The Dragon Shifter’s Duty

by Roth, Mandy M.

  No one even had her name.

  He regretted that—leaving her alone at the hospital, the way she’d looked at him with big brown eyes before begging him not to go. He remembered having to pry her little hand from his finger, and then trying to ignore the sounds of her cries as he left the hospital. His heart had shattered that night.

  To this day, his chest still felt tight simply remembering the events of that day.

  He’d done his best to not think about her over the years because she served as a reminder of the man he could never be again—the good guy, the hero. Now he was all kinds of fucked up. Though he had kicked the habit of smoking. She’d have been pleased to hear that.

  Newt.

  He inwardly chuckled, thinking of the nickname the little girl had given him. Even though he didn’t want to dwell on the past, it was hard not to, especially with the night marking sixteen years since the incident.

  He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her. Where was she now? Was she still in the area where he’d left her, several counties over? Had she grown up, moved far away, started a new life? He thought harder upon it. She’d be around the age of twenty-one or twenty-two now.

  Old enough to be a wife.

  The very idea she could be married, that she could be someone’s wife, left him feeling uneasy, but he wasn’t sure why. It should have given him great joy. The goal back then had been to save her so she could grow up and have a life.

  So why the hell did it bother him so much now?

  The more he thought about it, the more agitated he became. It made no sense to him. He didn’t even know her name. All he knew was that she was the little girl who didn’t burn. He had no right to be jealous at the idea she’d grown up and found someone—not that he was even sure she had.

  She could be dead, he internalized, and then cringed at the notion. No. She’s alive.

  He knew it deep in his bones.

  Another sure thing was that the DJ at the club seriously needed to go missing. Ezra groaned as yet another crappy song began to play. He caught sight of several of the hired bodyguards there to make sure the arms dealer stayed safe and sound. Ezra snorted. He could kill the assholes before any of the men could react. It didn’t matter that they were supernaturals, too. They were easy pickings and nothing more than punks.

  The shifter who dealt arms owned the nightclub—one of many he had—and Ezra found himself having to spend yet another evening in the place. Others seemed to enjoy it greatly. He couldn’t make sense of the attraction.

  The drinks were overpriced, the music sucked, and the people who frequented it tended to be high-rolling dickheads. He had more money than he could ever spend, but he wasn’t an entitled asshole like the men who showed up at the club.

  The place was filled to capacity nightly. It lacked the charm of the clubs of the Roaring Twenties that he’d liked greatly. The youth today made no sense to him. A sure sign he’d been alive too long.

  Ready to call it a night, he glanced at the entrance of the club. He wasn’t alone on this mission. A fellow PSI-Op had joined him undercover. Bhaltair, a vampire who had a good number of years under his belt, was there, greeting patrons as they entered. His long dark hair was pulled back, and he wore a high-end suit—fitting in with the dickheads perfectly. Ezra was happy he hadn’t pulled that short straw. He preferred to be comfortable, not dressed to the nines. But his fellow operative did not share his views.

  To each his own.

  Bhaltair was a member of the Crimson Ops Division of PSI, or Fang Gang, depending on whom you asked, as the division was comprised mostly of vampires. When word had come down the line that the arms dealer’s right-hand man—who was also a vampire—had been taken out by the competition, the decision was made to send Bhaltair in to gain the trust of the shifter and work his way up to principal confidante. The vamp had done a damn fine job in a relatively short period of time. Bhaltair was already basically running the club—one of the dealer’s favorites.

  The vampire lacked a sense of humor, but he was an all right guy. Someone Ezra would label loosely as a friend. Ezra had worked with him more than once over the past decade in regards to PSI, but he’d known him for much longer. Bhaltair hadn’t always played on the side of good. Neither had Ezra, so they’d gotten along well enough. Ezra just hoped Bhaltair, who didn’t like the music either and had mentioned making the DJ disappear too, didn’t decide to use any of the patrons as walking bloodmobiles. He didn’t want to deal with that paperwork later.

