No argument there. Tristan put his hands out in a placating gesture. “I know I’m not. I’m sorry. Can’t we talk? I—”
And then something grabbed both sides of his head like a vise. Faintly, he heard someone call his name, and he felt a hard kiss on his lips.
As suddenly as he’d left, he was back on the roof. Still holding Mayah, who was kissing him like there was no tomorrow.
Her scent rose around him, making his wolf howl inside him. She was pressed against him—arms, breasts, hips, thighs.
And her mouth. So sweet, soft and yet demanding, making all the feelings he’d been burying and shoving aside rise up like a volcano.
He pulled her against him, cupping the back of her head with one hand, holding her against him with the other.
Tristan moved his mouth over hers, wanting to taste every corner of her, sliding his tongue over hers, feeling a growl rumbling in his chest.
He was instantly hard, feeling the sweet agony of her pressing against his shaft, the desperate wanting.
She gave a soft little moan, so sexy. This was everything he’d imagined and dreamed of. Paradise. Perfection—
And then it wasn’t.
White light flashed in his brain again, and once more he was somewhere else.
Not in the dragon cave. He was deep in his own mind, near the vault where his nightmares lived. His own private shed where the crazy went.
But the vault was broken, the door open, and ghosts were coming for him. All the people he’d lost, all the ones he hadn’t saved. The wolf pack from Winterhome in Alaska. His parents. The other prisoners…
NO!
He let go of Mayah and backed away so fast she stumbled. He pressed the palms of his hands against his temples and squeezed, as if that would put the ghosts back where they belonged.
Save us, they were calling, just like they used to do when he lay in in Alexander Grant’s cells, exhausted, his whole body throbbing in agony.
Just like they used to do after he got out, and he couldn’t stand the pain, and his wolf couldn’t, and the wolf would take over and bleed someone, anyone, because that was the only thing that drowned it out.
Running
Killing
Running
Killing
He heard himself growling, felt Mayah’s touch on his arm. “Tristan? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he snarled. “Just stay away from me.” He tried to shove the vault door closed, so he couldn’t see the ghosts, so they would just fucking be quiet.
He couldn’t do it. His head was splitting, and he smelled blood.
“Stay away,” he repeated. “We can’t do this. We’re not doing it. Just no.” Because she was Al-Maddeiri. She could see into his mind, where no one should go. And look what happened.
“But I thought—”
“Whatever you thought, you thought wrong.” He took a breath and lied through his teeth. “I don’t feel that way about you.”
That ripped his heart out, but he had to convince her. His wolf was about to bust out, and he didn’t know if she could protect herself against him without her dragon.
“Are you serious?” Mayah said. “You have a boner the size of the castle’s main tower.”
Through the haze of pain, he tried to think of something to say to make it better. “I know you’ve wanted all the experiences you missed—”
Fury snapped in her eyes. “And you think this is what that is? That you’re on my bucket list or something? Or I’m just bored? You are a complete and total asshole.”
But her voice trembled just the tiniest bit. She was angry, but she was also hurt. Shit.
“Mayah, I—”
He reached out, but she slapped his hand away. “Forget it. I’m sorry I kissed you. Good job humiliating me. I’m going away now.”
He should tell her about the dragon. But he couldn’t. She was right. She had to get away.
Slowly, relentlessly, he pushed the ghosts back in the mental vault and slammed the broken door. Then, wearily, he rose to his feet, every muscle and joint in his body hurting. There was blood on his upper lip from another nosebleed.
The rooftop was dark under the stars. And Mayah was gone.
Chapter 5
Well. He’d totally fucked that up.
It was five days later, and Mayah still wasn’t speaking to him. And even without her dragon, pissed-off Mayah was a force to be reckoned with.
Tristan kept trying to talk to her, to explain why he’d been such a dick. To tell her that he’d talked to her dragon. To tell her he wanted to try it again—see if he could beg, bribe, or logic the dragon into coming out of her cave and giving Mayah back her wings.
The problem was Mayah. She might not have her dragon, but she still had her magic. She cloaked herself any time she was near him, so he couldn’t see her or hear her.
Couldn’t even scent her.
Sometimes he felt like she was right there, as if they still had a mental connection, but no matter how much he talked to the air like a total idiot, she wouldn’t respond.
Except the times when she conjured a few gallons of ice-cold water and dropped them on top of him.
He’d tried to send her a note via Mason, the new butler Mikah had dredged up from somewhere. Because he thought Draken princes and princesses were supposed to be all snooty and formal and humorless, apparently.
Mason had returned to Tristan with an impassive face, and the note on an elegant silver platter. Burned to ashes.
Tristan sent another note, this time with one of Mayah’s favorite giant chocolate cupcakes from Sophia Travis’s bakery back at Silverlake.
Epic fail. That one came back in ashes too—with the addition of a gooey, smelly mess of burned frosting mixed in.
That got a raised eyebrow from Mason.
In desperation, he’d tried to send Mayah an email, and had been hopeful and even a little excited when he got a reply. It turned out to contain a virus that filled his computer screen with tiny dancing dicks, all with long blond hair and pointed ears and little bitty elf hats.
