Windburn (Nightwing# 2)

In the Gladium Province, the boundaries between humans and Morgons, the dragon-hybrid race, continue to blur as a new generation surrenders to long-forbidden temptation…

Sorcha Linden does whatever she wants whenever she wants, and no one can stop her. Least of all a man. After all, they’re good for only one thing—warming her bed. But then she meets Lorian Nightwing, the son of a scandalous mixed marriage. Seductive and iron-willed, he is determined to melt her emotional defenses—and warm her rebellious heart.

The beast within Lorian longs to cage Sorcha and mark her as his own. Forever. Yet the man within also longs to protect her. When a stalker starts leaving Sorcha suggestive gifts with cryptic messages bearing an ancient blood cult symbol, Lorian’s dragon side takes over. With her life at stake, Sorcha can no longer deny the love they share. But when evil tracks her into the night, will she be too late to claim it?

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Nightwing Series

Soulfire, Book One

Windburn, Book Two

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

A Nightwing Novel

Juliette Cross

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

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Copyright © 2014 by Juliette Cross

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First Electronic Edition: February 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-569-1

eISBN-10: 1-61650-569-9

Printed in the United States of America

For Cheryl Freyou, the best friend a girl could have.

Once again, I must thank my amazing beta readers who helped me through the entire Nightwing series. Jessen, Julie, Rebekah, Rachel, Brooke, and Amber—love you ladies to pieces. I hope you’re ready for more. And to my editor, Corinne DeMaagd, I am certain that fate has tied us together. I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfect to guide and help me bring the Morgon world to new heights.

Yeah. I heard that fairytale when I was twelve years old. The one about the dragon king violating Princess Morga the night before her wedding, then forcing her to be his sex slave. Whatever. As soon as Mom finished telling me the story, I was like…

“Bullshit.”

“Sorcha! Don’t say that word. It’s so unladylike.”

“Mom, have you actually seen a Morgon guy up close?”

“Of course, darling. What does that have to do with anything?”

I wasn’t even out of training bras, and I knew better than my mother what kind of man could truly satisfy a woman.

“Seriously, Mom? Because they’re a giant, hot, hunk of man. He wouldn’t have to force me, that’s for damn sure.”

“Sorcha! Such language! If your father were here—”

“Well, he’s not. Is he?”

And that was the end of that conversation.

I used to imagine I was Princess Morga, bathing under the moonlight, a voluptuous temptation of soft curves and smooth skin. The dragon king would come, fall instantly in love with me and take me in his arms, then carry me away to his kingdom in the mountains. There, he would cherish me, protect me, and love me for all eternity.

Of course, girls grow up and fairytales fade
.

But even after years of disillusionment and disappointment, I never lost the dream of one day having my very own Morgon man. I kept this dream well-hidden, tucked away deep within my heart, always hoping it might one day come true.

Even in sleep, Morgon men were hot as hell.

I shimmied into my black, strapless dress, admiring the view of the nude man sprawled across the bed, face-down, gray wings splayed to the side. Mmm.

No time for gawking, I grabbed my heels and headed for the elevator. Thank God, he lived in one of the few Morgon buildings with human access. Otherwise, I’d have to wake him to fly me down to the parking lot ten stories below. Morgon-only buildings had one entrance and exit—out the balcony and over the edge.

I checked the time on my comm device as the elevator dinged on the garage floor. Twenty minutes.

“Fuck!”

Running in bare feet to my black coupe, I clicked open the trunk with the key remote. After dropping six-inch stilettos inside, I strapped on a low-heeled, conservative pair and slipped into a white, tailored jacket. Fastening the two buttons covered most of my cleavage. Most.

I jumped in the car and jammed it into gear, hauling my make-up bag into my lap. Between lights, I managed to make my face look decent and twist my unruly, dark red hair on top of my head, a few wispy tendrils hanging down. By some freaking miracle, I found a parking spot in the front of Nightwing Industries. Pulling open the glove compartment, I found my stash of jewelry and clasped on a strand of large, white pearls with matching earrings. I prepared for all occasions, carrying just about everything a modern woman might need in the trunk or glove compartment of my car.

“This’ll have to do.”

I caught a glimpse of my reflection as I stepped up to the mirrored building. Yep, totally professional. No one could tell I rolled out of a man’s bed thirty minutes ago.

The front desk receptionist, a dainty Morgon brunette with rust-red wings, sent me straight up to the 77th floor. My comm device read 8:01 as I slipped it into my handbag and pushed through the large double doors into the conference room.

Six pairs of eyes swiveled in my direction. Chin up, smile on, I sashayed toward an available seat next to the Morgon at the head of the table. His tiger eyes tracked me all the way across the room.

From my first glance of Lorian Nightwing, I had recognized the beast in him. His older brother, Lucius, now mated to my best friend, Jessen, reminded me of a lion. A languorous predator who waited for the prey to come closer. Not Lorian. His beast was a tiger—prowling, stalking, pacing. Watching from afar, then moving in for the kill before you even saw him. And his eyes—one hazel-gold, the other brilliant blue. The average person might piss his pants from their sheer intensity. Not me. I relished the challenge in his dominant gaze, making damn sure to never look away first.

