by Tessa Dawn
Chapter Twenty-one
Dr. Kyle Parker tightened his grip around the heavy base of the elegant flower arrangement as he entered Macy’s recovery room. His patient had come through the surgery with ease; he had managed to remove the entire mass, and as expected, the growth was benign. In addition, Macy had come out of the anesthesia quickly, her vital signs were good, and she had already had a small cup of cranberry juice and a cracker.
Model patient in every way.
Routine surgery, and all went well.
Now, he had to make the most of his good fortune: the fact that the flower shop had delivered the arrangement to the main post-op desk, and he had an opportunity to deliver it himself. As the door to the recovery room swung closed behind him, he headed to the nearest counter, set down the vase, and turned his back on his patient so he could reach into his lab coat pocket, retrieve the ruby-and-gold beetle—strange how the item had just appeared on his nightstand that morning; he had no memory of buying it, but he must have—and clip it to the stem by the card.
Get well soon, beautiful ~ Dr. P.
That was all the card said, and yes, it was definitely crossing a line, but the surgeon didn’t care. He wanted to make intimate inroads with Macy Wilson, and the urge—the need to make it happen—was like a hunger he could not resist. He spun around, feeling a bit uneasy, and reached for her chart, even as she eyed the flowers hesitantly.
“Are those for me?” she asked, with a croak in her voice, probably a result of the anesthesia.
“They are,” Dr. Parker answered in his usual professional voice.
Macy’s face lit up as she stared at the opulent arrangement of pale green-and-violet lilies, purple-and-white roses, and gorgeous scatterings of baby’s breath. “Must have been my mom,” she commented. “Wow. I can’t believe she did that.”
Dr. Parker flashed a wickedly sexy grin, set down the chart, then picked up the flowers. He brought them to the side of the bed and lowered them so she could read the card.
“Thank you,” she said, sounding more than a little embarrassed by his blatant attention. She reached for the card and read it; then her jaw dropped open. Her eyes grew wide with astonishment, and her face flushed a bright shade of red. She shifted nervously in the bed. “From you?”
He nodded.
Her tongue snaked out to lick her lips. “W…Why?”
He smiled at her again, only this time it was warm and inviting. “Because you are my favorite patient, and I want you to get well soon.”
She lowered her gaze into her lap, like a teenager, hiding her blush, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ears. “I don’t know what to say.” She read the card a second time and literally squirmed in the bed.
Good.
This was excellent.
The woman was very interested—her conquest would be easy.
And then she saw the pin and gasped. “What is this?”
“Take a look,” he said, lowering the arrangement even further.
She plucked the jeweled beetle off the stem and placed it in the palm of her hand, studying it carefully. “Is this…is this real?”
“The gold?” he said. “The rubies? Yes, dear, they are.”
She shook her head in confusion. “I…I don’t know what to say. I mean…why would you do this? Really?”
Well, she had just thrown the door wide open, and Dr. Parker had every intention of walking through it. “I think you know,” he said in a rich, deep voice as he held her stare, intently, with his own.
Macy gulped. “I…I…” She blushed again. “Thank you.”
He nodded as if it were no big deal, placed the flowers on the bedside table, and then returned to the edge of the bed. “Can I call you sometime, Macy? Not as your doctor, but as your friend?” The corner of his mouth turned up in what he knew was a wolfish grin.
She seemed to have trouble breathing, and once again, she smoothed her hair. “I’d like that,” she whispered, hardly able to conceal her delight.
He stepped forward, removed the beetle from her palm, and placed it back on the stem; and then he took her hand in his and squeezed it, in a slow, gentle caress. “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” he said softly. “Very soon.” And then he gestured toward her chart. “As you know, everything went well with your surgery; you should be a hundred percent in no time, and the tumor should not return. So I think that aspect of our relationship is over.” He gestured toward the flower arrangement, bent forward to tap the head of the beetle, and winked. “But here’s to new beginnings.”
Macy couldn’t speak.
She was positively dumbstruck.
