Dragon's Mate: A DragonFate Novel (The DragonFate Novels Book 4)

by Deborah Cooke

  It certainly made her shudder.

  Yet she wasn’t afraid of him. She admired his muscled strength as he worked, and thought about his seductive combination of power and tenderness. He could have killed her more than once on this day, but he hadn’t even tried.

  He’d given her pleasure instead. He’d tried to convince her to let him live just a little longer. That was different. The recollection of his touch warmed Rania a little. She retreated so that the glow of the firestorm was more faint—and more easily ignored—and watched the light of the forge through that window.

  When it was extinguished, she’d make her move.

  She walked a bit in the forest, to keep herself warm, and found a clearing not far from the lair. It was close enough that it had to be part of Hadrian’s property, but it seemed secluded, even private. In the middle of the clearing were two pieces of metal. Rania eased closer for a better look. They were about two feet high, like markers. There was a heart at the top of each one, a heart on a post that went into the ground. They were slightly different and she had the sense that one was older than the other. Why were they there? What did they mark?

  Was she standing on a Pyr grave?

  That idea made Rania retreat from the clearing, a shiver running down her spine. She returned to the spot where she could see the light from the window of the studio.

  Would she be able to find her knife in Hadrian’s lair? Would she have time? It would be a shame to lose such a good specimen from her collection, but she had to keep her eye on the prize.

  Her prey couldn’t fall asleep soon enough.

  Hadrian was aware of the burn of the firestorm, how it increased and decreased. He knew that his mate was vigilant but keeping her distance. She had to know that the light would warn him of her presence. As the hours passed, he suspected that his theory had been right: she would attack when he was out cold and unable to defend himself quickly.

  The danger was that he might actually fall asleep. He’d been tired on arriving home and was becoming exhausted after the hours of work in his studio.

  He was enjoying the challenge of the gloves, though. Hadrian knew that Quinn had created each blade for Donovan’s gloves individually—in fact, the Smith had crafted each section of each talon before hinging them all together. The gloves were a testament to Quinn’s skill as a craftsman, but Hadrian knew it would take the two of them precious months to replicate enough pairs of gloves for all the Pyr by Quinn’s method.

  Every moment counted, so Hadrian had turned to more industrial methods of knife-making. He routinely made knives for historical re-enactors by this method, as he could sell them more cheaply than a purely artisanal blade. He’d chosen stock steel from his inventory, picking an alloy that would be harder and hold its edge longer over one that was less likely to corrode. The battle against the Fae was now: he wasn’t going to worry as much about rust compromising these gloves over time.

  Hadrian had made a template for the blade on each finger, copying Quinn’s work, then cut the profiles of the blades from the stock with his laser cutter. He’d been able to cut many in rapid succession this way. He’d made a series of jigs, one for each of the five blades, to cut the bevel with precision.

  He’d then put the blades into a furnace to harden at more than sixteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit for several hours, working in batches. This took the steel to its maximum hardness, but also made it brittle. Once hardened, the blades were plunged into water to quench. He left them there until he’d hardened all of the blades he’d cut, then began to anneal them, which meant heating them at a lower temperature than the first time for several hours each in order to make the steel more durable. Again, they were cooled afterward. He checked them repeatedly, pleased with their color which revealed how well the tempering had been done.

  For the next stage, he’d have to flatten and tension each blade individually, then finally they could be sharpened. He still had to cut and temper the other pieces to hinge the talons across the back of the glove, then assemble each glove, but the blades were the more challenging element. They had to be right, and Hadrian had done them first in case he had to start over. He was pleased with his progress and surprised by how much time had passed. The darkness was complete outside the studio. There was still another batch being annealed, but he was worn out. He photographed everything, stored the images in the cloud and sent the link to Quinn, hoping he might inspire the Smith to try something new.

  Then Hadrian yawned, feeling exhausted to his marrow.

  That was the moment of weakness his mate awaited.

  What if he pretended to be asleep? If she struck immediately, he might have a chance to fight back. If he could lure her closer while he was awake, he might survive to surprise her again.

  It was past midnight and Hadrian knew that both Alasdair and Balthasar were asleep already. He could hear the steady echo of their breathing in the lair. He considered the studio and made a few changes. He cleared more space, so he could shift if he needed to do so. He let the fire in the forge die down until the coals emitted just a faint glow. The forge had been hot for so long that it continued to radiate a welcome heat and would do so for a while.

  He could feel the silence of the forest that surrounded his home and the faint trickle of the river. He was sure he could feel his mate watching, too.

  He placed her knife on a table in front of the forge. It glinted there, the only thing on the table and the only thing reflecting the firelight, and Hadrian hoped it provided a distraction. It was a lure and he hoped she went for it.

  Then he pulled up a chair that he loved and sank into it with a sigh. The Arts & Crafts armchair was made of oak, with broad armrests and leather upholstery on the seat and back. He liked the patina on the wood and how smooth it felt beneath his hands. There was a second one in his lair that was a rocking chair.

