Grigori: A Royal Dragon Romance (Brothers of Ash and Fire)

by Lauren Smith

  “There are pajamas in the dresser. They will be too large for you, but they will do for now. I will see that your luggage is brought back from your hotel tomorrow morning.” Grigori let go of her and exited the bedroom.

  Just before he shut the door, she glimpsed him in shadow, the kitchen lights illuminating his outline. He was shrouded in darkness, except for his eyes which glowed like diamonds fractured by lightning. A sense of doom, a creeping tide of woe, filled her as though the future was whispering to her that danger was building upon the horizon and Grigori was in trouble. But that was . . . crazy.

  “Sweet dreams, Madelyn.” His husky accented murmur sent shivers through her and she replied instantly before she could feel foolish.

  “You too.”

  The last sight she had of him before the door closed was the curve of his lips and a gentle laugh. She remembered how good his laughter tasted upon her lips.

  Clutching the book to her chest, she tore her gaze away from the door and focused on the room. She set the book down on the dresser, almost reluctant to let go of it, as though it was Grigori she was holding onto, not a book. But she needed to change and he’d mentioned pajamas. The top drawer had silk striped pajamas. Madelyn took them and stripped out of her jeans and sweater. She dressed in his pajamas, the silk sliding against her skin and rubbing against her breasts and thighs, making her more aware of her body than she ever had been before. It was a good thing Grigori was tall and muscled. His pajamas were big enough for her curves and she still felt small and feminine wearing his clothes.

  She lifted the collar of the button-up shirt and inhaled the scents that flooded her with thoughts of Grigori. Then she turned, picked up the book and climbed onto his bed, crawling beneath the covers before she opened to the past she’d left off at the Russian State Library.

  The Dragon shifters are a noble race. They live bound by honor under treaties to keep the peace between their family bloodlines. The Russian imperials, who control most of Russia, are led by two factions often at war, the Barinovs and the Drakors.

  Beneath these words was a detailed sketch of Grigori and another man facing each other in an elegant room. The roaring fire between the two men came from a tall stone fireplace winged with dragons of carved marble. Their clothes were old-fashioned breeches and waistcoats.

  Barrow had captured Grigori’s quiet, masterful power and the frightening intensity of the other man. Beneath them, the words read “Grigori Barinov negotiates the continuation of an important treaty with Dimitri Drakor.”

  A treaty with the Drakors. That was the treaty that been broken tonight when Rurik had killed Ruslan Drakor.

  Madelyn skimmed along the pages, hungrily searching for more sketches of Grigori. She was completely obsessed with him now, but she didn’t want to stop and think about what that said about her. In college she had always crushed on men who were out of her league, because it was safe to love from afar. But Grigori was in the other room, a single door separating them. Not far at all . . .

  Why does he want me? The kiss felt like he did, but she was so used to being ignored by men. She wasn’t pretty enough to get noticed, and she didn’t really try to get attention either, which meant she was good at fading into the background. But from the moment he kissed her, she didn’t want to hide in the shadows anymore. She wanted him to notice her. She wanted him to want her with an obsession the way she was starting to want him.

  I’m really going insane. I’m obsessed with a man who can shift into a dragon, a man who is almost two thousand years old . . . and dragons are real.

  Madelyn sagged back against the pillows as exhaustion and the stress of the day set in. There was so much more she wanted to learn about Grigori but she yawned and blinked.

  “Just one more page,” she murmured and returned to the sketch of Grigori on the cliffs. There was a small bit of writing she hadn’t noticed the last time because she’d been too startled at the fierce but beautiful dragon.

  “Grigori has unique and rare coloring. As a blue and silver dragon, he wields not only the power of fire but can also summon ice from the moisture in the air. His father before him, Ivan Barinov, was also a Russian Imperial dragon with ice dragon ancestry. They are known for the sapphire blue scales on their stomachs and the blue webbing of their wings. There is speculation they are descended from Nordic ice dragons.”

  Madelyn’s heart stopped. There was a second sketch of Grigori as a dragon, prowling across a meadow. The fierce, predatory pose was too terrifyingly familiar.

