Authors: Annette Blair

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General

Vampire Dragon (17 page)

BOOK: Vampire Dragon

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“I thought you were delusional.”

“You did not. Well, maybe you did. Let me look up ‘delusional’ and that word Vivica used before I left, though I can’t remember what it was. It had to do with my situation. Be . . . something . . . about my situation.”

“I’ll bet it wasn’t ‘indiscreet.’ ”

“No,” Darkwyn said. “Not that word.” He started to follow Bronte into her apartment, but she shut her door in his face, and her lock clicked. “I could break this down if I wanted to,” he shouted.

“Do and I’ll call the dragon police.”

He could push the door in with a finger, but he wouldn’t, out of respect for his heart mate.

Smart-mouthed heart mate.
Too bad he wanted her so bloody much.
Blood, all vamps drink is blood.
He supposed being a blood-thirsty dragon had been good preparation for vampirism.
Though dragons are nicer and more polite than vamps.

Darkwyn turned to the apartment door opposite Bronte’s, and for the first time, he stepped into the “home” she assigned him. The minute he did, he found himself whisked into some kind of rope trap, trussed up to hang by his wrists and ankles in his own doorway.

Zachary appeared in his living room and laughed like a boy should. Darkwyn almost didn’t mind being made the fool to hear it.

Bronte appeared in her doorway, crossed her arms, and tapped a foot at the two of them.

“Head rush, here,” Darkwyn said. He could be down in a blink on his own, but he liked Bronte’s attention.

“Cut him down,” Bronte said, shutting herself back in her apartment.

Zachary came at him with a knife.

Darkwyn sighed. “You mean for me to land on my head, don’t you?”

“Anybody ever say you’re a brilliant man?” Zachary asked. “I didn’t think so.”

“I’m paying a high price to make you laugh,” Darkwyn admitted.

The boy cut the rope, and Darkwyn hit the floor with a manly
thud
.

“That’s for last night,” Zachary snapped, then he, too, went into Bronte’s apartment and shut him out.

Darkwyn flexed his hands and ankles to get feeling back in them. Hardly any pain, hardly a blink from his inner dragon. He looked around. His apartment mirrored Bronte’s in almost every way, black and white, except that he had zebra stripes, an animal he’d read about. She’d thrown in some color with royal blue pillows.

Pleasant, if tepid, after the color on the Island of Stars.
Now he understood why Bastian and McKenna’s Dragon’s Lair bed-and-breakfast seemed so appealing. Bastian had recreated Island color in his wall murals.

Darkwyn stepped to his balcony to gauge its proximity to Bronte’s.
Perfect.
Only two windows separated them. He’d retained his dragon leap, though he hadn’t used it the night he arrived so as not to frighten Bronte.

Having Bastian and Jaydun come to earth before him kept him from committing the same mistakes they did. So far, he’d committed an entirely new set.

He’d tested his leap on the second day, getting to and from Bastian’s roof with his brothers. Test two, coming up, or down.

Yes, he could still leap, but farther than expected. He overshot Bronte’s balcony and hit the ground beyond it.
Scumduggers.

She rushed out to her balcony, still fastening her mask. “Anybody there?” she called, the room’s light showing through her nightgown. He fisted his hands at her clear silhouette, surprised at his soul-deep yearning.

He wanted Bronte for more than sex, which had been incredible, and would be again. But he also wanted Bronte to walk beside, to sit beside in daily life, to kiss after breakfast and before work, to turn to in sleep, to hold and cherish.

He watched her go inside, understood why she enjoyed the vampire movies, the underlying love stories, and wondered if he was good enough for her.

As her light went out, he leapt to her balcony.

She screamed and he switched on the light.

A beauty sitting in bed, scrambling to fasten her mask, angry enough to beat him senseless.

Zachary barged in and came right to the French doors where Darkwyn waited for an invite. “Dragonelli, again. You gonna make a habit of breaking into Bronte’s room?”

“I was invited the first time.”

Bronte slapped the covers. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t exactly call it an invite.”

“Maybe not with
words
.”

“Whatever,” she said, the fighting light in her eyes making him edgy on several levels. “Did you scale the building this time, too?”

“I didn’t need to. I’ve retained my dragon leap, which I did not use the first night, so as not to frighten you.”

“Zachary,” Bronte said, “take Mr. Dragonelli to his apartment, without tricks, if you please. There will be no more
leaping
between us.”

“Sad,” Darkwyn said. “I could leap my heart out with you.”

Bronte’s eyes got all big and needy, but she still let him go.

Back in his apartment, he figured if he couldn’t have Bronte, for now, he would indulge in another earth vice, a bubble bath, the secret enjoyment of which he would take to his grave. Not even the bird knew how much he loved bubble baths.

A short while later, settled in his bath, Darkwyn wished more than anything that Bronte could join him. He missed her. Not a week’s acquaintance, and his every heartbeat sought hers. Being heart mates must yield its own high-powered magick. Look at Bastian and McKenna, deep in love, and Jaydun and Vivica, deep in denial, but still.

Darkwyn fell near to sleep in the bath, until he heard a scurrying in the wall. He remembered few things of earth, but rodents were one of them. Roman armies slept in mud and dirt and if they were lucky, hay, with rodents.