  Hadrian leaned back and closed his eyes so that they were just slits. He was facing the table with the knife and felt the forge’s heat wash over him. He slowed his pulse and his breathing, almost entering a meditative state, but still remaining alert and watchful. He’d been taught by Alasdair’s father, Boreus, to do this. It was a means of conserving energy while guarding a prize. Boreus had called it ‘banking the fire’ and Hadrian had always been good at it. The idea was to become as still as possible but always be ready to strike.

  The challenge when he was so tired was to keep from dozing off. Hadrian hoped his mate was decisive and arrived soon.

  They were all asleep.

  Rania listened and when she was certain that the Pyr were out cold, she manifested inside Hadrian’s studio.

  In the blink of an eye, she surveyed the entire space, verifying her assumptions. Hadrian was alone and asleep in a chair, facing the forge, his feet up on a table. His breathing was deep and regular, and there was no tension in his body at all. Rania was good at assessing such things and most creatures did a poor job of hiding or controlling their bodies’ rhythms.

  Convinced that Hadrian wasn’t going to trick her this time, Rania relaxed slightly.

  She guessed that he hadn’t slept in a while to have crashed so hard. He hadn’t even noticed that the white light of the firestorm burned brighter with her proximity. She glanced over his workshop, intending to choose a weapon from among his tools just for irony, and spotted her knife.

  The bichuwa was on the table beside his feet. She stared at it, immediately distrusting that it was so readily available.

  But Hadrian was a blacksmith. It would make sense for him to have an interest in weapons. Maybe he had been studying it before he dozed off. There was a pair of gloves on the anvil near the forge, and something shone beneath them. There must have been a blade there, but Rania reached for her own bichuwa.

  She couldn’t deny the temptation of following her original plan.

  It was only after she took a step toward the dagger that she realized her mistake. She’d turned her back on Hadrian. In the instant that she could have corrected
her pose, the shimmer of blue light warned her that he was shifting shape.

  He’d never been asleep at all.

  She snatched for the bichuwa, but a dragon claw roared past her and closed over it first. She spun to find Hadrian filling the studio in his glorious dragon form. His scales shone emerald and silver, and the firelight made him look like a mythical creature. He was watching her, tossing the blade from one claw to the other, like a magician tempting her to grab for it. The daring light in his eyes gave her a desperate urge to surprise him.

  “Go on, disappear and try to get me later,” he taunted, revealing his expectation.

  “I’d rather finish this now,” Rania replied. She seized the leather gloves, hoping to grab the blade that shone beneath them. Instead she discovered that there were four blades attached to the fingers. She had no chance to tug on the gloves, though, because Hadrian tackled her for them.

  “No those!” he said.

  They tussled over them, falling to the floor, until he was on top of her, his eyes flashing and tail lashing. She hooked her ankle beneath a chair and jerked it toward them so its weight fell on his back.

  It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but it surprised him so that she could shift shape and slither from his grasp.

  Hadrian won the gloves, though.

  He roared as she retreated, back in her human form, and his eyes flashed fire. He swung his tail, sliding it across the floor so that Rania had to jump to avoid being knocked off her feet. She tumbled in a cartwheel, shifted shape in mid-air and took flight. He tossed her blade in the air, taunting her again, and this time she took his dare.

  She dove toward her knife and snatched at it in mid-air with her beak. Hadrian moved faster though, his dragon claw descending to grab the dagger before her very eyes. At the same time, his wing swept along behind her. He created a current that flung her toward the far end of the studio, the end where he stored raw steel. Rania resented her smaller size then, because she hated being defeated by brute force. The smell of the steel made her shudder, but it also built her resolve. She was flung through a cluster of cobwebs before regaining control of her flight, then pivoted and charged back toward him.

  This time, she’d finish him.

  There was a telltale shimmer of blue, and Hadrian stood before the forge in his human form. His arms were folded across his chest, and there was both a smile on his lips and a challenging glint in his green eyes.

  There was no sign of her bichuwa.

  Rania flew straight at him, but he didn’t even flinch. He held her gaze, clearly expecting that she’d shift in the last instant. She did and landed before him on the balls of her feet, hating that she felt predictable.

  He grinned. “Nice,” he said with admiration.

  Hadrian was officially irritating, interesting, and the sexiest male she’d ever met. He might also have been the best opponent she’d ever battled and the most wily target.

  “Where is it?” she demanded as the firestorm blazed white between them. The last thing Rania needed to feel in this moment was desire, but lust burned through her veins to her toes anyway, making her yearn to caress him instead of kill him.

  Maybe she could kiss him one last time.

  She knew he’d make it worth her while.

  “That was really smooth,” Hadrian said, ducking the question.

  “I don’t care about your compliments,” Rania replied, feeling cross as well as flattered—and aroused, too. He surveyed her with such obvious appreciation that her instinct was to preen.

  “Why not those gloves?”

  He smiled. “They’re a tool against the Fae. I’m trying to replicate them, and need the originals as a model.”

  Rania was confused by a scheme that made no strategic sense to her. “But they only fit in your human form. Don’t you fight better as a dragon?”

  He laughed with that confidence. “We can take them through the shift, and augment our talons with steel blades.”