At the moment, those eyes were fixed firmly on me. His body tightened when I sat. I scooted my chair in place, pretending to be oblivious to the effect my proximity had on him. I set my portfolio on the table.

“Good morning, everyone.” I’d only met the team on one other occasion, the day I was hired by Lorian’s father. They all smiled and nodded politely. Except for the man on my left, of course.

“You’re late, Ms. Linden.” A deep growl.

“Oh, I apologize. What did I miss in that whole minute?”

Willow, the meek interior designer on my right, gasped, her silver wings fluttering in a nervous gesture. Her assistant, Belka, sunk farther into her low-backed chair, her delicate sage-green wings flattening to her back. Lorian’s gaze burned. I smiled until he glanced down at his agenda, choosing to ignore my insolence. Or so I thought.

He was my boss as project manager, and I should probably have been more cautious. I knew he became tense around me. Rigid as a blade of iron, actually. Still, I couldn’t help myself, gaining some masochistic pleasure in taunting the tiger, waiting for him to pounce. Flirting with danger was my favorite pastime. One of them, anyway.

Lorian shifted in his seat. I sat, cross-legged, straight-backed, giving him my full attention in my most professional guise.

“You should all be familiar with the club’s design by now, but Fallon, if you please.”

Fallon Greyclaw, the gray-winged architect sitting across from me, pointed a remote at the comm screen behind Lorian. The skeleton blueprints of the first ever Morgon-human club popped up. In the Warwick District, there were Morgon clubs where humans were welcome, and vice versa, human bars where the races were mixing ever more frequently. At one time, Morgons stayed on their side of Gladium, and we stayed on ours. With the exception of professional comingling, the races remained segregated. If anyone was crossing over to have an affair or little tryst, no one knew about it. In recent years, the lines had begun to blur, especially ever since my best friend, Jessen, married Lucius Nightwing—both from high-profile, aristocratic families.

The club we were designing and building would be the first of its kind, the first to be designed from start to finish with both races in mind. Hence, the reason I was acting as marketing and design consultant to Nightwing Industries, and the only human in the room.

The blueprints revealed a castle-like structure twenty stories high—a mountain of spires, battlements, and parapets that coalesced into an intricate tower of beauty. Though the interior plans showed no detail, the engineering and overall design was clear. Fallon was a brilliant architect. His long, dark gray hair matched the color of his wings, his storm-gray eyes only a shade lighter. He was leaner than most Morgons, though still tall with a quiet disposition. He appeared to be in his thirties, but you could never tell a Morgon’s age by appearances. Because their lifespan was double, sometimes triple that of humans, one could never determine age by looks. One who looked in his forties or fifties might be well over a hundred.

Their shape-shifting dragon ancestors could live over a thousand years. History wrote the dragons who lived longest were those who spent less time in their human form. The human body held more weaknesses, vulnerabilities to age and illness, which the beast had not. Dragons had long been extinct. As their descendents, a hybrid race of humans and dragons, the Morgons couldn’t separate the beast from the man—their dragon DNA stamped under their skin, their ever-present, powerful wings setting them apart from humankind.

Lorian clasped his hands on the table. “I thought our first official order of business should be a name for the club. Suggestions?”

No one spoke for a minute.

Gallacius, the artistic director, cleared his throat, brown wings shifting to draw attention before he spoke. “I was thinking of Flaming Fortress.” Gallacius was in charge of the finishing touches on the exterior and interior sculptures. He seemed to be pleasant enough, but his keen eyes creeped me out.

Lorian shook his head. “Sounds similar to The Torch. We want the name, like the club, to stand out from others.”

Ragnor, the construction supervisor, shrugged his broad shoulders. “How about something simple like Castle Night?”

“Too simple, I think,” Willow piped up next to me.

I leaned forward. “And it’s too suggestive of the Nightwing clan. The point is to invite both races, correct?”

“Well, Ms. Linden, do you have a suggestion?” Gallacius tilted his angular face, giving me a dimpled smile. It seemed benign, but I wondered.

“Actually, I do.” Silence as I let a dramatic pause lengthen. “Spire Maiden.”

Lorian angled toward me. “Rather unusual, don’t you think?”

I caught his gaze. “I think it’s perfect.”

His expression shifted to arrogance. He gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Please. Go on.”

I straightened taller in my seat. “Spire is rather obvious in connection to Fallon’s design.” I nodded to the architect. He returned with a welcoming smile. “But the actual shape of a spire is hard, jagged, and quite phallic in appearance.” Willow gasped next to me. Again. The poor woman was going to run out of breath if she kept this up. I barreled ahead. “Coupled with maiden, it makes men think of sex. The rough kind.” Not a sound. All eyes focused solely on me. “And women,” I smiled, “well, it gives us the idea of danger. Women will try the place out if there’s even a hint of excitement waiting inside. Trust me. And men, Morgon or human, will go wherever there’s even a remote possibility of sex. Lastly, this name totally fits the whole castle theme.”