  Bhaltair’s dark gaze found Ezra from across the club filled with people dancing, smelling of liquor, sweat, and sex. The vampire gave a slight nod, and Ezra returned the gesture. Neither one of them was much for the nightclub scene. However, Bhaltair certainly appeared more comfortable in the setting—he also looked relieved not to have to dress as the commoners. In jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather jacket, Ezra was woefully underdressed in the sea of high-end fashion. Bhaltair had lectured Ezra for a good fifteen minutes earlier in the evening for his choice of attire.

  A young man walked past Bhaltair, wearing sparkly pants that were so tight, Ezra wasn’t sure how the man’s lower region was getting anything in the way of blood flow. Bhaltair lifted a brow, his eyes widening in horror at the fashion nightmare.

  Ezra laughed.

  Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a hair tie and used it to pull his long hair into a loose bun. Liking to wear it just below his shoulders, he’d grown it out years ago, and had no plans to cut it all off again. He didn’t give a shit if it was fashionable or not and he knew he looked unkempt with his long beard and loosely tied-up hair. He’d been hired to be muscle and protection, not to look like a fucking model and greet people at the door.

  He’d leave that up to the vampire.

  The song changed to something with a techno beat, and it somehow managed to sound worse than the last one. Ezra wasn’t even sure how that was possible. The people partying seemed to like it. They had no taste. A large number of them were just shy of having sex on the dance floor. And people called shifters animals….

  He snorted.

  Ezra wondered how many of the people in the club were even old enough to drink legally, let alone partake of intercourse in public. The older he got, the more everyone looked barely legal.

  It’s hell getting old.

  Two women approached, each dressed in barely-there outfits. One of them had on a dress that was slit in the front all the way down to below her navel. He wasn’t sure what black magik was keeping her breasts in place; oddly, he wasn’t impressed by the show of skin, and he was a boob guy. He’d been suffering from lack of a libido for just over fifteen years now, but he kept that tidbit to himself. He didn’t need his PSI buddies razzing him about his dick not working properly.

  Maybe he’d try skintight sparkly pants to see if that did anything to help—seemed to be the new craze.

  On second thought, I’d rather my dick just not work.

  “Mmm, you’re sexy,” said the woman with the breasts barely contained in her dress. She tried to run her hand through his hair, but Ezra caught her wrist. With his height, he tended to tower over most humans. This one was no exception.

  He stared down at her, still unable to believe he couldn’t find it in himself to be aroused by her. By any man’s standards she was sexy. But he felt nothing. No stirrings of lust. Not even a flicker of interest.

  I’m fucking broken.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, trying to step away from them.

  The one who tried to touch him wasn’t having it. “Buy me a drink.”

  Sparkle-pants walked by, and Ezra grabbed him, turning the man to face the woman. “Buy the lady and her friend a drink.”

  Sparkle-pants looked ecstatic, and Ezra used the moment to make his escape. He headed in the direction of Bhaltair. He was partway to the entrance of the club when he caught the scent of something new and different.

  Stopping dead in his tracks, Ezra glanced around
, trying to find the source of the scent.

  His body responded, coming alive fully for the first time in ages. His cock began to harden and he damn near unzipped his jeans and whipped his dick out just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating. The dragon within him also woke, interested in the scent as well. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his dragon being curious.

  That never ended well for him.

  The dragon drew closer to the surface, forcing him to concentrate to keep from shifting. He went to take another step and the new scent washed over him once more, this time stronger.

  With a growl, his dragon seemed to take the lead on his thought process for a moment. “Mine.”

  Taken aback by his proclamation, Ezra nearly tripped as he continued in the direction of the scent and the entrance. It was not one of his finer alpha male moments.

  He had to collect himself a second, still thrown by the behavior of his shifter side. His dragon was behaving like he’d seen other alphas who had found their mates tended to. But that was absurd. He was far older than most supernaturals he knew. The odds of him having a mate, which was rare in itself, were slim. With as old as he was, he’d have run into her long before. It wouldn’t have taken over fifteen hundred years for their paths to cross.

