Whirling around, Wallaig took his friend’s advice. “Watch yer six, lads. There are more out there.”
Eager for another fight, Kruger cracked his knuckles.
Levin hissed in challenge as three rogues careened around a stone column.
Already in retreat, Wallaig heard the crack of claws against scales behind him, but didn’t turn around. No sense going back…or worrying about his friends. He knew from experience Levin and Kruger had the enemy in hand. Fast in flight, lethal in a fight, the pair worked well together. Even when outnumbered, the warriors wreaked havoc, delivering a double-edge assault most couldn’t withstand. And as the duo covered his escape, ensuring he got Amantha out in one piece, Wallaig thanked the goddess for his friends.
Most males would’ve saved their own skins.
Not his brothers-in arms. His pack held the line, watching his back as he left the cliffs behind and flew hard for home.
Coastline turned to farmer fields, then gave way to city lights and suburban streets. On the outskirts of Aberdeen, Wallaig circled west. Mountains loomed in the distance as he slowed to a glide on the edge of town. Small houses and narrow streets flowed into granite clad buildings surrounded by wider boulevards. The sky rumbled overhead. The first raindrop struck. Half snow, half water, slush slid over his scales as he spotted the pub on Embers Street.
Owned by the Scottish pack, the Dragon’s Horn—and the century old whiskey distillery behind it—took up three city blocks. Thick stone walls rose around the property, providing privacy while keeping unwanted visitors out. A little patch of heaven protected by magic in the center of the city. Nice and neat. Clean and tidy. The perfect place for dragons to hide in plain view, and precisely where he needed to land.
Zeroing in on the large courtyard behind the pub, Wallaig folded his wings. Gravity took hold, pulling him out of the sky. His back paws thumped down. His fore claws followed, scraping over stone tile a second before he reached around and pulled Amantha off his back.
Quivering in his paw, she wheezed, struggling to breathe.
Shite. Not good. She was past panic, more than upset. Close now to hyperventilating and—
Needing to touch her with his hands, Wallaig shifted into human form. Wrapping her in his arms, he pulled her into his chest. “Shh, kazlita, shh. It’s all right. You’re all right.”
She shook her head. “I can’t breathe. I c-can’t catch my breath. I’m—”
“I’ve got you,” he said, repeating it over and over as he picked her up and strode across the courtyard. Cradling her in his arms, he bypassed the fountain featuring a three-headed snake, stepped onto the porch, and sat down on a wooden bench. Rain pattered against the roof above his head. Wallaig arranged her in his lap, setting her astride him, pulling her close, letting her feel the warmth of his skin. “Breathe, lass. I’ve got you.”
“Wallaig.” With a small cry, she clutched at him. “Those dragons were so scary, and…G-god, the fireball. It nearly h-hit us.”
“I know, but it’s over now,” he murmured, caressing her back, hating the scent of her fear. “We’re home, Amantha. You’re safe. The bastards cannae track us here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye.”
Her head tucked beneath his chin, she shuddered against him.
He kept talking, praising her courage, telling her how proud she made him, using the steady rhythm of his voice to help calm her. Seconds passed into minutes. Pressing her face to the side of his throat, Amantha started to breathe easier. One stilted inhale turned into deeper ones and…miracle of miracles, the strategy seemed to work. The more he talked, the more she relaxed. Another shiver shook her. He upped his game, deepening his voice, caressing her with gentle hands and soft words. Little by little, the tension drained from her muscles, leaving her soft and pliant in his arms.
“Sweet lass. You were so brave.”
“Wallaig?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, tone soft with concern. Her hand moved over his arm, checking for scrapes.
His chest went tight. Precious wee lass. Her fear for him cracked him wide open. Love poured out, filling him so full he couldn’t contain it. Stroking her hair, he cleared his throat. “A few bumps and bruises. Naught to worry about, lass.”
“Okay, good, but…” As she trailed off, he angled his head to better view her face. Eyes closed, a frown marring her brow, she pressed her cheek against his chest. “Can we not do that ever again?”