He’d had to take his laptop all the way back to Silverlake to get Jesse Travis, their computer guru and resident hacker, to clean it up. And resist the urge to punch Jesse in the face when he laughed his ass off.
In between humiliating defeats, Tristan had been trying to do some research about Draken and their animal natures.
He was beginning to suspect they were different from other shifters—that their dragons were not bound as completely to their human side as most animal shifters. Possibly because dragons were inherently magical creatures, with their own powers.
Because Mayah’s dragon seemed to have its own independent existence in the spirit world. And if it could exist on its own, then maybe it had to be dealt with differently than other shifter animals.
He wasn’t having much luck, though. Kira had brought her guardian’s library to Emon for safekeeping—all that was left of the Al-Maddeiri clan’s knowledge and history—and he’d hoped to find something there. Unfortunately, most of it was written in Draken.
He really needed to talk to the Greystone brothers—a trio of Wild Dragons living in Portland, Oregon. They had more knowledge of Draken than Emon did, and a bigger library.
But first he had to get Mayah to fucking talk to him.
And he had to do it soon, because his headaches and nosebleeds were getting worse. If he were going to help Mayah, he needed to do it before his head split like an overripe melon and spilled his brains all over the courtyard flagstones.
At least it was almost Sunday.
Ever since the red dragons had moved in, Emon had decided that the whole clan—plus “honored” guests like him—all had to have dinner together in the castle’s formal dining room on Sunday evenings.
Since Emon was bossy as fuck and could breathe fire, everyone went—even Tristan.
It was supposed to be some kind of clan bonding experience. In reality, sixty percent of the newly formed cla
n had uncooperative natures and dragon-sized attitudes, so it was usually a disaster of epic proportions.
But it was someplace he knew for sure that Mayah would be, and she couldn’t cloak herself to get away from him.
This week, he’d bribed Mason with more pastries from Sophia’s bakery, to arrange the seating so that he was next to Mayah.
Now he just had to hope that she didn’t pour boiling hot soup on his crotch.
Mayah stood in the drawing room, toying with her goblet of wine and pretending she wasn’t watching Tristan. The whole clan was having obligatory Sunday night pre-dinner drinks, during which everyone tried to get drunk enough to make it through the formal dinner without killing each other.
She had no idea why Emon was putting everyone through this. Trish kept lobbying for Sunday night outdoor barbecues, pointing out that at least they’d have room to brawl and breathe fire without destroying the dining room.
Emon seemed irrationally determined to pound some class into them. Or maybe he just wanted the damage to be more easily contained.
Mayah kept stealing glances at Tristan. He looked miserable. He’d never been as bulky as the dragons—he was more the lean and muscular type. But now he looked much thinner, and his eyes had dark circles under them, like he hadn’t been sleeping.
She probably shouldn’t have been so mean to him.
She’d just felt so… hurt, when he shoved her away like that. Betrayed. Embarrassed.
But whatever had gone wrong with him after the battle, it was clearly worse now. He needed help, whether he would admit it or not.
She had to get him to let her heal him. Even if he didn’t care about her that way—even if he didn’t want her, he was a good person and he’d been a good friend.
It wasn’t his fault if he didn’t have feelings for her.
He glanced over and met her eyes. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then he mouthed, I’m sorry. Please talk to me.
She could have sworn she heard the words in her mind, the way she heard Emon when he talked to her. But that was probably just her imagination. Wolves couldn’t mind-speak. Even white ones.
She bit her lips, and then gave a small nod. Okay, she mouthed back.
He smiled—maybe the first real smile she’d seen from him since the battle. It went straight to her heart and nestled inside it like a little golden ball of light, warming her all through.
And just in that moment, it didn’t matter that he’d pushed her away, or that he didn’t love her. She loved him. She would always love him—she knew it in that little warm golden place inside her.
He was her wolf. Even if he didn’t know it. Even if he went away, even if he never loved her. He was her wolf, her person, and she would help him no matter what it cost her.
At that moment, Mason came in to speak to Emon. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” he said in a low voice, leaning in close to speak in Emon’s ear. Emon had told him not to use the title, but Mason paid no attention. “It seems that someone has…ahem. Altered the décor in the dining room.”
Emon heaved a sigh. “What has Zakerek done now?” he asked. “More pornographic pinups? Balloon animals made of condoms? Another army of rubber duckies battling Lego soldiers on the dining-room table?”
Mayah suppressed a snort. Even though Zakerek had accepted Emon’s offer to be part of the clan, he still had a ginormous chip on his shoulder, and he resented Emon’s authority.
Privately, she thought he was probably just here for the food. And his own room.
Whatever his reasons were, he spent half his time thinking up creative ways to fuck with Emon. He hated the formal Sunday night dinners (he wasn’t alone there), but he vented his feelings by stealth redecorating the oppressively formal dining room.
Mayah wouldn’t have said it out loud, but she actually looked forward every week to seeing what Zakerek would come up with.
“No, Your Majesty,” Mason said with a straight face. “He seems to have replaced the landscape over the mantel with an… original painting.”
Emon sighed. “Do I want to know what of?”