  No . . . Please, God no . . . She could smell thick rain, feel the iciness of it against her skin and hear the primal screams of the beast hunting her in the storm.

  Can’t breathe, can’t—breathe! Horror drowned her, swallowing her in darkness for several seconds that felt like an eternity. Suddenly she was able to suck in a raspy breath, her eyes burning with tears, and she coughed violently. Had she been holding her breath? Her lungs burned. She rubbed her chest with one hand and stared down at the drawing of Grigori again, her heart racing wildly.

  The beast from her nightmares, the one that hunted her whenever it rained, was a pale blue and silver dragon with a dark blue stomach and wings. James Barrow described Grigori as exactly the same.

  Was Grigori hunting me in my dreams before we’d even met?

  * * *

  The hum of the fire over crystals was soft, like a wind traveling against the entrance to a cave, rather than snapping and popping the way it did when flames consumed logs. Grigori knew he should be trying to sleep, but both he and the dragon inside him were restless.

  “I’m sorry, Grigori,” Rurik whispered. He lay still on the couch, but his eyes were tracking his brother, constantly alert.

  They both knew what would happen tomorrow. Under the treaty, a dragon could demand single combat in order to satisfy the death of Ruslan. And Grigori would not let Rurik fight, not while he was wounded. Which meant Grigori, as the only other Barinov in Moscow, would have to fight. In many ways, he was stronger than Rurik. The older a dragon was, the more powerful he was, but Grigori did not enjoy battle. He was born to defend, not attack. It was why he had been chosen by their father to protect the history of the family.

  “Do you think Dimitri will fight, or will he send another?” Rurik asked.

  Grigori finally sat down in the leather chair and stared into the flames. Watching them always soothed him. The flames called to him; he was a creature of fire and ash, as he’d told Madelyn.

  “I believe he will fight. Ruslan was his favorite son and his eldest.” As he spoke, the tattoo on his arm shifted, slithering beneath his skin as the dragon inside him contemplated battle.

  “And what of the human female, will you let her go?” Rurik shifted, wincing as he touched his bandaged stomach.

  “I . . .” he hesitated. He knew he should let her go, but something about her made him feel strange. It reminded him of the day he’d turned thirteen and transformed for the first time. The raw power of his dragon had exploded through his fingertips and he’d spread his wings, full of an ancient knowledge of how to fly, how to freeze water and breathe fire. Wanting Madelyn to stay close to him was instinctual, a primitive, undeniable need.

  “Grigori? Your tattoo . . . it looks odd.” Rurik pointed at his arm.

  Grigori glanced down and noticed his tattoo did indeed appear strange. Normally his dragon was in a flying position, but now it was curled up around a . . . nest? That had never been there before and he’d never seen his dragon act like that . . .

  “Wait . . .” Rurik still stared at his arm. “That . . . No, you can’t be . . . not with her.”

  “What?” Grigori demanded, standing, his body tensed because of his brother’s shocked tone.

  “She’s your mate. Mother told me about the dragons recognizing our better halves long before our human sides did. She said the tattoo would show you. Your dragon is hovering over a nest.”

  “But she’s mortal.” Yet the moment he’d seen Mad
elyn’s face in the security photo he’d craved her. That pure aroma had set fire to his blood . . . He’d thought it had been her virginity drawing him to her, which had been true, but a mate’s scent was just as powerful. No wonder he’d been unable to stay away. His virgin mate . . . The thought made his body flood with arousal and a primal need to stalk back into his bedroom and claim her instantly. Grigori forced his dragon to calm even though it was pacing inside him.

  “You know we can mate mortals, it just isn’t wise. The ways of turning them into shifters haven’t been done by our people in a thousand years. You can’t claim a mate who will die in fifty years.” Rurik’s face darkened and his thoughts seemed a thousand miles away.

  Grigori knew he was thinking of Nikita. She might have been Rurik’s true mate, but he had resisted claiming her. Grigori couldn’t imagine not claiming his mate once he’d found herRurik had been strong enough not to, was something Grigori couldn’t fathom. But he understood his brother’s reason to not claim her.