As he put more hot water in his tub, the scurrying became a scrape, a groan, making him hope this rodent stood as tall as him.

Then it happened. His shelves of towels and bath supplies moved. At first, he wasn’t sure he’d seen it, until they moved another inch more.

“Hello?” He hoped his invader would answer.

A hand slid through the opening and waved with a five-finger wiggle and purple fingernails. “Are you decent?”

“Bronte, are you breaking into my apartment after you threw me out of yours?”

“Yes, please. I’m rather fond of leaping . . . with you. Are you decent?”

“Decent enough to leap.”

She squeezed into his bathroom from behind his shelves, certainly hiding a connecting door. He covered himself in suds and tried not to gasp, the way she stood there, uncertain, in a pink mask and floaty pink night wisp, through which he glimpsed her beauty, except, of course, her face.

“I will never tell another living soul that I am a former Roman warrior and dragon, if you promise, my leaping playmate, to keep my weakness for bubble baths a secret.”

“Who are you really, Darkwyn Dragonelli?” she asked, standing there, tantalizing him.

“Outwardly, I’m an alpha male, no matter my current species, wearing unseen scales and spikes like armor. Inside, I’m a dragon who naps in flower beds, likes bubble baths, and is looking for a lady dragon of my own. Deep down, despite the centuries, I’m a man, still, looking for a woman . . . to have sex with.”

“In flower beds?”

“I’d like that.”

“Let’s do. Soon.” She dropped the pink gown and stepped into the tub with him, a delightful surprise, though he’d be twice as excited if she’d removed her mask.

He made room, reached for her, and pulled her against him, so she could use his chest as a pillow. “Now, you will feel some festive gymnastics in the region of your lower back,” he warned. “Ignore it. It has good memories of last night and wants more.”

“Your man brain has a memory?”

“I fear so. Tell me why you were so upset about the truth of my past, tonight.”

“The truth? It’s science fiction.”

“Define—?”

“Hold that question, because I’m freaked. Darkwyn?”

“Yes.”

“I know we talked about dragons, so maybe it’s the power of suggestion or I’m hallucinating, but I think I see a little green dragon, his knees on my midriff and his face between my breasts, one little hand plumping the right one like a pillow.”

“Jagidy!” Darkwyn snapped, moving Bronte forward as he sat up, sliding Jagidy down her belly and into the water.

The guardian dragon came up sputtering rainbow smoke, coughing, and spitting water at them, then he hung in the air, furious and insulted, arms crossed.

“Jagidy, you do not invade a lady’s bath.”

“No, you don’t,” Bronte said, “you let the lady invade yours, where . . . she
imagines
sex-starved mini dragons?”

“Bronte, let me introduce you to Jagidy, my guardian dragon, also from the Island of Stars. Jagidy, this is Bronte, never again to be touched by
you
.”

Jagidy’s jaw dropped and he whistled as he shot from the bathroom into Darkwyn’s apartment, emitting a cloudy gray blue smoke.

Darkwyn reached, from the comfort of the water, to slam the bathroom door beside the tub, and bar the pocket dragon’s reentry. “Don’t mind him. He’s having a tantrum.”

Bronte turned in his arms. “You
are
from another world?”

“Another plane, sweet. But a man, again.”

“Oh,
that
I can tell. Do your sex parts never sleep?”

“Not when you’re around.”

TWENTY-THREE

Bronte turned in his arms so she could read his expres
sion . “Darkwyn, if you really do have the power of a dragon, what did you mean by promising to make my goal of freedom your own?” Her heart raced awaiting his response.

He settled her in his embrace so she could see his every expression.

Meanwhile, his growing sex managed to slide between her legs and settle there. She liked it, all of it, including his dragon boner, an organ already proven for hours of . . . otherworldly? . . . pleasure. Which made a certain sense. She didn’t think a man could normally come as often as Darkwyn had.

“Let me explain why you can trust me,” Darkwyn said. “One of my goals here on earth is to make your life quest my own. The other is to best an evil sorceress named Killian, Crone of Chaos. She’s the one who turned the Roman legion I belonged to into dragons. Following me so far?”

“More or less. Suspending disbelief is the problem.”

“What, guardian dragons are normal for you? Here,” he said, presenting his left hand, palm up. “What do you think of this?”

Bronte traced a tattoo that looked like two Rs back to back with a line between. “It looks like the symbol of a fraternal organization.”

“It does. It means I belonged to the Roman army. Killian, who uses lightning like confetti, turned us into dragons because we were trying to break her hold over a poor Scottish village.”

“When did you get this tattoo?”

“Centuries ago. This on my hand, and this phoenix rising from the ashes on my chest survived both transformations—from man to dragon, and back again.”

“The palm tattoo is unusual, but it doesn’t prove anything.”

“You suspend disbelief about me, and I will suspend it where Zachary is concerned.”

She let her relief, despite his keen observation, calm her. “Deal.”

“I am a Roman turned into a dragon, and now I am a man, again. Not a myth. I am here to stay, I think you should know. Both my tasks will help me reclaim the magick Andra expended sending me here.”

“Makes a magick sort of sense,” Bronte said. “But who is Andra?”

“The Sorceress of Hope. She kept us safe and took care of us after Killian banished us to the Island of Stars.”

“Why did Andra send you
here
?”

BOOK: Vampire Dragon

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