood naked in front of the fireplace screen and not behind it, where he ought to have been had he an ounce of modesty. The breath caught in Anabelle’s throat as she watched him rub the towel absently over his body, muscle and sinew rippling as he arched this way and that, running the towel across his chest, down his powerful thighs, the languid movements seductive in their beauty against the early morning glow of sunlight.
His thoughts were elsewhere, which explained why he hadn’t heard her stirring.
But as he turned slightly to wrap the towel around his waist, she noticed a freshly made, deep gash running across the span of his back in a diagonal trail from his left shoulder to the right side of his waist. A gash that slashed across his old scars in a vivid, red line of blood.
She shook her head in confusion. “Saron, what happened? When did this happen? Did you leave our bed last night?”
He glanced up and nodded. “I was restless.”
“Restless or reckless? You’re hurt.” Ignoring his scowl, she came to his side. “Let me see what those demons did to you.”
“I’m fine. I’ve tended to it,” he insisted.
“Impossible man. How? Do you have eyes in the back of
your head?” She’d meant to be sarcastic, but immediately realized that he very well might have eye sockets in front and back, and the realization distressed her. Despite their intimacy, she didn’t really know what he was, nor did she understand the extent of his magical abilities. “Um, do you?”
“No,” he said with a grunt, jerking a stool toward him and sinking onto it. “Go ahead, have a look. How bad is it?”
“Still bleeding, but only a little. I don’t suppose you’ve cleansed it yet.”
He shook his head. “I managed to get some lye soap over it, but that’s about all.”
She reached for the bottle of whiskey still on the night table and poured it onto a fresh cloth. “This will sting,” she said, repeating the warning he’d given her last night when tending to her scratches. But his were so much worse, his injuries like those of a sailor caught in a vicious, dockside taproom brawl with knife wielding ruffians.
He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’ve suffered worse.”
He’d meant it as an off-handed retort, but she knew all he’d endured and her heart ached for it. She could have run a hot poker along his back to sear the wound and he would not have uttered a sound or flinched. A dab of whiskey was nothing to the pain this man was capable of enduring. Nevertheless, she made light of it since he seemed to be doing so. “I see. You’ll bear it with your typical manly grace.”
He grunted and caught her gaze with his seductive, dragon eyes.
Goodness, she loved this man.
But there was much work to be done today and no time to be swooning over him. She shook herself back to attention and rubbed the whiskey along the gash, taking care to be gentle, though she was pressing into the deep recesses of the wound to thoroughly cleanse it. “Where do you keep your bandages? In the pantry? I noticed some infirmary supplies in there earlier. I don’t think you need stitches, but it’s bad and should be protected.”
She rang for Sally and told her what she needed.
Sally returned with the bandages, tossing Anabelle an avid grin as though blaming her overzealous lovemaking for those marks on Saron’s back. Dear heaven! Only a crazed harpy would leave such marks. Did the entire staff believe her wanton?
She placed a hand on his shoulder, careful to be gentle as she began to wrap the bandage across his back. She had barely started when her palm began to tingle as it lay upon his skin. “Saron,” she said uncertainly, about to draw it away.
“Don’t.” He stopped her by placing his hands over hers. “Bandages might not be necessary, after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you. Silence helps.”
“Are you asking me to stop talking?” She laughed and shook her head, not in the least offended by his nod. She didn’t think anything could ruffle her feathers after what she’d been through last evening.
She placed both hands lightly on his back and was unable to avert her gaze as thin, blue webs suddenly appeared beneath his skin and began to swim along his gash. Those same blue webs began to undulate beneath her palms. Within moments, the light tingling in her hands became something more, something warm and jolting and alive within her entire body. She’d experienced the same tingling heat whenever Saron kissed her, but this wasn’t quite the same and far more intense. “What’s happening?”
There was a compelling gleam in his dragon eyes as he slowly turned to face her. “Magic. Your magic, Anabelle. Seems I underestimated your power.”
“What are you talking about? Aren’t you the one doing this?” She stared at him, her eyes widening at the shake of his head.
“No, little one. These are your healing powers.”
“The power of love?” Because she had no magic in her and her thoughts were now in turmoil over what was taking place. His skin was repairing itself beneath her very fingers.
She tried to break away, but he caught her hands in his and drew them back to his shoulders. “Not yet, Anabelle. Trust me. It only needs a moment longer.”
That he should need her sent more tingles shooting through her body. She drew her gaze from his ensorcelling eyes and concentrated on the ordinary, on the pop and crackle of sparking wood as it shifted upon the fading fire in the fireplace, on the light scent of hickory in the smoke that ran up the flue. On the give and pull of Saron’s taut muscles beneath her palms.
His skin felt warm, still wet from his early morning bath. His breaths were measured and steady, in, out, in, out, quite unlike hers, which came in short, erratic bursts. But as she stood in continued silence, his warm gaze upon her, she found herself calming to match his rhythm.
