by Tessa Dawn
Zane eyed each of his brothers in turn: Indeed, they were all wearing their knee-length leathers, in the middle of June. That meant they were conspicuous as hell and packing a hidden arsenal: assault rifles, handguns, and their favorite medieval weapons, of every class and variety. “What is the news saying?” he grunted.
Nakai shifted restlessly. “Just speculation. You know the drill: report it first, then explore the facts. Terror in a district courtroom”—he mimicked—“a lone gunman; no, an escaped prisoner; possibly a terrorist attack—they’re all over the map.”
Zane nodded.
At least that much was good: The humans were far from putting two and two together, and they never would. One less thing to worry about.
“Where is she?” Jace intoned, his deep, resonant voice no-nonsense.
Zane wondered if the dragyri had his Katar. “In a van,” he snarled. “She was in a van.” He softened his voice—no need to take it out on his brothers. “Now she’s at a house—a fairly large estate. My guess is they have a safe room or some sort of hideaway built in. Probably a shit-ton of security, too.”
Axeviathon nodded. “And who’s she with?”
Zane visibly bristled. He rolled his neck on his shoulders, popping it three times to release some more tension. “Looks like, uh, a SWAT team, whoever drove the van, and her ex-lover, another attorney. Some guy named Dan. I think he masterminded the getaway.”
Levi took a cautious step back. His deep, melodious voice dropped into a soothing, silken purr. “You good?”
Zane’s nose twitched in an effort to restrain a guttural snarl, and his top lip drew back. “Yeah,” he lied. “I’m good.”
Axe looked him up and down, apparently assessing Zane’s state of mind for himself. “We don’t need to go all nuclear on everyone who’s there, Zane. No need to kill them all—”
Zane leveled a hate-filled glare at his lair-mate, and this time, he snarled overtly.
Axe held up both hands. “Hey, don’t get it twisted—we’re going to get her back.”
“But we need to wait for nightfall,” Nakai chimed in, always logical in nature. “Too much news already.” The winged cross on his left temple seemed to shift, as if in flight, as he furrowed his brows in determination.
Zane took a fresh appraisal of all the males, realizing how quickly they’d come to assist him—how serious they were about getting it done. “Thanks for coming,” he offered, sincerely. “I know all of you were busy.”
There wasn’t a single reply.
Where else would they be?
The rejoinder was implied…
“Well,” Levi finally said, eyeing the empty garage. “The one thing we don’t need is a handful of humans laying eyes on a lairful of dragyri males, amped up, packing, and throwing off heat. We need to find someplace to lie low until sundown.” He narrowed his indigo-sapphire eyes. “What say you, Zane?”
Zane nodded. “As long as that place is within a hundred yards of my dragyra, I’m fine.”
Levi started to object, and Axe reached out a hand to dissuade him. “Works for me,” he said, “but you know the routine: We need to have a plan—quick, in and out—wait for the cover of darkness, and minimize human involvement—as well as fatalities—as much as possible.” He turned his attention to Levi and Zane. “I don’t suppose one of you had a chance to read the humans’ souls? The SWAT team?”
Levi nodded. “I didn’t catch the guy in the suit…Dan…but the team, there was nothing discernably foul.” He hesitated. “Although…one of the hot-heads beats his wife.”
Jace frowned. “That’s cause enough for me.”
Axe grunted. “Look, we’re talking about Zane’s dragyra here—five days out from the temple. The dragon lords will understand if there isn’t a soul left standing. Just the same, let’s do what we came to do—bring Jordan home and try to minimize the fallout. Are we all in agreement: this waits until nightfall?”
Again, the group stood silent, turning their collective attention to Zane.
Zanaikeyros inclined his head. “Yeah…whatever…bring on the fucking moon.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Later that night, just before sundown, Jordan huddled beneath the soft cotton blanket Dan had given her and clutched the mug of hot chamomile tea in her hands, grateful for his kindness and hospitality.
So far, so good.