And that was just fine with Dr. Parker—no point in pushing it too far. He gave her a professional nod and sauntered out of the room.
Mission accomplished.
f
Salem Thorne waited and waited…and waited.
For Jordan Anderson to enter Macy’s room.
Dr. Parker had already done his part, and now it was up to Salem to find a way into the dragyra’s purse.
When the human female finally made an appearance, the beetle was positively stunned: She walked in with two dragyri mercenaries, and one was a Genesis Son! His father’s scent was all over him, seeping from his pores, practically oozing from his DNA.
So this was Zanaikeyros Saphyrius, the sapphire dragon’s offspring.
It was remarkable to see him in person, and for a moment, Salem had to collect his wits—every impulse in his demon heart wanted to shift, right then and there, take on the immortal dragyri, and slaughter him in Macy’s room.
He could hardly contain the desire to attack.
But—and it was a very important but—he couldn’t be that foolish.
He needed to remain steady…and calm. He needed to bide his time: A son of a dragon was not an easy creature to destroy, and the fact that Zanaikeyros had a second warrior with him made the odds nearly slim to none. The three of them would wreak havoc in the human hospital, draw a host of unwanted attention, and in the end, Salem Thorne would be mincemeat, a ground-up patty of demon sludge. The dual Dragyr were too formidable to approach…just yet.
So he observed the trio instead.
He crawled down the stem in the flower arrangement, perhaps a centimeter or two, careful to remain undetected, and he watched as the human female hugged her friend and asked a host of irritating questions: How are you? How do you feel? What did the doctor say about the tumor?
Blah, blah, blah.
Did anybody care?
He made careful note of the tension in the dragyra’s shoulders and the metaphorical elephant in the middle of the room: There was something almost palpable coursing back and forth between Jordan, the conquest, and Zane, the conqueror, something Salem couldn’t quite place.
Anger?
Distrust?
Pent-up carnal energy?
What was going on between those two?
If defensiveness and possession were a cologne, then Zanaikeyros Saphyrius had drenched himself in half a bottle earlier that morning. Alternatively, if fear, apprehension, and edginess were a perfume, then Jordan Anderson was wearing the entire flask.
Yet…
There was something else in the air.
Something pervasive and undeniable.
Pheromones?
Erotic tension?
An undeniable attraction between the two!
They were drawn to each other like moths to a flame, no doubt as a result of their fated hearts, and the spark beneath the flame was highly combustible, ready to flare at the slightest provocation.
Hmm.
How very interesting.
So Jordan thought she hated Zane and was resisting all his advances, even as her soul was seeking his. And Zane was responding like an instinctual animal, the primal beast that he was—he was marking her, dominating their interaction, and corralling her like a hunter.
No matter.
The love story was their personal problem.
Defe
ating the enemy, spying on the same, and getting a foothold inside Dragons Domain was Salem’s primary—and only—goal.
Jordan took a seat on the side of Macy’s bed, forcing her friend to scoot over, and Salem saw his chance: He knew his body was beginning to glow, and he tried to tamp it down as he sent impulse after impulse directly into Macy’s brain, targeting the firing neurons: Get Jordan’s purse. Set it next to your flowers. Turn the front pocket facing the ruby pendant. Do it quickly. Do it now.
“Oh, my gosh, is that a new purse?” Macy asked Jordan.
Yes! Salem thought.
Jordan glanced at her handbag, and once again, a strange, unidentifiable energy sparked between the female and Zane. “No,” Jordan said, shrugging one shoulder. “You’ve seen this bag a thousand times.”
Macy crinkled her brow. “No I haven’t!” she insisted. “I swear that’s new. It’s gorgeous. Let me see it.”
Jordan giggled at Macy’s enthusiasm, and handed her the purse. “Same ole bag,” she said as Macy held it up and admired the attractive, soft leather. She played with a zipper or two, appeared to count the pockets, and then turned up her lip in a frown. “I guess you’re right,” she said. “Hmm. It just looked different to me for some reason.” And then she set it down on the bedside table, with the lower leather pocket open and facing the pin.
