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

by Deborah Cooke

  “What do you want?” Hadrian asked. “What’s the one thing you want more than anything in the world?”

  “Why would you care?”

  “Because you’re my mate, and that means I’ll do whatever is necessary to fulfill your dreams.”

  She shook her head. “That’s a lie. You’re not dying very easily and that’s what will fulfill my assignment.”

  “Can you blame me?” he asked with a grin.

  She laughed then and he was surprised again by how pretty she was. “No, actually, I can’t. I respect that you want to live, and that you’re willing to talk or fight, whatever it takes. It doesn’t matter though. You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

  “True,” Hadrian said, not believing any such thing. “Look at this, though.” He showed her the prophecy on his phone. She considered him, then came to stand beside him and read it.

  “So now you’re making up stories about us,” she said, flicking an upward glance at him through her lashes. “Poems even.”

  “Not me.”

  “You have to know by now that I’m not much for romance.”

  “That’s not what this is about. This is the prophecy associated with our firestorm. It means the firestorm is real and that you are my destined mate. It’s a Pyr thing.”

  She read it again, more slowly this time, and he was glad that she was curious. “Where’d you get it?”

  “From Sara, the Seer of the Pyr. She’s the destined mate of Quinn.”

  “The Smith.”

  “She just sent it to me while you were gone.”

  “Where did she get it?”

  Hadrian shrugged. “She just hears them. She’s going to send me a book, too, one called The Swan Maiden.”

  “Too bad you won’t have time to read it,” his mate said, lifting the blade.

  “Can I see the kesir?”

  She gave him a pitying look. “You think I’ll just hand it to you, after what you did with my other two knives? After you show me a poem that says I’m a lost soul and that you can save me? I don’t need to be saved, Hadrian. I have a job to do and I need to get it done.”

  “So, that’s a hard no on the kesir.”

  She rolled her eyes, exasperated with him but humoring him.

  “It was worth a try,” he said. “I’ve never had the chance to really look at one. Does it really have an essence of its own?”

  She shook her head. “Close your eyes. It’s time.”

  “How about one last kiss?”

  “Another final wish? How many of those do you get?”

  “As many as I can negotiate.” He grinned again and once more she laughed.

  “Relentless. Incorrigible. Stubborn.” She walked around the end of the table, stalking him from the other side. It was probably a better angle for a strike. Her eyes gleamed with intent and the kesir blade caught the light of the firestorm. Hadrian held his ground, knowing that if the sight of his mate closing fast was the last thing he ever saw, it would be all right.

  She stopped right in front of him, her gaze running over his face. The firestorm burned and crackled, its radiance so white that it was blinding. Its insistence made his toes curl and his breath catch—when he felt his heart match its pace to his, Hadrian couldn’t complain about his situation. He looked at her mouth, so soft and red, and watched her lips part.

  “Irresistible,” she whispered, as if reluctant to make the concession. Then she swore under her breath and reached for him, sliding her free hand into his hair and pulling his head down. “Just one last time,” she murmured and his heart skipped a beat.

  This time, she kissed him and it wasn’t a shy or tentative embrace. Her kiss was demanding and thrilling, as if she wanted to pick up right where they’d left off. Hadrian was more than ready to do that. He locked his hands around her waist and lifted her to the work table, then stepped between her thighs.

  She wrapped her legs around him and he heard the kesir clatter to the wood table top. He claimed it and hid it away, never breaking their embrace. She didn’t seem to notice. She was feasting upon him, demanding all he had to give, and Hadrian was going to make this last kiss worth remembering. Her fingers gripped his head, she opened her mouth to his embrace, and he could feel the heat of her even through their clothes.

  When she started to roll her hips, he could barely stand it. He groaned and would have stripped them both naked to finish what they’d begun before, but in that very moment, Alasdair roared from the lair.

  “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  Unfortunately, Hadrian knew exactly who his cousin meant. The firestorm—and his enticing mate—would have to wait.

  Hadrian wasn’t the only one who should get a last wish, in Rania’s opinion.

  And he wasn’t the only one disappointed by the interruption.

  She heard a roar like a freight train and guessed what it was. “Was that old-speak?” she asked, spinning to scan the studio. That the call was urgent was obvious by Hadrian’s quick response.

  “Yes. Alasdair is warning us that the Fae are coming.”

  Us?

  Why would she be concerned that the Fae were coming? They were her allies.

  Unless Maeve was checking up on her.

  Hadrian was obviously looking for something in the studio, even as he shimmered blue on the cusp of change. He pushed through the tools on his work table, swearing under his breath.

  The gloves. He was looking for the gloves. She’d been right about their importance.

  He found them finally and tugged them on, their blades shining wickedly. Did he really need them to defend himself? After all, he could become a dragon.

  And he did, right before her eyes, shifting shape in a brilliant shimmer of blue. The blades on the gloves followed him through the change and became steel extensions of his talons. Even though she’d expected as much, she was amazed to witness it

  Then she reached back for her kesir, only to discover that it was gone.

  “You!” she said and Hadrian’s eyes glinted.

  “Me. I’m building the best collection.” That dragon smile was as surprising and attractive as the first time she’d seen it.