The notion struck her as odd, for there was nothing calm or serene about Saron or her feelings for him. Her love was strong and intense. But there was an immense power roiling within him, a pent-up fury. A need to destroy the Dragon Lords.
She knew he’d never unleash that power against her.
The air between them grew hot.
Little spurts of flame shot through her body, sparking and crackling like those logs upon the fire. This man had only to look at her to exert a powerful pull on her heart. “Magic,” she repeated softly as he stood, his chest bare and the towel slung low around his waist. His hair was damp and casually brushed back, a deep, shimmering black against the fire’s glow. His eyes were softer now, an iridescent, smoky blue. The planes and curves of his body glistened bronze.
She realized her hands were still on his shoulders, though he no longer held them there. She drew away and dragged her gaze downward to study her lightly shaking fingers. They still tingled even though she was no longer touching him. “Saron, let me see your back.”
Ever so slowly, he turned.
The gash was nowhere to be seen. All that remained were the hideous crisscross of old scars. She reached out hesitantly and traced a finger along his skin. The now familiar pattern of blue webs appeared at her touch and just as quickly disappeared. “Are you truly healed? How did it happen?”
He took a moment to return to his chamber to don fresh clothes, but he’d only thrown on pants and an untucked shirt before stepping back to her side. “Many humans have powers of which they are not aware. It seems you’re a healer. I ought to have realized it sooner, for you have a kind and gentle touch, one I sensed in you from the first. That gentleness is what makes you, you.”
“Me? I…oh, you’re jesting.”
“No, Anabelle.”
She wanted to deny it, but she’d always had a healing way with animals. Nothing out of the usual course of nature, unlike this morning’s healing which could not be explained logically. That horrid gash had simply disappeared. “This power I supposedly possess, why hasn’t it been revealed before now?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced at the night table where the whiskey stood.
“Would you care for a drink? It’s a little early for spirits, but you probably need it after your pillaging rampage. I can’t imagine what havoc you wreaked in the Underworld.”
“Nothing they didn’t deserve. I needed to send a message.”
She laughed, although she shouldn’t have taken pleasure in the knowledge that he’d behaved no better than an invading Hun, claiming what was his—namely, her—and unleashing fiery destruction on all who dared draw close.
“Oh, yes, speaking of messages.” She cleared her throat. “Did you confront Brihann?”
“No, I couldn’t find him. The slimy coward went into hiding.”
She cleared her throat again. “Did you harm Bloodaxe?”
“No.” He arched an eyebrow. “But it wasn’t for lack of trying. He happened to be with King Cadeyrn and not even I am so senseless as to invade the Fae king’s palace and attack his guests.” He kissed her on the nose, stifling her indignant retort before it crossed her lips. “Get dressed, little one. I know I promised to take you into the realm of the Fae this morning, but let’s have a normal day of visiting friends. Quite tame and dull. I think we need it. Tonight I’ll take you to the Stone of Draloch.”
/> She was delighted by the notion, for this was her chance to speak to this ancient monolith that exerted as strong a pull on her as it did on Saron.
Saron frowned. “Stay close to me while we’re in the realm of the Fae. Your powers are growing. I’m worried where they will lead you.”
*
Their day of visiting friends wasn’t quite as normal as Anabelle expected, for Saron took her to pay a call on his cousin, Douglas Hawke, the Earl of Eastbourne, and his countess, Julia. The pair had invited them because they thought the paintings Charlie had been doing lately might be significant to them. “We’re so glad you stopped by,” Julia said with a nod of her stylishly coiffed, pale blonde hair and a gleam in her violet eyes. Although quite human, there was no overlooking that she carried herself with an elfin grace.
They had no sooner settled in the elegant salon of their Mayfair townhouse, when talk turned to the Lake District, bluebell gardens, and Fae portals. Julia had been the first to encounter the Fae and her experience, she readily admitted, was not as rewarding as Queen Melody’s had been. “Quite terrifying, really. The Fae king tried to reach me through Douglas’ nephew who was in my care at the time. My father had been the vicar at St. Lodore’s near Borrowdale and we’d lived there all of our lives. All seemed peaceful until Charlie suddenly fell ill. Children are often more sensitive, more open to accepting things beyond our understanding.” She shook her head and sighed. “Cadeyrn was so desperate to save his subjects, that he almost killed poor Charlie in trying to reach me and take me into his Fae realm.”
Anabelle’s lips pursed in worry, thinking of her own brother and how he was faring. His letters came daily and he seemed safe and in excellent spirits. Still, she couldn’t wait until they were reunited. Not yet, though. There was more danger to come, she felt it in her bones. She didn’t want Robert anywhere close as it unfolded. “How is the lad now?”