Good girl, Macy, Salem said in his head.
Jordan eyed the pocketbook sideways, as if she was about to grab it and take it back, and Salem sent a subtle but undeniable fog into the room to distract her: It wasn’t anything visible, and it wasn’t strong enough to qualify as a compulsion—nothing like what he had just done with Macy, which was more personal—lest one of the Dragyr sense the errant energy they were also exposed to and respond.
Zane’s spine stiffened.
The second male glanced around the room.
And Jordan forgot about the purse.
So they had all felt something, but no one had made a move toward the bag.
Salem didn’t waste any time.
He crawled across the table, as slowly as he could, and creeped his way up Jordan’s purse, ducking quickly into the stiff front pocket.
Done and done.
“When will I see you again?” he heard Macy ask.
Jordan paused for a bit—maybe she was giving her friend a hug—and then her voice turned noticeably hollow. “I can’t say for sure, Mace. I still have jury selection on Tuesday, but I’m going to have to lie low for a while, just until the…threat…is sorted out.”
Macy groaned like she was pouting. “Whoever it is that’s after you? The reason for your bodyguards?”
Jordan chuckled insincerely, and Salem knew she was trying to appease her friend. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. “I wouldn’t say that someone’s actually after me, just that I need to play it safe. It’s…it’s a threat, and we need to take it seriously. But honestly, I’m fine.”
Macy lowered her voice and murmured, “And so are they.” She was obviously referring to the Dragyr. “You lucky, lucky girl. I’ve never seen anything like them. Holy…shit.”
Jordan didn’t answer, so maybe she just shrugged, winked, or smiled—who knew? But it sounded like Macy leaned in closer. “Well, call me when you can. I have to tell you all about my doctor—Kyle Parker—the hottie that did my surgery. He also gave me those flowers.”
Macy probably glanced at the opulent bouquet because Jordan lowered her voice. “I saw them,” she whispered in collusion, “but I didn’t want to ask anything personal in front of the men.” Whatever signals or winks they exchanged, Macy didn’t press the issue of the flowers—thank the pagan king. “Just so you know,” she murmured, “he asked me out on a date—well, he asked if he could call. I think he’s got it bad…for me.” She giggled conspiratorially, and Jordan asked her something in return, but at that point, Salem was no longer listening.
He was burrowing into the farthest recesses of Jordan’s purse, the dark, lowest corner of the front pocket, and making himself as still as the night.
He would reawaken his senses soon…
From the Sapphire Lair in Dragons Domain.
Oh, great pagans of darkness, Lord Drakkar would be so pleased.
Chapter Twenty-two
Later that night, in Dragons Domain, Zane took Jordan on a walk beneath the waterfall. The tension between them had been ebbing and flowing all day, and he wanted to offer her a retreat, a way to relax and let go…a place where she might feel comfortable, or at least a little more at home.
Lords knew he was at his wits’ end.
The permeating roar of the water drowned out most of his thoughts as he led her along a narrow, rocky trail behind the falls, to a beautiful ledge where they could look out at the cliffs. Taking a seat on a smooth, naturally polished stone, he patted the shelf beside him. “Here,” he said softly, “sit.”
Jordan hesitated for a moment before taking the seat. She absently reached behind her neck, gathered her long, auburn hair into a cluster, and twisted it into a loose knot, apparently to avoid the splash.
“It’s beautiful, no?” he said.
She nodded. “It is.” And then she shivered.
“Are you cold?” He reached out to feel the top of her arm—he was capable of raising her temperature with his touch if needed.
“No,” she muttered. “I’m fine, just…” Her voice trailed off.
“Just what?” he asked.
Her body tensed. “Just still a little off balance.”
He nodded, demonstrating his understanding. Of course, she was a little off balance—who wouldn’t be? “About earlier, our conversation—”
“No,” she interrupted, holding up her hand to stop him. “There’s no need to revisit it. You said what you meant, and so did I.” She let her head fall back, stretching, as if she were releasing some tension in her neck, and then she folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me about the temple, Zane. It’s eating me alive. Not knowing, that is.”