“Never again, kazlita,” he said, kissing her temple. “I swear on my life—never again.”
His vow to keep her safe spiralled into the open air, joining the drum of rain on the roof. Amantha sighed as the last of her fear faded. She snuggled closer. He hugged her tighter, content to hold and keep her warm, unwilling to rush her inside. The night was only half over. He had plenty of time. All he wanted to do now was ensure her comfort.
The rest would follow.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to show her what she meant to him. His strategy was simple: keep his word and win her heart. He’d already given her fair warning. She knew he planned to keep her. Now, all he needed to do was convince her to stay.
Eighteen
Standing in the kitchen inside the underground lair, Amantha plucked a chocolate truffle off a glass tray. Careful not to crush it, she dropped the ball into a bowl of dark cocoa powder. A quick roll. A light dusting. Just the right amount of bitter coating the sweet, and she fished it out, set it on a piece of wax paper, and picked up the next.
Pursing her lips, she surveyed her choices. Dunk it in cocoa again or—
With a hum, she rolled the treat in a dish full of finely chopped nuts. Two down, twenty-three left to smother in the topping of her choice. Her mouth curved, she swayed to the song on the radio as she worked. Contentment swamped her. She loved her new home. Practically worshiped the kitchen inside the underground lair, even though it didn’t have a chilled section of countertop to roll out pastry dough. The layout wasn’t perfect for a bakery, not by a long shot, but she adored it anyway.
The richness of Cherrywood cupboards, the smooth Carrara countertops, the fancy mouldings and high-tech appliances made her feel at home. As though she’d found her place and belonged where she stood—inside a secret lair with a bunch of dragon warriors…all of whom suffered from a serious sweet tooth.
Amantha huffed in amusement.
Sitting on the other side of the island, Elise looked up from her book. “What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking about Wallaig’s reaction to lemon tarts.”
Her friend raised a brow. “Explosive?”
“Orgasmic,” she murmured, the memory of him smearing creamy filling on her skin making her shiver. He’d taken his time licking it off, leaving no part of her untouched. “For me.”
“I love reciprocation,” Elise said, flipping a page in her book. “I read to Cyprus from an ancient Bedouin text the other night. I couldn’t walk straight the next day.”
Amantha snorted. “Steamy stuff?”
Blue eyes sparkling, her friend grinned. “It had concubines in it.”
“You are such a tease.”
“Can’t help it.” A blush on her face, Elise shrugged. “I want him all the time. It’s a little embarrassing.”
She knew the feeling. Three weeks to the day of her rescue, and she couldn’t get enough of Wallaig either. She thought about him all the time. Worried about him when he left the lair. Enjoyed every moment he spent with her inside it. Which ended up being a lot. If he was home, he was with her. Well…she frowned…except for this afternoon.
Rolling a truffle in colorful sprinkles, she shook her head. No doubt in her mind. He was up to something. A creature of habit, he never changed his routine. Today, though, he’d sidestepped questions and skipped out early, leaving her to the truffles, making her suspicious. Now, she wondered what the heck he had planned. Something sneaky. Something interesting. Something to do with her, f
or sure.
“Elise?”
“Yup.”
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” Elise went all wide-eyed, a sure sign of treachery.
Amantha scowled. “Don’t give me that. You know what I mean. Where did the guys go?”
“Can’t tell you.” Completely unrepentant, Elise snapped her book closed. “I crossed my heart and hoped to die, so—”
“You suck. Girls are supposed to stick together.”
“Not this time. And anyway…” Her friend tilted her head as a tingle swept the back of Amantha’s neck. “You’re about to find out. The guys are home.”
Brushing cocoa powder off her fingertips, Amantha tugged on her apron strings. The knot loosened as heavy footfalls approached the kitchen. Tossing the apron onto a nearby stool, she turned toward the entrance just as Wallaig pushed open the door. Wraparounds in place, his gaze met hers. Butterflies took flight in the pit of her stomach. Prickles ghosted over her skin and…God. He always did that to her. Her reaction bordered on insane. No matter how many times she laid eyes on him he made her body sing and her heart yearn.