  Battle dragons led dangerous lives. He had wanted to protect her, but she perished anyway. The only silver lining was that Rurik would not follow her into death. A dragon’s heart was linked to its mate’s. Joining one’s heart, body and soul to a mortal meant a short life for a dragon, unless they could tie themselves to their mate and pass on the ability to shift into dragon form. It required an act of valor by the dragon and an act of sacrifice by the human. Few ever attempted it, and fewer still survived the trials required to succeed. Much of how do it was steeped in dragon lore and myths that were older than even the eldest beast still alive.

  “I cannot mate a mortal,” Grigori whispered, knowing his brother was right. He needed to continue the Barinov line, breed other dragons. Mating a mortal would mean mortal children.

  So I must choose between my heart’s desire, the mate fate chose for me, or I must breed with a dragoness that will never be my mate but will bear me children . . . The gods must be laughing at me.

  Rurik smiled sadly. “I saw you kiss her, brother. I doubt your head has much to say in the matter. It’s clear your heart is in charge. If she is your true mate, you cannot deny her. I made the mistake of not claiming Nikita and it has cost me so deeply. I would never wish that upon you. Claim your mate, brother.” Rurik’s smile faded. “Now that Nikita is gone, I have no heart left to lose. I will find a dragoness willing to breed and continue our line so that you may have your mate and be free of that burden.”

  The sacrifice his brother was offering touched Grigori deeply. He smiled wryly. “Since when have you become the noble, wise brother? I believe that was supposed to be me.”

  Rurik grinned. “Someone has to watch over you, old man. I thought I’d best start early. It’s been a few hundred years since you had to fight another dragon. You’ll need me to give you some advice.”

  “Indeed.” It had been many years. “I wish . . .” He swallowed the words “that Mikhail was here.”

  Even for dragons, two centuries was a long time to miss a brother. That single year when their parents left to travel the world in 1821, Mikhail had come home, ignoring the dictates of their father’s exile. And he had brought James Barrow with him. A year . . . but it hadn’t been enough. The three of them were close. Dragons loved deeply and Mikhail’s exile was a thorn in Grigori’s heart. He prayed Mikhail was somewhere safe, but he wasn’t sure how to find him.

  “I don’t want you to fight Drakor,” Rurik whispered. “Let me fight him.”

  Grigori shook his head and closed his eyes. “You know the rules. The head of the family should fight in battles of honor. It is that or I must turn you over to be him for whatever fate he decides—likely killing you. You know I won’t let that happen. It is my duty to fight, to restore our honor and satisfy the treaty.”

  Rurik’s eyes were shadowed. “Do you ever live a moment unburdened by duty?” His tone was gentle, worried, rather than colored with his usual sarcasm or teasing.

  “A moment without duty?” Even his breath and his body were not his own. Yet he was considering abandoning duty to be with his mate.

  The thought made him flinch. He didn’t want to deny his true mate. The image of Madelyn flashed across his mind. The way she clutched Barrow’s journal to her chest and tilted her face up as he kissed her. And how alive she’d come at his touch, as alive as he had become. Kissing her had stolen his breath and made his heart race wildly, as though he were dropping through the clouds like a shooting star. And when she’d told him she’d imagined flying, his hopes had also soared—because only true mates shared memories as they kissed.

  He still wasn’t sure how he managed to stop at kissing her. His body had demanded he pick her up and drop her on his bed and take her. But while she fed his dragon’s hunger, she also brought out a human gentleness. Like a true mate.

  “She is your mate. You should claim her,” Rurik said.

  “You just reminded me how foolish it was to mate a mortal, but now you want me to consider it? What about our family? I cannot put the burden of breeding upon you and Mikhail—if he’s even still alive.” Grigori rubbed a hand over his jaw, the tension in body coiled tight.

  “You, more than anyone deserve happiness,” his brother said.

  Mate a mortal . . . It was a terrible idea, but the thought of letting Madelyn out of his sight, let alone his life, seemed impossible now that he realized what she could be to him.