  Would it?

  No, it can’t be. You’re just happy your dick started working again. You’d claim a cardboard cutout right now if it managed to get you off. You’ve been without sex for that long.

  A group of young women were just inside the club near Bhaltair. Ezra didn’t need to be told the owner of the scent causing him to act like a dumbass, and making his dick hard, was in that group. He went straight for the pack of females. There were eight of them in total and they moved like a well-oiled unit. He’d seen surgical strike teams with less coordinated group engagements than these ladies.

  PSI could use a few pointers from them.

  They finally broke apart enough for Ezra to get closer. A sexy redhead did a rather dramatic hair flip, and pursed her lips as she locked gazes with him. He couldn’t stop himself as he pushed past her, the scent still driving his inner beast.

  A brunette was draped over Bhaltair, who looked about as pleased as Ezra had been with the woman he’d pawned off on Sparkle-pants. Bhaltair never seemed to notice any of the women at the club, either. It had been years since Ezra recalled the vampire dating anyone, and even then, the women he’d seen Bhaltair with hadn’t lasted long.

  Kind of like the women in your life, he reminded himself.

  When he used to date, if one could even call it that, he’d normally spend only one night with the woman. He didn’t sleep over at their homes, and he’d never taken any of them to any of his homes. He wasn’t even a fan of kissing. It was too intimate for his tastes.

  No.

  He liked to just fuck and sate his needs.

  No emotions.

  No extras.

  A short, petite girl pushed through the group of women, dragging a voluptuous woman with long jet-black hair behind her. The one with the black hair wore a blindfold and was using her free hand to keep the blindfold in place.

  She was stunning.

  He nearly shouted “mine” once more.

  Shaking his head, he closed his eyes a moment, realizing just how broken he truly was. The first woman who turned him on in years was becoming the main focus of his dragon side and his dick.

  The two rarely interacted.

  “Sammy,” said the sexy black-haired beauty, her voice husky, making his cock twitch instantly at the sound of it. “Can I take this off yet?”

  Ezra knew then and there the one with the black hair was the owner of the scent he’d caught. He froze, his dragon trying its best to break free and surface fully in the middle of a crowded bar.

  That would be bad.

  Very bad.

  Already his dragon wanted to go nuts and lay verbal claim to a woman who couldn’t possibly be his mate. He didn’t have a mate. He’d given up that dream around the age of three hundred. Not every supernatural was blessed. Truth be told, only a fraction of them were granted the gift of a mate.

  That didn’t mean he had no interest in bedding the woman. He did, and he fully intended to fuck her before the night was out.

  Sammy, the petite young woman guiding her, had turned and was walking backwards, not looking where she was going.

  “No peeking, Holland,” said Sammy.

  Holland.

  Ezra committed the name to memory, his dragon still fighting to be free. Gulping, he felt his entire body tense. The cords in his neck popped as he strained, his throat constricted as he fought for control.

  Holland wasn’t dressed as the majority of the women in the club were. Her dress only left a glimpse of her pale cleavage showing. Yet she presented a picture so enticing that she made him want to unwrap the prize under it all. The material of the dress hugged her curves in all the right places, calling to him. His mouth watered with the need to sample every one of those alluring curves. It was all too easy to visualize himself licking his way down her body, before burying his head between her thighs.

  The woman who was in the barely-there dress returned, without Sparkle-pants. She had a different man in tow—this one smelled of drugs, liquor, and evil. Ezra had seen him at the club before. Often photographers followed him around, though Ezra couldn’t figure out why. The guy tended to have several women draped over him at once, and was clearly wealthy. The last woman Ezra had seen him with had been so high, she could barely stay upright. While Ezra had been unable to prove it, he suspected she’d been slipped something. He and Bhaltair had intervened, calling her a cab, ensuring she made it to one of the clinics they trusted in the area.