  To her astonishment, he reached beneath his scales and retrieved the bichuwa, then tossed it toward her. Rania barely caught it, she was so surprised that he would surrender it.

  “Stay safe,” he said, sobering as he looked toward the door of the studio. He swore then looked back. Even in dragon form, his gaze was filled with concern. “You should use that disappearing act of yours to get out of here. They’re not coming to party.”

  Rania was startled. No one was ever worried about her welfare, especially her intended victims. “I’m not afraid of the Fae.”

  “You should be.”

  She brandished the bichuwa. “You should be afraid of me.”

  “Looks like you’re missing your chance,” he noted as there was a cry from the main lair. Then he winked. “I’m getting the impression you like me better alive,” he teased with that sexy confidence. The sound of fighting carried to her ears as he darted toward the door. “Go!” he commanded then joined the battle.

  Alone in the studio, Rania looked down at the bichuwa, amazed that she held it. Hadrian had returned it so she could defend herself. She couldn’t make sense of his choice, much less the surge of pleasure she felt in response.

  If the Fae had come for his gloves, she didn’t need to watch.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  She wasn’t going to help, not either side, when she felt so jumbled up.

  Rania held fast to the bichuwa, then manifested in the forest, upstream of Hadrian’s lair. She was breathing quickly and felt torn—this dragon shifter had the ability to confuse her and turn her expectations upside down. She’d confided in him so much.

  Maybe she was lonely.

  His decision to surrender the bichuwa was the kind of daring move that was perfectly typical of the dragon shifter she was coming to know. D
id he just want her to survive for the sake of the firestorm? He couldn’t seriously believe that she’d bear his son, could he? He was nothing if not optimistic.

  How could he trust her not to take advantage of the opportunity? It was that confidence of his. He thought he was irresistible.

  The thing was Rania did find this dragon shifter hard to resist.

  She couldn’t stay away from the battle. She had to know what was happening.

  And it wasn’t because she thought there might be an opportunity to strike Hadrian down in the confusion of the attack.

  But Rania wasn’t ready to admit that, even to herself.

  Rania manifested closer to Hadrian’s converted mill. She decided to approach from the river, since the windows were there and no one would expect company from that side. She took her human form again and gripped the bichuwa, thinking that her dark clothes were less visible than her white feathers.

  She could hear the sounds of fighting and crept steadily closer to the big windows, moving from rock to rock in the stream. She heard a triumphant shout, then saw a flash of silver light. There was a blaze of dragonfire, then more silver lightning. Rania reached the window and peeked in, uncertain what to expect. Hadrian was in his human form in the main room of his lair, still wearing the gloves. The talons shone with menace and she saw that one was stained with blood. He was pumped and alert, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet and braced for attack.

  The two other Pyr were there, too. The one who looked most like him, just a bit older and stockier, was beside him, both of them staring down at something on the floor. Hadrian had a line of blood on his cheek. His hair was disheveled but he looked uninjured other than his face.

  There was also a dragon of citrine and gold, a sleek and sinuous dragon that nearly filled the space, flicking his tail and looking dangerous as smoke rose from his nostrils. His eyes glittered dangerously as he scanned the lair. He then shimmered blue, and she saw that in his alternate form, he was the Pyr with the man-bun. Which one was Alasdair? The one who had just shifted went to stand beside the others and looked down with them.

  What was on the floor? She could see that the Fae were gone.

  The light of the firestorm must have alerted Hadrian to her presence, because he looked up and sought her, then gave her a thumbs-up when their gazes met. He beckoned to her.

  Rania manifested in the main room beside him, visibly startling the other two Pyr.

  “I got two of them,” Hadrian informed her with pride, then gestured to a shining puddle on the floor. It could have been liquid silver or mercury, because it was thicker than blood or water. Its diameter was already diminishing in size and there was a weapon in the middle of it.

  Rania wasn’t sure what to think of that. She felt jumbled up inside, her heart tugged with an unfamiliar mix of sympathy for the fallen warriors and an understanding of Hadrian’s jubilation. Where were her alliances in this battle? They should be with the Fae, but she didn’t like Hadrian being assaulted.

  Not just because he was supposed to be her kill, either.

  She’d never felt so much emotion or uncertainty before. It was as unsettling as the firestorm was seductive.

  “They really attacked?” she asked, crouching down beside the puddle. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a Fae die. Had he melted completely?

  “Of course they attacked,” the one with the man-bun said with impatience. “They’ve sworn to slaughter all shifters, at the Dark Queen’s command. It’s only a matter of time before we’re all hunted down.”

  “Unless we do some hunting first,” Hadrian said with resolve. Rania watched him crouch down to study the sword in the puddle. The silver liquid was disappearing quickly from around and over it. “How about one of these for your collection?” he murmured with a quick sidelong glance, apparently not expecting a reply.

  Rania shouldn’t have replied. She should have seized the opportunity of his inattention and taken the clean strike at his throat with the bichuwa. She was close and her blow unobstructed. Hadrian was so interested in the blade that he wasn’t even looking at her. The other two Pyr were similarly distracted.

