by Renee Field
Beastly Passion
Renee Field
Maeja, queen of the Dragonian race, believes in words like duty, control and honor. She will do anything to keep her subjects safe from spying Earth technology. Her captain-at-arms knows now is the time to teach Maeja her beastly passion is not a curse. With her world on the brink of disaster, she must overcome her inhibitions and let lust control her. Taking two dragon warrior men as lovers might be too much change, but more than just her body is undergoing a cataclysmic transformation. Where dragons rule, passion follows.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Beastly Passion
ISBN 9781419930195
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Beastly Passion Copyright © 2011 Renee Field
Edited by Shannon Combs
Cover art by Dar Albert
Electronic book publication January 2011
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Beastly Passion
Renee Field
Dedication
To my children, who laugh with me when I tell them what I’m working on writing now. You might drive me to write about beasts, but to me you are all my precious jewels. To hubby, love you more each day!
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to my editor, Shannon Combs.
Author Note
I believe we are not alone in this universe but have simply yet to make first contact. In life it is only a matter of time.
Chapter One
Shards of ice nestled into her heart, followed by a torrential flush of melting heat. She gasped. Her body quaked with desire.
The lightweight silk sheet brushed her skin…a tangle of unfocused thirst and mind-numbing want caused her legs to involuntarily buck off the covering. Her hand slid down her throat, a sensual sweep as foreboding and significant as the rising temperature of her skin. Light fingertips skimmed over breasts, playing with the rose-colored peaks of her nipples until she answered the throb—the call and pulse that heated and thrummed through her entire body. Her fingers delved into her wet, soft folds of inviting flesh.
Honey-warm nectar lubricated her fingers. She used them like drumsticks…focused to the call of the song her body recognized at the molecular level. The rhythm and intensity of an ancient, inherent part of her evolution that yearned for her body to change, fly and soar through the realms of her tightly controlled consciousness. Her breath quickened to a fiery puff of soft, gray smoke. A singe of torrid heat caused her to move her fingers out of her sheath to tweak her hard-as-polished-stone nub. Her body, spirit and mind fractured—levitating her to that other plane of existence she fought daily to avoid.
The shift, instant. White-hot fire engulfed her spirit, mind and body. The flame morphed to solidify into what she truly was—dragon. Gone was the woman—discarded and chained away—so that the dragon beast with the long, golden-hued leathery wings stretched. She sought the heat of her thoughts. Clarity. Large, clawed talons pivoted on the marble floor. Her spiked tail slid into position behind her, but when her head swiveled to the front with the mirrors blanketing her gaze she froze. The vision of her new reality snared her like a cage of old. She caught dragon thoughts that yearned for the feel of sky and the need for the moisture-drenched orange clouds that radiated warmth from the moons.
She leashed those traitorous thoughts and screamed, squelching fire that threatened to spew forth. Instantly, she chastised her body for the lust of desire while her rational mind absorbed the impact of what had dared to happen. Shaking, she shifted back into a woman, and grasped the sheet that had fallen to the floor. The cool silk material was exactly what she needed to ground her. Anchor her.
The large, wide iron-fitted door to the chamber gave a mighty creak as it was forced open. Geirsson, her captain-at-arms, stormed in, armed and ready, followed by her maidservant.
“Get out!” Maeja didn’t care that her manner was totally uncharacteristic. She had mastered the art of being in control, as serene as polished steel. Maeja was born with beastly emotions, but they would not control her. She would not allow that to happen. No one knew what a struggle that had become of late. Evidence this morning. She hated what she had dared let slip. Shifting into dragon was forbidden. She had been the one to issue that decree. While some of her people objected, the majority saw her reason. Her world, her people were prospering and if they had to hide their true identity then so be it.
Maeja had worked centuries to ensure others saw her the way she wanted them to. It had become such a part of her skin that sometimes she questioned her own identity. Lately, the haunting, wild animalistic urge to shift had become a steady ache. Often she fled to the safety of her chamber. That was exactly what she had done last night after that horrible scene at her annual Harvest Ball.
Geirsson’s eyes darted warrior swift around the room. “You screamed.”
“I did not. Get out.” At least this time I did not yell at them. Maeja regally enveloped the sheet around her and stood. “My clothes, prepare them…but first a bath. And ensure it’s cold, ice cold,” she directed the maid, trying to ignore Geirsson.
The thought of even lukewarm water caressing her skin left her feeling slightly breathless and flushed. She struggled to regain her composure. Pursing her lips together, she hugged her arms. Her maidservant nodded, bowed low and left to do her bidding. Geirsson remained.
“You may leave, Geirsson.”
“I may…may I?”