“Kazlita,” he said, the rumble in his voice making her quiver.
“Hi,” she whispered, acting like a green girl, instead of the woman he made love to every day. “Want a truffle?”
Her voice pulled him across the kitchen. “Is it lemon flavored?”
Her lips twitched. God help her, he was obsessed. Looked as though she’d be making more lemon tarts later. Thank God. “No, chocolate.”
“Leave them to Levin, then,” he said. “That annoying SOB loves chocolate.”
Skirting the island, Wallaig stopped in front of her. Unable to resist, she flattened her hands on his chest and tipped her chin up, asking without words for a kiss. With a hum, he dipped his head. Big hands playing in her hair, he brushed his mouth over hers. One gentle kiss, a quick flick of his tongue and he withdrew, leaving her wanting.
She protested with a murmur.
He nipped her bottom lip. “Patience, lass. We’ve time and more for loving later. But first, come with me. I have a surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
He snorted. “Well, now, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you.”
True enough. “I’ve never been one for surprises, Wallaig.”
“Trust me, Amantha.” The corners of his eyes crinkled behind his wraparounds. “You’ll like this one.”
Stepping back, he held out his hand. She took it without hesitation, allowing him to lead her out of the kitchen. Excitement kicked in as he towed her across the main living area. Footfalls muffled by plush Turkish rugs, he skirted the couches and wide-backed chairs sitting beneath the colorful stained-glass ceiling and headed for the staircase across the room. Lacing her fingers with his, she climbed the stairs and stepped into a large vestibule.
Scarred in places, a wide wooden door stood across the space.
She glanced at Wallaig. “We’re going into the pub?”
“Aye.” Tugging on her hand, he drew her forward. As he opened the door, jazz music poured into the vestibule, the mournful song of a lone saxophone. “Or rather, through it.”
Huh. Okay. If he hadn’t had her attention before, he did now.
Curiosity running rampant, Amantha followed him into the tavern. More high-end restaurant than pub, the wall-to-wall wood panelling and coffered ceiling should’ve made the space feel dark. Somehow, though, it didn’t. The décor screamed old world instead: comfortable, intimate and cozy in a way she appreciated. Her gaze drifted over patrons seated in plush booths and clustered around large tables with comfortable chairs. Her mouth curved. Not an empty seat in the house. Rannock would be pleased by the turnout.
In charge of the whiskey distillery and restaurant, the huge warrior stood behind the bar mixing drinks…trying not to glare at Levin. Golden eyes full of mischief, Levin shoved Rannock to one side and grabbed a bottle of wine. The warrior pushed him back. Levin said something she couldn’t hear. As the men tussled behind the bar, Wallaig shook his head at their antics, but didn’t stop to talk. Pace steady, he passed the swinging kitchen doors, made a sharp left, and walked toward another door.
A second before he reached it, the wooden panel swung open.
Amantha followed him over the threshold in to a bright space. She glanced around. Plaster walls painted pale yellow. A wide expanse of windows fronting the street to her right. Tin panels stamped with a pretty pattern over her head, absolutely no furniture and…two big boxes sitting in the center of the room.
She read the writing on the side of the cardboard. Her breath caught. “Stoves?”
“Commercial grade. Rannock assures me they are the very best.”
“You’re giving me ovens?”
“Nay, Amantha,” he murmured, taking off his sunglasses. His damaged eyes met hers, holding her secure. “I’m giving you a bakery. The shop is yours, to do with as you please. A construction crew will be here on the morrow to see to any renovations.”
Shock bombarded her. Her mind spun as she looked around. Amantha sucked in a breath as the enormity of his surprise hit her. “Oh, my God. This is my dream, Wallaig. It’s my dream. You…I can’t believe…it’s beyond anything, so perfect and…”
Her voice cracked. Tears filled her eyes.
“Kazlita.”
Overcome by his generosity, she turned and launched herself at him. He caught her with a grunt. Wrapping her arms around him, she whispered, “Thank you. Thank you…oh, my God, thank you. It’s an incredible gift. The best surprise—thank you!”