Nothing had happened.
She sipped her tea, glanced around the underground bunker, and shivered. It was truly a sight to behold: The entrance was framed by a five-inch-thick, solid steel door, with a ten-gauge outer panel and a twelve-gauge inner plate. There was a biometric lock on the outside of the hatch, next to a five-spoked, polished handle; and there were twenty-two-bolts, spanning all three sides, keeping the door in place. To quote one of the members of the SWAT team, who had long since gone home, along with the van’s unnamed driver, not even King Kong was getting through that door.
Inside the narrow chamber, the judge had everything a person could need to sustain a protracted stay: bunkbeds lined with fresh, clean linens; a galley-style kitchen, heavily stocked with canned goods; and even a miniature bathroom, with a stand-up shower and a tiny commode.
For all intents and purposes, Jordan and Dan were sequestered inside a small, slender apartment, fortified like Fort Knox, and they even had a flat-screen television to watch and a small leather couch to sit on.
So why was she still so jittery?
And why did her heart hurt so much?
“Feeling any better?” Dan asked, seeming to read her mind.
Jordan shrugged. There was no real way to answer that question—correction; there was no honest way to reply. So far, she had managed to evade most of his cross-examination, at least those questions that would expose Zane as a dragon—a dragyri—and The Pantheon as his home. There was just no way Dan would buy it, and if she told him the truth—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—he would think she had gone insane. And instead of hiding out inside a comfortable basement bunker, she might find herself locked up in a padded room.
But there was more than that going on, something Jordan could not explain: She still felt disloyal—disjointed—like she was somehow dishonoring Zane.
And none of it made any sense.
So she’d danced around the root of the subject for the last six hours, pirouetting like a ballerina on a backlit stage, giving Dan half-hearted answers, outright lies, and clever, nonsensical diversions—partly for herself, and partly…for Zane.
“He’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen…”
That hadn’t gone over so well.
“He’s connected to a virtual empire of…criminals…”
What the hell did that even mean?
“And he has access to resources beyond your imagining…”
Yeah: fire, telekinesis, and wings.
“Taking him on would be like taking on an army, a foreign government, or the head of the mob…”
Ever tried to wrestle a seventy-pound python with one hand tied behind your back and one foot chopped off?
There had been so very little she could reveal.
Needless to say, Dan had grown increasingly frustrated, and Jordan had grown increasingly withdrawn.
“But why couldn’t you get away?” he’d repeated. “Why didn’t you call someone? Don’t you think we could have arrested him, stopped him? Wouldn’t that have been the safer play? What are you still so afraid of, Jordan? You’re sitting in a vault.”
Although playing dumb was not Jordan’s strong suit, she had met each question with a small variation of the same explanation, coupled with an exasperated sigh: “It’s impossible to explain. I just can’t explain it. I’m sorry—I wish I could explain…”
And eventually, as she’d hoped, Dan had stopped asking the difficult questions.
He had also sent the SWAT team and the driver home, replacing them with a private guard of seven highly skilled—and heavily armed—men. He believed the
private security team, along with the judge’s state-of-the-art security system, would be more than enough to keep them safe…just so long as they remained in the bunker.
Jordan knew better.
And it was all her fault—the entire quandary.
Unless she could tell him the truth, what did she expect?
“So, how do you feel about leaving here in a couple of days and going to a safe house?” Dan asked, glancing at her steaming hot tea. “Drink some more, Jordan; you need to stay hydrated.”
Jordan did as he asked.
“Do you think you need a new identity, something along the lines of witness protection, or will lying low for a while be enough?”
“No,” Jordan exhaled. “It won’t be enough, but neither will changing my name.”
Dan rubbed his tired eyes. “Sweetie, we’ve been over this…again and again…what aren’t you telling me, baby? It isn’t like you to be this shaken up—and not to look for viable solutions.” He leaned forward, beside her, on the couch. “For heaven’s sake, you act like this man is a god.”