“It seems to be a life-sized portrait of Your Majesty.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Trish said hopefully. “Is it at least a decent likeness of him? I guess it must be if you recognized it.”
“The face is quite a good likeness,” Mason replied. “Otherwise, I really couldn’t say.” His gaze flicked down to Emon’s crotch ever so briefly.
Emon closed his eyes and shook his head.
Mayah said, “I do believe I’ll just wander across to the dining room and take a look.”
“I’ll go with you,” Trish said.
They walked sedately to the door, and then ran for the dining room, jostling each other in their rush to get there first.
The painting of Emon was actually bigger than life-size, in an ornate gold frame.
Mason was correct. The face was extremely accurate. The rest of it, though…
He was totally naked. And Zakerek had painted in the teeniest, tiniest penis and balls you could imagine. Best of all, portrait-Emon was looking down at himself with a tragic and woeful expression.
Trish and Mayah dropped into the nearest chairs and dissolved into giggles.
“Bet you a hundred Earth dollars Emon flames this thing the second he sees it,” Mayah said.
“Bet he won’t,” Trish said, between giggles. “He won’t want to give Zakerek the satisfaction.”
“You’re on.”
The two of them slapped hands to seal the bet.
“Oh, shit, they’re coming,” Trish whispered. “Stop giggling. You know how guys are about their dicks. I can’t let Emon see me laughing at his. Even if it’s an extremely unrealistic rendering.”
“Says you.” Mayah bit her lips, but she couldn’t stop. She just snorted when she tried, which set Trish off again.
“You suck!” Trish hissed, pinching herself to stop laughing.
Mayah slapped her own cheeks. “I’m stopping.” She snorted again.
“You’re not!”
Emon walked in, leading the others, and they both stood up and straightened their faces as best they could. Emon stopped dead when he saw the portrait, gazed at it for a long moment, and then walked to his place at the head of the table.
Tristan seated Mayah, his eyes dancing, his face red with suppressed laughter. Zakerek sat down and unfolded his napkin, a smirk on his face. “I’m not sure about the new décor,” he said. “It’s a little… uninspiring, don’t you think?”
Mikah elbowed him in the ribs.
Emon seated Trish to his right, and Cazbek patted her shoulder as he walked by. “You must really love him,” he said sympathetically. He dropped his voice. “I won’t play that banana porno in front of him anymore. It will just make him feel bad.”
Tristan went into a sudden coughing fit, and Mayah had to pinch herself hard to keep from laughing again.
Emon, smoke trickling from his nostrils and his dragon in his eyes, called for the first course.
Chapter 6
Sunday dinner went about the way it usually did. Stilted conversation, bad attitudes, growing tension, emotional explosion, table on fire.
Mayah watched, impressed, as Tristan managed to rescue two plates of cheesecake before the rest of it got melted—along with half the silverware.
Somebody was going to spend the rest of the evening doing a restoration spell on the dining room. But not her.
She was following the cheesecake. And the super-sexy butt of the wolf who was carrying it.
He ducked into one of the seldom-used reception rooms down the hall. Mayah reached for her cheesecake. Tristan held it out of reach.
“Promise you’ll hear me out,” he said. “And you won’t dump water on me.”
“No promises,” Mayah said. “What if you say something incredibly stupid?”
Tristan sighed.
“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to.
It’s just, the kiss took me by surprise.”
“See, already with the stupid,” she said. Why did having a penis make people into idiots? It was like all the brains just got morphed into testosterone. “Because, of course it did. You went totally catatonic for a minute there. I really only did it to bring you out of it. You just took it the wrong way.”
Tristan looked like she’d slapped him. “I did?” He bit his lip. “Oh.”
Now he was disappointed? He didn’t want her, but he didn’t want her not to want him. Asshole. He might be her wolf, but she didn’t have to let him get away with that shit.
“Of course,” she said, widening her eyes in fake shock. “You’re my healer. We can’t—you know. That would be wrong.”
He looked at her suspiciously. She tried to look even more innocent.
“Of course,” he said finally.
But now she had her opening. “I was worried about you, you know. I’ve been worried about you ever since you started ripping people open with your mind. And then you just went blank, like a robot whose power bank shut down or something. It was kind of scary.”
“I didn’t realize. When you touched me—”
If he said anything that implied her touching him made him freeze in disgust and horror, all bets were off. She wasn’t going to drop icy water on him—she was going to flame him.
Instead, he said the last thing she expected.
“When you touched me, it was like I was transported. I was with your dragon.”
For a second, it didn’t compute. “You were—wait just a frickin’ frackin’ minute. You were where?”
“I was with your dragon. In the spirit world, I think.”
Mayah had to sit down on the nearest hard, uncomfortable bench sofa. No wonder nobody ever used these rooms.
“Is that where she’s been hiding?”
Tristan handed her one of the plates of cheesecake and a fork. “I think so. It was a dark cave—so dark I could hardly see anything except her eyes. With a barred gate on the entrance. But somehow I was inside, with her.”
A barred gate. The very thought made her shiver. She’d thought they were finally free. But her dragon was still locked up.
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