The Mating Season: Werewolves of Montana Book 6 (9 page)

Blinking, the dragon did not move. Anxiety filled her. Perhaps the dragon had bad news to share.

“Shift back to your human form so you may speak to me,” she directed.

The dragon did not.

Frustrated, she scowled. “Then do not remain silent! Tell me! Is Tristan hurt?”

Drust shook his head.

Sighing with relief, she pointed to the ground. “Go fetch him, and bring him to the chamber straight away. He will be hungry and thirsty. Go!”

The silver dragon stretched his wings and flew down to the ground. As she scurried to the turret, she peered over the side and saw the dragon lift into the air again, this time bearing a rider upon his back.

Tristan would not only be hungry and thirsty. He would be furious.

Nikita hurried through the castle until she reached a large chamber. The heavy wood door stood open to show a fire crackling in the hearth. The chamber was a bedroom. The same bedroom she’d visited each night.

Near the fireplace were two carved chairs and a wood table. Upon it were two large basins, one filled with water, and a stack of clean cloths. A trencher filled with fruit and a joint of beef were next to a goblet filled with ale. A bench was near the table.

She paid no heed to these pieces of furniture. Her interest remained in the massive bed covered with furs. The furs were to keep warm in the drafty castle, but she had him to heat her body from the inside out.

The dragon rider strode into the room in silence. Nikita stood near the bed, watching him. Standing over six feet, he was strong and handsome. His eyes were dark as night, and his black hair brushed against his shoulders.

The warrior crossed the room to the fireplace. He unbuckled his sword belt and then carefully set it upon the table. It remained in easy reach. Always the warrior, never allowing his weapon to be far from him. He could fight in Lupine form, but the Fae were clever, and riding Drust gave Tristan an advantage in a war filled with flying fairies and sprites.

He washed the dirt and grime off his face, then dried it with a clean cloth. Removing his shirt, stained with the blood of others, he turned to her, the strong muscles of his broad shoulders gleaming in the firelight.

“You finally returned home, for you won the battle,” she told him.

“I always win. Drust is a strong dragon, and one cannot defeat an army led by a dragon.”

“But you are his rider, and his warrior. You are their leader.”

A crooked smile touched his sensual mouth. “Your flattery will not distract me, my sweet.”

Her pulse skipped a beat at the look on his face. “Distract you? From what?”

“You disobeyed me,” he said softly in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

Nikita blinked. “Did I?”

Tristan took the cloth and dipped it into the warm basin of water. He began scrubbing the blood and dirt off his chest. Nikita sighed with relief, seeing he was not wounded. There were a few nicks and deep purple bruises, but nothing serious. As he scrubbed his armpits, he studied her.

“I told you to never show your face where the enemy can see you while I am gone.”

“Drust told you I was pacing the battlement.” She knew the dragon would, for the shifter confided in Tristan.

“He worries about your safety much as I do.”

Quivering with sensual anticipation, she watched him wash his arms, the cloth stroking over strong muscle and sinew. So handsome and virile, this man of hers.

“And I told you, I cannot cease worrying and watching for you while you are gone.”

Next, he sat on the bench near the table and removed his boots and stockings, and then he stripped until he was nude. He washed his thighs, belly and buttocks, running the cloth slowly over his skin.

He gave her an intent look as he washed his genitals. His other weapon, which had slain her with such pleasure after their first joining.

Throwing aside the cloth, he turned to her. “You are stubborn, wench.”

Nikita smiled. “One who is wearing too much clothing.”

“Take it off.” His voice was soft and steely, but passion fired his eyes.

“Are you not hungry?”

“Aye. Hungry for you.”

The heat of battle fired his blood, and he needed her. She would be his second conquest this day, but a willing one.

Slowly, she shrugged out of the gown, letting it puddle at her feet. Nikita removed her shoes, underclothing, and stockings. He watched, his dark gaze intent. From a thick nest of black hair at his groin, his sex swelled.

He was a powerful man, a warrior who killed, but he would not hurt her. She knew this. Even when his lovemaking grew fierce and rough, he never hurt her, for he had made a promise.

She lay back on the bed, her arms open wide, her legs splayed in invitation. His gaze darkened as he stared between her thighs.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “Pink as a rose, wet with dew.”

Placing a knee on the bed, he kissed his forefinger, then pressed his finger to her cheek. Nikita smiled as memory stirred. Upon their first meeting, he had made the gesture, a symbol of his feelings from the start. It was his first gesture to her before they made love, and his last when he left her to fight yet again.

With a soft growl, he lay upon the furs and took her into his arms, capturing her mouth with his own. He forced his tongue past her lips, and she trembled beneath the insistent pressure of his kiss. Though she had been a virgin before he claimed her, she knew how to please him and teased his tongue with light flicks, enjoying his groan and the way he quivered in her arms. Niki kissed him back with equal fervor, glorying in the feel of his damp, hard flesh pressing her against the furs.

Too long they had been parted.

He tore his mouth away and feathered light kisses down her neck, licking her earlobe. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, working down to her left breast. Her warrior licked the cresting nipple and a bolt of lightning shot between her trembling thighs. Nikita moaned as he suckled her, his fingers drifting between her legs. The gentle strokes made fire come there, and she writhed with pleasure.

She needed him inside her, now.

He raised up and looked at her, his gaze smoldering. “It was a hard battle, well fought, and my blood fever is up. My need of you is so fierce, I cannot be gentle.”

In answer she spread her thighs wide. “Take me.”