  But she was curious again. She didn’t have a Fae blade in her collection. Maeve managed them very closely, since weapons were always in short supply in a realm with no ability to work metal. This particular one was a gorgeous intricately-carved blade, obviously the possession of a senior and elite warrior.

  She wondered whether it was someone she knew. The truth was that she’d only met a few of the Fae: they avoided her because she was still one of the Others. That would all change when her wager with Maeve was complete. She refused to acknowledge a niggle of doubt that all would go as expected. Hadrian wanted her to doubt Maeve, because that was a better strategic choice for his own survival. It didn’t mean he was right.

  Why had the Fae attacked, though? Was it her fault for telling Maeve about the gloves? If they’d come for the gloves, though, they’d failed: Hadrian was still wearing the original pair and they hadn’t even ventured into his studio.

  Maybe they hadn’t expected the Pyr to defend themselves so well.

  Maybe surprise had been on the Pyr side.

  “You got someone important,” she said, instead of sharing the jumble of her thoughts.

  “How do you know?” Hadrian asked.

  “This blade is highly ornamented and must be rare.” Rania indicated the Celtic knotwork on the hilt and the gem in the pommel. It looked like a star sapphire. There were inscriptions on the blade, too, although she couldn’t read them. “The Dark Queen claims all of the weapons and awards them to her warriors for service and valor.”

  “The bigger the blade, the more important the fighter?” Hadrian asked.

  “Pretty much,” Rania agreed. “He must have been senior and trusted.” She was thinking, as well, that Maeve would be very unhappy at the loss of a powerful warrior, never mind the loss of the blade. She glanced around, halfway expecting the Fae to slice between realms immediately to regain the sword.

  “Are those charms?” the Pyr who looked most like Hadrian asked, pointing to the marks on the blade.

  “Probably,” Hadrian said, then glanced at Rania for confirmation.

  She nodded agreement. “In most societies, weapons are inscribed with spells to protect the bearer and make his or her aim more true. The Fae are no different.”

  “Even though they can’t do the work themselves,” Hadrian noted.

  “Didn’t work this time,” the Pyr with the man-bun said, obviously watching her.

  “No.” Rania stood and looked around, listening as she scanned the lair.

  “You think they’ll come after it,” Hadrian guessed.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” she admitted. “Because they don’t forge weapons themselves, the Dark Queen doesn’t like to lose a blade.”

  “Never mind the question of vengeance,” the other Pyr said grimly.

  “There is that.”

  “The other sword might have been more important.” Hadrian pointed to a second puddle, which was rapidly evaporating. It was as if the essence of the fallen Fae had to return to their own realm. “The one who escaped back through the portal took that one’s weapon with him.” He frowned. “I barely got a glimpse of it.”

  “Me, neither,” said the other two Pyr simultaneously.

  “It’s a good thing you weren’t here,” Hadrian said to Rania, his gaze filled with warmth, and she was surprised.

  “You’re right. Another one on their side might have influenced the result.” She smiled at him and spun her bichuwa. “You might not have fared so well. Is that why you sent me away?”

  “You know it wasn’t,” Hadrian replied with a smile.

  His friends looked alarmed.

  “Why such senior warriors?” Hadrian mused then flicked a glance her way, his gaze filled with questions. “Maybe they came for you.”

  Rania was startled. “The Dark Queen and I have a deal...”


  “And it wouldn’t be the first time she made sure she didn’t have to deliver her end of the bargain,” Hadrian said. “It’s a pretty good way to avoid a debt. Just take out the recipient.”

  Rania took a step back. “You’re wrong...”

  “Believe what you need to.” Hadrian straightened and turned to his friends. “Introductions are past due. This is Balthasar.”

  The dragon shifter with the man-bun inclined his head. His hair was dark and his eyes were blue. He was tall and more slender than the others, giving Rania the impression that he was young. She realized she had no way to guess the age of dragon shifters, or even any certainty of how long they lived. How old was Hadrian? He said he’d been waiting two hundred years for his firestorm. Did they wait their whole lives, or only after a certain period of time? She didn’t know: Melissa Smith hadn’t talked about that in the shows Rania had watched.

  Maybe they waited for a firestorm after they fell in love the first time. Rania didn’t know where that thought came from, much less the surge of jealousy that followed it, but she didn’t like either.

  She wasn’t going to care for this dragon shifter who would be her last victim.

  Enjoying his company and the view he offered, and even his kisses, wasn’t nearly the same as actually caring. The rationalization sounded thin even to her own ears.

  “And this is my cousin, Alasdair.” The Pyr who looked like a slightly older and stockier version of Hadrian nodded. He had the same wavy auburn hair and green eyes. Rania wondered whether the two of them had scales of the same color in dragon form.

  “And who do we have the pleasure of meeting?” Alasdair prompted.

  Hadrian looked interested, too.

  “My name doesn’t matter,” Rania said. “I won’t be here long.”

  “Prickly,” Alasdair said to Hadrian.

  He chuckled. “But she grows on you.” He gave her a warm smile. “I think the firestorm’s right and we’ll get along just fine.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. You’ll be dead and I’ll be Fae.”

  “That’s the persistent rumor,” he said lightly, as if unconcerned.