Zane let out a slow, exhausted breath. So much for making things better, for getting his dragyra to relax. “We have time, Jordan,” he said in a muted tone. “Not a lot, but we have time.”
“We have six days,” she amended. “Don’t you think I ought to know before then?”
He sat quietly, pondering her words. Of course she had every right to know. That really wasn’t the issue. The problem was the scope of the matter, the ferocity of the dragon lords, the reality of what conversion meant.
“I’m not…” He swept his hand through his partially dampened hair and forced himself to start again. “I’m not sure how to tell you, how to describe it. I’ve never done this before.” He flashed a crooked grin and a hopeful glance. “You’re my first—and last—dragyra, you know.”
Jordan met his gaze, and her stunning hazel eyes flickered with a dim light of compassion. Still, she stuck to her guns. “What do you mean by rebirth? Is that…is it literal?” She visibly cringed.
He looked off into the distance, staring beyond the falls at the highland terrain before them, noting how all the trees were sprouting new leaves, how all the flowers were in full bloom, how the very soil around them seemed to pulse with new life. “It is.” There was no point in mincing words.
She took a sharp, stuttered breath and exhaled slowly. “I see.” She swallowed hard and raised her chin. “Am I going to be…going to be…do you have to kill me, Zane?”
He virtually recoiled at the word, drawing back in surprise. “No!” he insisted. “I mean, nothing that sadistic.”
She blinked several times as if she couldn’t comprehend his answer. “Then how am I supposed to be reborn if I don’t first have to die?”
Zane clenched both hands into fists—there was simply no subtle or easy way around this. He stood up, paced around the semi-dark space, and then turned to face her directly, dropping to his knees at her feet. “Jordan…” He took both of her hands in his and tightened his grip, lest she pull them away as usual. “T
he rebirth is as much symbolic as it is literal.” He knew he looked anguished, if not desperate—hell, he felt like a fish out of water. Blessed Pantheon, he was lying to her when she’d asked for the truth. He shut his eyes, gathered his courage, and started to explain it again. “Your death—as you put it—will be to a mortal body: to sickness, to frailty, to your strictly human decline. Your rebirth will be to immortality, to the Dragons Pantheon, to newfound wisdom and many of the powers that come with that enlightenment. It happens in a moment, in the blink of an eye…once the flames are extinguished.”
Jordan jolted. Her back stiffened, she sat upright, and her complexion turned a sickly shade of green. “Once the flames are extinguished? What flames, Zane?”
He closed his eyes again, and this time he kept them shut. “In the Temple of Seven, there’s a dais that faces the seven thrones of the dragon lords. You will be adorned in a beautiful gown, just like any wedding, and asked to kneel on the dais. I’ll be right there with you.” He rushed those last six words. “I will wrap my body around yours. Yes, the dragons will cleanse-away your human origins with mystical fire, but”—he placed a heavy emphasis on the word—“but I will be there to absorb the majority of the flames, the majority of the pain.”
He swallowed hard, opened his eyes, and commanded her gaze with his own. “Jordan, the cleansing portion of the ceremony takes about thirty seconds, during which time, your mortality will…come to an end. But immediately after that happens, within seconds—an instant, really—the lords will gather their cumulative healing and transformational power, a silver-blue fire that soothes, repairs, and reforms, and reanimate you as their own…an immortal dragyra.” Before she could reply or, worse, pass out, he pushed ahead, still holding her gaze. “Again, it will take about thirty seconds for the reanimation, and you will be made whole: perfect, without blemish, without illness, without vulnerability like you had before. The transformation will be over, and you will be reborn.”
He left out the fact that the entire rebirth would begin with orange-and-red fire, and that it would hurt like a bitch—for him—his skin would blister, and his bones would start to melt from the effort it would require to shield her from the worst of the flames. And yes, she would feel a brief moment of agony, too—but only a flash—and then the flames would turn silver as the gods began to sanitize and cleanse her soul, finally becoming silver-blue in the final act of restoration.