  They’d not seen the male again—until tonight. The woman paraded the man right past Ezra, casting him a seductive look as she did. She pushed the man toward Sammy and mouthed, “This is Holland’s blind date for the night.”

  Like fucking hell!

  Ezra had to fight the urge to let his mouth shift forms just so he could roast the man. There was no way that pathetic excuse for a male was getting close to Holland. With a snarl, Ezra glared at the human male, knowing if he dared to touch him at that second, he’d snap the man like a twig.

  Sammy bumped into Ezra, glanced back at him, and did a double-take, dropping Holland’s hand in the process. “Uh, um, wow.”

  The human male attempted to get closer to Holland. Ezra stepped in his path, blocking both Sammy and Holland from him. He puffed his chest, knowing he already looked intimidating, but not caring. He wanted to shift and really give the asshole something to be scared of.

  The man stared him over, a tiny bead of sweat forming on his brow. The guy tried to look tough, lifting a hand as if to touch Ezra. He stopped just shy. “Excuse me.”

  Ezra glanced at the man’s hand and then the man—daring him to make contact. “You’re excused.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Dickhead.

  The woman in the barely-there dress touched Ezra’s arm lightly, and then tried to rub against him. He stiffened, his attention snapping to Holland. He then looked down at Sammy. A knowing smile touched her lips, as if she was reading his intentions—that he wasn’t letting the dickhead near Holland.

  “You’ll work,” she said, grabbing Ezra’s hand and placing it in Holland’s.

  Heat flared up his arm, and he nearly dropped her hand, fearful his dragon side had gotten away from him and he’d hurt her. She showed no signs of injury, and he was relieved because he wasn’t sure he actually could release her hand, even if he wanted to.

  Which he did not.

  Sammy touched Holland’s forearm. “No peeking!”

  “My, my, Sammy, what big hands you suddenly have,” Holland said, quirking her full lips. “What gives? I swear you’ve already made me drink my weight in alcohol tonight. If you’ve hired a male stripper, I’m so over celebrating my birthday.”

  It was her birthday?

  Ezra grinned down at
her, her hand still in his.

  Sammy glanced at him but spoke to Holland. “Change of plans. The next stage of your twenty-first birthday bash is you have to dance with a stranger. No peeking just yet. I know you. If you look, you’ll ruin it.”

  “Am I about to dance with a drag queen?” Holland asked.

  Ezra huffed. “No.”

  “My, Sammy, what a deep voice you have,” said Holland, easing closer to him.

  Sammy laughed. “You’d have no objections dancing with a drag queen, but you always run the other way when it comes to hot guys.”

  “True,” replied Holland.

  “Trust me, Holland. Dance with this guy. I’m going to take the girls and grab drinks.”

  Holland touched her blindfold. “And you’re leaving me with a stranger? What a great friend you are. Give me endless booze, and then hand me off to the first guy you see.” She ran her hand up Ezra’s arm, giving it a small squeeze. Her eyebrows rose. “Make that the first really built guy you could find. Geesh, did you bring me to a bodybuilders’ convention? You should know, this convention has horrible taste in music.”

  Ezra beamed, liking the young woman more and more.

  Sammy grunted. “Live a little, Holland. Be spontaneous. Stop always asking so many questions. I swear, you’re the worst at celebrating your birthday.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s my nature,” replied Holland, easing even closer to Ezra.

  Sammy cast him an apologetic look. “You’ll get used to her. I’m going to grab drinks with my sorority sisters. If you harm one hair on my roommate’s head, I’ll hunt you down like a dog, rip your man bits off, and shove them up your backside.”

  Ezra tried not to laugh, and failed. Sammy was tiny but fierce. And he believed she’d do as she’d threatened.

  Size be damned.

  He nodded. “Understood. Permission to dance with the birthday girl?”

  Sammy laughed. “Granted. Show her a good time, stud.”