She fought against the urge to clamp her hands over her ears. His rumbling voice always reminded her of churning stones being teased to become bright, polished gems, something her beast loved. This morning its intensity was doubled, leaving her with the oddest urge to rub her body up against his. I did not succumb to his charms years ago and I most certainly will not now.
Geirsson looked down at the floor. Two long gouges bore evidence to her swift transformation. She said a silent prayer of thanks when he simply walked over them. Then he edged forward to where she stood. She blinked. What was he doing?
“Fare thee well, my lady?”
He knows. Her nostrils flared, inhaling and tasting his scent. Woodsy smoke mixed with salt, sand and the metallic taste of jewels and minerals sailed into her. She knew he caught the slight, ever so infinitesimal inhalation on her part. Her anger instantly sparked. The spurt of that churning emotion spewed forth within Maeja and she had to close her eyes against the heat enveloping her rational senses, again. She bowed her head, hoping he would give her a moment to collect her thoughts and clamp down hard on the pebble of desire that threatened to break free. What by the Jewels was happening to her?<
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“I am fine. No need to concern yourself.” She turned, needing the space to breathe, fearful of the animalistic urge that told her to simply push Geirsson to the floor and straddle him. Take what she knew he could skillfully offer. As always, she denied herself.
She was Maeja III. A royal queen of Castra, descendant from a dynasty of dragon queens. And she was the last of her line.
That sad, hard rock of reality as always robbed her of breath. She had tried everything—a hundred or so draconic men through the long passage of time—and about a century ago when she had ushered her planet into the computer age, she had even resorted to in-vitro fertilization. But nothing worked. She was a good queen, and maybe the Blessed Jeweled Scribe scholars would record her reign as the best but she was barren. All my work will not be for naught. It was a recitation that had become her own dreaded motto.
Maeja didn’t have anyone she could leave her dynasty to and she wanted to be able to do that. She wanted a child of her own to nurture with the understanding of what her race needed. A firm hand.
Again, the image of what had transpired last night flashed through her. Note to self, check on the witch in the dungeon and find out which faction sent her to infiltrate my royal palace.
“I questioned the witch.”
Lost in her own turmoil of thoughts, Maeja was astonished when Geirsson spoke. She had assumed since she had turned her back to him that he had left. She should have known better. Lately Geirsson seemed always to be underfoot.
He crossed his arms and she tried hard to ignore the play of muscles on his forearms. Maeja felt her throat constrict with longing and her heart accelerate. She pivoted and moved farther away from him, not wanting Geirsson to assess her reaction. Both were beasts to the core and he was not blind. To pretend he knew nothing of her desire for him would not benefit her rational mind.
“She claims she was not sent by any factions. I’m not one hundred percent sure. She claims she came of her own free will. She also…”
Geirsson’s long pause forced Maeja to turn and face him. “Yes, what?”
“She wants to speak with you alone.”
Maeja tugged the sheet around her tighter. “Alone. I don’t think so.”
Geirsson paced her bedroom. It was so uncharacteristic of her stoic guard that his movements caused her to examine him again. The thought she should replace him with someone else flashed hotly through her. She was beginning to admire his strong, muscular physique far too much for her own good. Often during the day she found herself fantasizing about him and it was beginning to annoy her.
“Stop that. Why are you doing that?”
“She only speaks dragonese and she said—”
Maeja’s face flushed bright red. “Dragonese. No one is allowed to speak that, ever. I made that decree at the beginning of my reign and for the past three hundred years no one has disobeyed me.”
“Well, my lady, that’s not entirely true.”
Geirsson stopped to stare at her. It took every ounce of willpower for Maeja not to fidget under his glower. That was part of the problem with Geirsson. They had known each other for so long that he did not fear her scowl. Sometimes she even feared he disobeyed her laws.
“I do not want to hear your arguments, Geirsson. I did what I had to do to move our race forward. Dragonese is the old way… Anglo is the way of the future. We have been able to trade with Earth and we have been able to utilize their technology to better our world, so do not tell me I made a mistake because mistakes do not happen. Four hundred years ago, when my mother ruled, do you remember what our world was like? We were a dying race. Hidden by Earth’s moon, we could not get past their shields until we harnessed the blue diamond.”
Maeja did not voice the rest of her thoughts. There was no need. After the dragons had harnessed the diamond a large earthquake closed off the tunnel. Their planet had been saved but lately Maeja’s skin shivered with the keen awareness they had simply bought time. Time she felt slipping out of her grasp. Changes in the mountainous landscape so far kept her scientists from finding the entrance to the tunnel but with the small tremors racking her planet she knew they must find the primal energy source soon. Geirsson crowded in on her space. His abrupt movement forced Maeja to take a step back. Instantly, she reminded herself that she was Castra’s queen. Forcing her body forward, she met him. A tangible breath separated them. A sizzle of something unspoken, alive yet secret sparked between them. They were almost nose to nose. If Maeja had inherited her mother’s height their lips would perfectly match. For once she was thankful that was not the case.