Jordan ignored the distinct hint of jealousy in Dan’s increasingly frustrated voice. It was unbecoming at best, and that had nothing to do with her predicament. “Dan,” she moaned, realizing she was whining. “I just…I just…” She sighed. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this mess. It was so unfair.”
He took immediate umbrage to her words. “Well, I’m not,” he retorted. “I’m sorry this bastard has you so distraught. I’m sorry that you don’t feel like you can tell me the truth—the whole truth. But I’m not sorry that you reached out to me for help. And I’m not sorry that we’re finally talking, or that you’re finally here—with me, alone—that you trusted me enough to take a chance.”
Jordan stared at him, long and hard: the weary lines in his once-smooth brow, the small brown mole above his upper lip; his immaculate, thick brown hair that now had some gray around the edges…just along his temples. He was only thirty-two, and she couldn’t help but wonder: Had he aged because of her?
“How have you been?” she asked.
The question was a mere whisper, but he let out a deep, lamenting groan, almost as if he had been waiting forever for her to ask that simple question. “Miserable,” he mumbled.
She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Dan. I just couldn’t—”
“No.” He held up his hand. “I know what I did. I know how deeply I hurt you. I’m just glad that you called.”
She chuckled halfheartedly. “That I sent you a cryptic letter, you mean.”
“Yeah,” he amended. “I guess that’s a bit more accurate.” And then he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved Jordan’s letter for the second time, setting it conspicuously down on her lap. “Tell me more about this, Jordan. C’mon. I need to know every detail. You say this is the same man, this Zane, who confronted you at the mall. You say he took you from your apartment and brought you into his world—what exactly does that mean? What did he do to you, Jordan?” When she didn’t answer, he frowned. “You said he has no intentions of letting you go, yet he allowed you to go back and forth to work, to the hospital to see Macy—how does that work, butterfly? Where is his world? How did he control you from a distance, corral you from across the room? How did he keep you from running away?”
Jordan winced at the familiar, affectionate term, butterfly. He probably thought she hadn’t heard it, but she had—it was the term he used to call her following the first time they’d made love, a reference to the litany of soft, gentle kisses she had planted on his nose…just like a little butterfly. And right now—God help her—for reasons she couldn’t explain, all she could remember was another tender kiss—another primal, sensuous, smoky kiss—beneath the sonorous drone of a waterfall.
“Damnit, Jordan,” he interrupted her reflection. “We’ve been at this for half a day, and I’ve listened to everything you’ve said. I’ve given you all the time in the world to feel comfortable…to trust…and I haven’t pushed the issue, but you’re smarter than this. You understand the stakes. Baby, I have to—”
“Quit calling me baby.”
“What?”
“Don’t call me that,” she repeated. “And don’t call me sweetie or butterfly, either. Do you think I wanted to reach out to you, Dan? Do you think I felt like I had any other choice? I was cornered, okay? I was lost, and I was scared. And most of all…most of all…I didn’t think it through.”
He looked thoroughly exasperated. “Okay,” he murmured, “I understand that, but just the same—you reached out to me, so I need you to think about this: I’m going to have to explain to the police chief why I demanded the use of the SWAT team, why we ransacked a district court, and why we went in with snipers and grenades at the ready. Not only do I have to justify the expense, but I have to appease the judge, both judges. We are using Moran’s home while he’s away on vacation, and I’m going to need to pacify the press…and try not to lose my job. It’s worth it to me, Jordan—you’re worth it to me—but you have to give me something more. You have to tell me the truth.”
“He’s a dragon,” Jordan blurted. To hell with it; she was out of pirouettes.
“Excuse me?” Dan said.
“He’s a dragon,” Jordan repeated. A terrifying, powerful…exquisite beast, she thought, but she kept that to herself. “Technically, it’s called a dragyri, but the point is this: Zane isn’t human. And he’s not from our world. His world is in another dimension, a domain beyond a portal, and the danger…the power…the imminent threat is the fact that he can move things with his mind; he can move faster than your eye can track; he can probably stop bullets; and he can sure as hell set you, or me, or this bunker on fire.” She lowered her eyes and glanced at the floor, feeling instantly ashamed—Zane would never set her on fire, and she knew that, deep in her heart.