  That was amazing, but she averted her gaze so he couldn’t see how impressed she was. “Where’s the bichuwa?” she asked again.

  “Safe,” he said with a maddening smile, then turned to the forge. He turned his back on her with ridiculous and unjustified confidence, moving with a leisure that the situation didn’t deserve. He stoked up the fire as she watched, and the light of the firestorm brightened as well. Rania could barely think straight with her impressions of Hadrian crowding her mind, and the need to touch him was almost overwhelming—never mind the wish that he would touch her again. It was impossible to keep from noting the flex of his muscles as he worked, or the audacity he had in turning his back upon her.

  He was cocky. He knew she’d come to kill him and had to recognize that she didn’t need her knife. She could kill him with her bare hands if she wanted to. There was a way to strike from behind, to snap the victim’s neck, and leave him to a slow death.

  Rania didn’t do it, though, so maybe his confidence was justified.

  She looked and yearned instead.

  “I know you could kill me, right where I stand,” Hadrian said easily, without looking back. “But I want to suggest that we make a deal.”

  “Why should I make a deal with you?”

  “Because you want your knife back, of course.” He cast her a glance and a smile that shook her to her toes. He nodded at the red string on her wrist. “I know she can compel anyone to act against their own will. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  It was more than she might have given him and Rania knew it. One question seemed harmless enough. “Why were you cursed?”

  “Because I willingly entered Fae, with Alasdair and two other Pyr, Rhys and Kristofer. She took us captive and—” he grimaced “—Alasdair and I had to dance.”

  Rania felt a twinge of sympathy. She’d seen those victims forced to dance until it killed them. Their feet bled and they begged for mercy but the merry music never stopped.

  Until they did, forever.

  It was a punishment for a crime, though. They earned their sentence by charging into Fae uninvited. They were invaders. Maeve had to defend her domain and her people. The familiar justification flooded into her thoughts, even though it sounded a little less plausible when she knew the one who had earned the punishment.

  Rania deliberately spoke with a harsh tone, refusing to feel sympathy for him or acknowledge any common ground. “You should be dead twice over then.”

  Hadrian’s chuckle was unexpected. “Maybe I live a charmed life.”

  “You must.”

  He’d turned and was studying her, still smiling himself. The fire from the forge cast his powerful form in silhouette and the light of this firestorm illuminated his face. She saw a twinkle light in his eyes and wished they’d met under different circumstances.

  That was crazy. There were no different circumstances, and there never would be.

  “Are you going to tell me that the third time’s the charm?” He seemed to be amused by the possibility, not as fearful as he should have been.

  The studio seemed much too small. Rania was raging with desire again, remembering the feel of his hands on her skin and the sure touch of his caress. She was thinking of the way he’d pleasured her and the way he kissed and found herself wanting another taste.

  Instead, she shook her head and put out her hand. “Give me my knife and we can find out.”

  Hadrian laughed. “Not a chance.” His eyes narrowed as he surveyed her. “You haven’t disappeared yet. Maybe you’re changing your mind about killing me.”

  “Why would I do that?” Rania scoffed, knowing she should have cut him down already.

  Would she be able to make the final strike? There was something intriguing about this dragon shifter, maybe the fact that he challenged her expectations and wasn’t afraid of her.

  She liked him. That was as startling as it was troubling.

  “Maybe you like me too much to kill me,” Hadrian suggested, as if he’d read her thoughts—again.<
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  This time, Rania laughed although the sound was forced. “Maybe I just want my knife back.”

  “Why that one?”

  “Once I choose a knife, I like to use it.”

  “Superstitious?”

  “Following through on plans.”

  He nodded. “You picked it because of the dragon?”

  “It seemed like a good augury.”

  “I’ve never seen such an ornate bichuwa.”

  She was surprised that he knew the name of it and by the admiration in his tone. “It was made in India in the seventeenth century. It’s from Thanjavur.” Once again, she was talking too much.

  “Formerly Tanjore,” he said. “I wondered.” His quick glance was piercing. “You collect knives?”

  Rania nodded.

  “I guess you always need one.”

  “Not usually with the kiss of death, and not after tonight anyway.”

  He chuckled. “Who inherits your collection?”

  “No one. I’m not going to die.”

  “Ever?” His gaze was piercing.

  Rania shook her head.

  “Is that a swan maiden thing or your thing?”

  “It’s a Fae thing.”

  He frowned and surveyed her, his gaze lingering on the lump of the ring beneath her shirt. “But you’re not Fae. Are you?”

  Rania had no intention of explaining the details of her deal to him. He’d just argue with her. She extended her hand.

  “Let’s make a deal instead,” he said easily, leaning against the table. “Give me a day and a night to satisfy the firestorm, then I’ll give your knife back. What do you say?”

  “Sex doesn’t take that long.”

  His grin was wicked. “Is that a challenge?”

  Rania shook her head. “I want to finish this now.”

  “You didn’t complete twelve assassinations overnight. What’s another day?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes,” she countered and he laughed.

  “Not a chance. I’ve waited two hundred years for the firestorm. I intend to savor it.”