“Maeja, I remember what our world had become. I was one of those chosen to use dragon fire to force a part of my spirit into the blue diamond to create its harmonics into existence. Do not lecture me on our shared history.”
“Geirsson, you know I have not forgotten your sacrifice. I well understand what you and the others gave for our world. We were desperate. A dying race, with only thousands of our kind left…barely holding on. I do not regret the decisions made that day by my mother three hundred and ten years ago and I do not regret the choices I made so we could be viewed by the humans as a species similar to them.”
“Are we? Are we similar to them?”
Maeja closed her eyes to gather her courage. When she did so his scent sailed once again through her and liquid fire pooled between her legs. Still standing her ground, she looked him square in the eye as was their custom. “Yes. We are exactly like them now.” Part of her hated forcing the lie but it had to be said.
Castra was not a big planet, but it was special. It had two small suns, and four even tinier moons. Its rotation was based on its core’s harmonic circular movements. It was a world dominated by dragons of varying species. Located thousands of light-years from Earth, it sat directly in line with the humans’ moon, following their lunar rotation like a child. Then something happened. No one knew if it was because of a falling star or meteorite, or through simple evolutionary rotation but Earth’s moon slipped ever so slowly, year after year, out of rotation with Castra. The rope that tied mother to child became frayed.
“Are you one hundred percent sure, Maeja?” asked Geirsson.
No, she was not but she could not tell him that. With Castra being three-quarters the size of Earth, darkness and cold preyed on the small planet. Draconic scientists and wise women realized the only way to save Castra was to find an alternative heat source. Then, as the legend goes, a metallic star from the sky fell to Castra, opening the world to another civilization. The images and sounds that originated from the metallic box brought hope and a stark realization that Castra was not the only civilized planet in the galaxy. The burning question for decades had been how to reach out to the inhabitants who had landed on the moon.
Just then Maeja’s maid returned. “Your bath is ready, my lady.”
Maeja nodded and her servant bowed and left.
Geirsson had moved behind her, his ability to maneuver his large frame as quietly as the air stirred something buried deep within her. When was the last time I had sex? Maeja calculated her last night of fornication had been over a decade ago. Surmising that was the source of her problems and why her body was thrumming for the tantalizing feel of Geirsson’s hard body up close and personal with hers, she made a mental note to seek relief.
“Geirsson, send me your best warrior tonight…bring him here.”
Maeja was glad Geirsson remained behind her. His anger sharpened his scent, and so what if her body liked that burnt smell a lot. She stilled, allowing him to move his frame close enough to her so that she could feel the tangible heat rolling off him in waves.
“Here?” Geirsson’s fire-smoked breath on her hair was like lighting a wick to her body. Maeja fought against the instinct that yearned for her to lean back into his solid frame for warmth and support.
Turning to face him, she said, “Do not question me anymore, Geirsson. I am not in the mood. Tonight. Your best. Now, leave me.”
Digging her fingers into the palms of her hands, she let Geirsson take two steps toward her. Calmly he faced her. Maeja did not like the knowing, sexy look on his face. His yellow-brown eyes heated with lust. His burnt, crisp wood scent combined with the tang of rock and the freedom of air made her eyelids heavy with need. Bracketing her body that longed to brush her breasts up against his chest, she dug her fingers deeper into her palms, needing pain to chase away the wild desire singing through the marrow of her bones.
Geirsson was built like a tree. All towering strength but flexible. At six-foot-six he was the tallest of the Dragonbane warriors. His eyes hued to an amber color that radiated warmth, fire and an intensity that bespoke to all who came up against him he was in charge. Capable of violence to get what he wanted. That was why she had hired him three hundred years ago when she had ascended to rule Castra after her mother had been murdered. His thick, hairy legs were braced slightly apart, his usual stance. He wore the simple hide jerkin that came to rest at his knees. If she were meeting with an Earth representative he would be dressed in one of his black business suits that she knew made him feel restricted and itchy. The jerkin was a barbaric outfit but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Gladiator black-leather sandals wound around his calves and as usual gold-fired armbands flexed over his upper arms. His hair, tawny brown, was queued back with a leather tie. She was surprised he had done that. Normally, his hair fell silky straight to his shoulders.
At his side was his sword. To be precise, the sword his father had bequeathed him the day he too had died along with her mother, while attempting to save her. The sword was the last dragon-fired sword owned by a Dragonbane warrior and Geirsson carried it with pride.