With a low growl, he parted her slick folds with trembling fingers and then positioned his sex at her soaked entrance. Nikita shivered with excitement. Snarling, he thrust deep inside her. She gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. Always, the first time he entered her he met with resistance, as if she resented the intruder who claimed her body, her heart. And then her female flesh grew soft and welcoming, and eager to receive him.

Going still, he looked down at her, expression filled with concern. “Am I hurting you?”

“Never.” She writhed beneath him. “But I shall hurt you if you delay any longer.”

The smile upon his face was filled with satisfaction, and a gleam of mischief. Then his expression turned intent as he began to move, driving hard and fast inside her. She gripped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his hips, feeling his flesh slap wetly against hers. And then she felt the climax shimmer in her loins and Niki arched back and screamed as he took her.

Shouting, his head thrown back, the cords on his strong neck straining, he poured himself deep inside her body, claiming his victory.

They lay upon the furs in each other’s arms, as he stroked her hair. A feeling of deep unease mingled with the pleasure, and she shifted her weight, wincing at the soreness between her legs, and the discomfort of muscles she had not used for a while.

“You’re mine. No one else will ever have you.” His dark gaze was fierce, filled with passion.

“No one,” she whispered. “I’m yours, always.”

I love you.

The emotion was so intense, her chest hurt.

He took her into his arms and made love to her again, slower this time, and when she cried out her completion, he joined her, shouting her name as he pumped his seed deep inside her.

Afterward, Nikita drowsed on the furs, filled with contentment, refusing to examine the unease winking deep inside her, like a torch in the dark distance.

He smiled and placed a warm palm on her flat belly. “You are in heat and I believe we conceived our son today. We shall have our babe at last, my love, the babe you have longed for, the son who shall carry on my legacy.”

A babe of her own. A child, created in love. Her lover was strong and virile. It had not taken long for him to impregnate her. She already could feel her womb quicken with tiny, new life.

He leaned over her, and rubbed a thumb over her still crested nipple. “I can see you now, your belly big with our child, and then suckling our son. He will be a fine, strong lad.”

Niki laughed and playfully swatted his hand. “You forget I must give birth first. I have heard that is less than pleasant.” She smiled, though dread filled her as she recalled the whispers of the midwives in the castle. “Some women have died birthing their firstborns.”

The passion faded from his gaze, replaced with intensity. “I will never allow anything to happen to you, my sweet. Even if I must leave you, you will be safe. You are my heart and my soul, and I would die without you.”

“Don’t you dare ever leave me.” She reached out for him, her lover, her life, the one who came to her every night, who claimed her body and her heart.

And then as he reached for her, the tenderness in his expression turned to sharp panic. Something grabbed him from behind, something with sharp and wicked claws. He screamed in pain and fought, but the unseen thing kept dragging him, hurting him…

This time, the dream did not turn to mist. She could see clearly.

His face bloodied, wearing his customary black tunic, and leggings, her mate stood on a wood platform. One eye was swollen shut from beatings. They had poured salt into his wounds, the bastards, to ensure he would keep bleeding and would not heal. The black-clad executioner flanked Tristan on bloodied platform.

A tall man with long silvery-blond hair sat on a throne behind Tristan. He was dressed in blue robes, his cold eyes green as glass. He tapped the armrest of the throne.

“I give you one last chance to confess, Tristan Kearney. Tell us where the dragon eggs lie and you will be set free.”

Nikita broke through the crowd and reached the platform, her fingers reaching up to touch his. Chains rattled as Tristan stretched out his hand to her.

“Tell them, my love,” she begged. “Tell King Emer what he wishes, and return to us. I need you. We,” she put a hand on her bulging belly, “need you. Must your son grow up without a father?”

“I love you,” he whispered, reaching out a hand to her. “I shall love you through eternity, Nikita. Heaven and hell may never separate us. Stay strong for the sake of our son.”

“Tristan, please…confess. Do not forsake me or your child! Beg mercy from Emer and he will grant it. Stay with me.”

Tristan closed his eyes and she felt his resolve, and his regret. “I cannot betray nor forsake our people, Nikita. After my death, they will rise and defeat the Fae.”

“And you would forsake me for a cause? I matter not to you?”

“Not true. I do this
for
you, for our child, so he may have a future as a free Lupine, and not be enslaved to Fae.”

“You do it to become a martyr,” she told him, bitterly. “What of the promise you made to me on our mating day?
I promise to put your welfare above all others
. Think of me, Tristan. How am I to live without you?”

“Think of the greater good, and what this means for our people.”

“The greater good?! What about me? Our child? Our life together?”
She stared in stunned disbelief as Emer’s men dragged her backward, away from her mate, her love, her life. He cared not for her, only for the great, almighty cause.

She begged him with her eyes, but he turned from her.

“Tristan? One last chance. Do you confess?” the king called out.

Tristan raised his head and faced Emer, his chains rattling. “Never. Our people will win this war, and be free of your tyranny, Emer. All shifters deserve to live in freedom, not enslaved to Fae.”

The king’s mouth curved into a cruel smile. “Very well.” He signaled the executioner.

They chained Tristan to the poles and stretched out his arms, forcing him to face the jeering crowd of taunting Fae.

And then the black-robed executioner stepped to a wood table covered with a cloth. He pulled back the cloth, revealing a row of sharp instruments. The man selected a hook and approached.

Tristan paled.

The Fae executioner ripped open her mate’s tunic, exposing the taut muscles of his back. She remembered caressing those muscles as he moved inside her, smiling down upon her as they made love and created the babe inside her belly.

Sunlight gleamed upon the wicked curve of the hook as the executioner raised it again, and then slashed…and pulled…