  But if he mated her, he would lose her in the next sixty years and then he too would die. After that, the Barinov family would be down to two dragons. Two against the dozens of Drakors that prowled their borders, waiting to see any sign of weakness . . . It would be the end of peace in Russia. Drakor would bring fire and blood down upon humans with no one to stop him. Rurik tried to sit up, but Grigori pushed his shoulder keeping him down.

  “We can find a way to make her a shifter. There has to be a way. We can find it.”

  “Perhaps.” But in truth, Grigori knew that it would be impossible. No one had transformed a mortal into a shifter in his lifetime, and he was over 2800 years old. If it ever once had been possible, how to do it was lost in the passage of time.

  “Grigori . . .” his brother sighed as though he could read Grigori’s sad thoughts.

  “Rest, Rurik. I need you well and healed.”

  Rurik nodded and let his head fall back on the couch. Grigori sat back in the leather armchair, unable to sleep. He stared for a long while into the fire, trying not to think that his life might go up in flames tomorrow when he met with Dimitri. In one day he found his mate and now would face a possible death in battle less than a day later. The universe was having a good long laugh at him. His fingers curled into fists and he tried to control his flare of anger at life’s cruelty.

  Outside rain began to fall, beating at the windows. Rain? It had smelled like rain. A dragon’s nose never lied, and the clear scent of a storm was an unmistakable aroma that could be carried on the wind for miles. He turned to watch the rain lashing against the glass. A muffled cry from his bedchamber cut through him like a blade.

  Madelyn!

  Chapter 7

  Whom will you cry to, heart? More and more lonely,

  your path struggles as through incomprehensible

  mankind. All the more futile perhaps

  for keeping to its direction,

  keeping on toward the future,

  toward what has been lost.

  —Rainer Maria Rilke

  Grigori leapt from the wing-backed chair and rushed to his bedchamber, flinging the door open. His heart was pounding as he searched the bedroom, looking for any signs of danger.

  The light from the hall cut a bold path into the darkness, exposing Madelyn’s body on the bed. She was alone; no one else was in the room. He exhaled in relief until he realized she was still in distress. Madelyn was tangled in the sheets, her hands clenching and unclenching. Soft whimpers escaped her as she thrashed about. The sound tore at his heart.

  He eased down ont
o the bed beside her and untangled the sheets from her legs so she could move. The moment he was close to her, he saw the tears coating her cheeks, the drops shining like liquid diamonds. The sight was a punch to his gut. His mate, even though he had not claimed her yet, was crying.

  Grigori shifted nearer to her on the bed and took her into his arms.

  “Hush, little one, hush,” he murmured, kissing away her tears.

  Madelyn’s eyes open slowly and he recognized that look. The past was haunting her. How could one so young have secrets that slithered out of the darkness to consume her?

  “What . . .” she swallowed thickly and he knew she was close to falling apart.

  “You’re safe Madelyn, I have you.” She had no idea how deeply he meant that. She was his to protect, to cherish, to love. Even if it brought him an early death.

  “I’m sorry.” She ducked her head as though to hide and she used her pajama shirt sleeves to wipe her cheeks.

  Grigori sighed and cupped her chin. “Do not hide from me; you have no need to hide ever. What is the matter? I heard you cry out.”

  She shrugged, still avoiding his gaze.

  “I had a nightmare.” The way she said it, like a confession, made him tense.

  “And how often do you have such nightmares?”

  Her gaze drifted to the tall glass beyond them where rain drops were trickling down the panes in endless rivulets.

  “Whenever it rains . . .”

  He glanced at the windows of his bedroom, wondering what rain could do with her past. “Why does rain frighten you?”

  “My,” she paused, then met his gaze. “My parents died in a car crash during a storm. I was only two, but I survived. The sound makes me . . .” she cringed.

  “You were in the car with them?” Horror gathered like dark clouds in his chest. His mate had been so close to death before she begun to really live. It was terrifying. He might never have met her, might never have felt alive again, and she wouldn’t have . . . He didn’t finish the thought. It made his mouth dry with fear. He wasn’t used to fear. In two thousand and eight hundred years he’d seldom feared anything. But the loss of a mate . . .