What had he said, time and time again?
“I will never…ever…harm you.”
She shuddered and pressed on. “He believes I’m his mate”—dear God, was it true?—“or something incredibly archaic like that…his fated, his chosen…like these gods, his dragon lords, chose me to be with him before I was born, and he isn’t going to let me go.”
She sat forward on the edge of the couch, trying to get the image of that glowing white flame—the one Zane had alighted on the tip of her finger, from a droplet of Jordan’s blood—out of her mind—and out of her memory—as she eyed Dan circumspectly. “And there’s more.” She set down her mug on a tiny metal end table, placing the letter beside it. “You want the whole truth, Dan?”
What was she doing?
What would Zane think?
How could she betray him like this?
Her heart felt as if it were collapsing inward, even as she rebuked her conscience—it was her life, her safety, her sanity at stake!
She had every right to protect it.
“That night in the parking garage, he drank my blood. That’s why he can track me. That’s how he can track me.” She suddenly felt sick to her stomach: The dragyri’s fangs had hurt her, and that drugging pull, the way he had fed, it had felt so primal, so shocking, so intrusive…he had left a trail of frost on her skin in his wake.
Perhaps there was a difference between hurt and harm…
She shook her head to dislodge the thoughts.
“And the text, the one you told me about, from your friend at dispatch? It wasn’t a false alarm. Alonzo Diaz—do you remember him?—he was a sexual predator that the Second Judicial District put away, about five years back, when I first started working in the DA’s office—before you and I started dating. Well, he broke into my apartment that night and attacked me, and Zane killed him.” He saved my life, she thought. “He set him on fire, slit his throat with a claw, and tore off his head with his hands. That is who we are up against, Dan. That is who I am running from.”
And that was the final nail in her spiritual coffin.
Whatever flame might have once burned inside, it had su
rely gone out—Jordan Anderson felt empty, cold, and almost absent of life; and she resented the hell out of Zane for the feeling.
He had no right to affect her this way.
She barely even knew him.
Dan’s nose twitched several times, and his eyes seemed to pale in vibrancy, but other than that, there was no immediate reaction.
No shock and disbelief.
No obvious fear for her sanity.
No ranting and raving, and no harsh criticism for the selfish, costly game she had played with the state’s valuable, limited resources.
Jordan scooted back on the couch…
What the hell? Why wasn’t Dan reacting?
And that’s when her ex got moving.
He jumped to his feet, tore off his expensive, tailored jacket, and removed the cufflink from his lower left sleeve, exposing his inner wrist. “Hand me that knife,” he barked at her, gesturing toward a nearby set of cutlery situated on the galley counter, and looking back at the bunker door. “Hurry, Jordan. Hand me that knife.”
“What are you doing?” Jordan asked, rising tentatively from her seat.
“Something I should have done hours ago,” he said, staring once again at the bunker door, his eyes growing wider with alarm. “Your dragon is not the only one who is connected, Jordan—he isn’t the only one with powerful friends.” He thrust his chin in the direction of the knives, trying to make her rush.
“Then you believe me?” she asked, incredulous, taking several steps toward the stainless steel counter.
Dan shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe, Jordan. It sounds pretty far-fetched, but I’ve seen many strange things in my life, and I know there are forces in play…forces we don’t always hear about…talk about. Things that go bump in the night.”
Jordan reached for the nearest carving knife, removed it from the block, and quickly strolled back to Dan, extending the implement handle-first. “What kind of forces?” she asked, feeling more than a little uneasy. “Have you seen monsters—or dragons—beings like Zane?”
Dan frowned. “Have I seen flying green reptiles with snouts and horns? No, I can’t say that I have.” And then he sighed. “But…”