“I love you, Amantha,” he said against the top of her head. “I want you to be happy here.”
Her heart paused mid-beat, then thumped hard. “You love me?”
“Aye…with all that I am.”
Awe whipped through her, making happiness rise. “I love you too.”
“Thank Christ.”
“You were worried?”
“A little,” Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he rested his forehead against hers. “The fall has been hard and fast for us, lass. I wasn’t sure—”
“Never doubt my love, Wallaig—never.” Cupping his jaw, she kissed him softly. “I feel as though I’ve been waiting a lifetime for you. Waiting to tell you how much I need you…how much I want you…how much I love you.”
With a groan, he deepened the kiss, his urgency easy to read. She didn’t deny him. Amantha welcomed him with all of her heart, knowing she would never let him go. Wallaig was hers. Through no small miracle, she now belonged to him. No matter what the future brought, she would face it head-on, secure in the knowledge he would keep her safe and love her until the end of time.
Epilogue
Maps tucked under his arm, a bowl of pasta in his hand, Grizgunn walked into the common room. Five stories below the abandoned church, the natural cave served as the hub inside his new lair. A huge find. Such a great space. His warriors had made quick work of digging hallways off the subterranean cavern. Now three corridors stretched from the main area to reach bedroom suites carved into solid rock.
Glancing up at the light globes bobbing against the curved ceiling, he smiled. A recent addition, the magic-driven illumination negated the need for candles. Not a moment too soon either. He needed the extra light today. Flying out of the lair unprepared again wasn’t an option. Fucking Scottish pack. The whoresons were like cats—the warriors kept landing on their feet. So annoying. Beyond frustrating, but after what he’d witnessed on the coast a month ago, not entirely unexpected. Cyprus wasn’t an idiot. More’s the pity. Neither were the males he commanded, so…
Time to do some studying.
No way would he leave the lair unprepared again.
Skirting a wheelbarrow, Grizgunn stepped around a stack of paint cans and headed for the large table in the center of the room. The smell of wet plaster on newly scored walls drifted in the air. With a grunt, he pulled the drop cloth off the massive oa
k slab and tossed the roll of maps onto the clean surface. The coiled paper unrolled with a snap as he shifted the bowl to his other hand and shovelled some penne into his mouth. The sharp tang of tomato sauce grabbed hold his taste buds. He chewed, took another bite and began perusing the top chart.
Stolen from a geographical society in Edinburgh, the map provided details of the British coast. Every inlet and jut-out, each cliff and all the canyons Cyprus had used to evade him the night he missed his chance to capture a high value target. The loss of the red-scaled male had been bad enough, but failing to nab the high-energy female was a real blow. His pack needed someone like her, a female powerful enough to keep his warriors entertained and well-fed.
Clenching his teeth, Grizgunn ran his finger over the map, committing the coastline to memory. He spooned more pasta into his mouth.
Heavy footfalls sounded behind him.
Straightening away from the table, Grizgunn glanced over his shoulder. “Good eve, Hakon.”
“Hey,” his XO mumbled around a mouthful of supper. Bowl in hand, his friend crossed the room. Grabbing a chair on the way by, he dragged it over to the table edge, sat down, and put his feet up. As his boots hit the polished oak top, Hakon finished chewing. “Got some news.”
“Anything good?”
“Depends.”
Grizgunn raised a brow. “On what?”
“Whether or not it’s true.”
“Tell me.”
Shifting in his seat, Hakon played with his food, shoving noodles around the bowl with his fork. “There is a Scottish warrior in Prague.”
“Alone?” he asked, his interest sharpening. A lone warrior was a vulnerable one—easily brought down by a pack if cornered. Most warriors flew in groups of two or three for just that reason. “Any connection to Cyprus?”
“Rumor has it, his brother.” A predatory light in his pale eyes, Hakon smiled, all teeth, no mercy. “His blood brother—a twin, a male by the name of Vyroth.”
“Jesus Christ,” Setting his bowl down with a thump, he leaned against the table and stared at his friend. “Who do we have in Prague?”
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