She wasn’t going to start having doubts about the untimely demise of this dragon shifter. She’d chosen Hadrian, and there was no changing that now.
He was the one.
Rania realized that there was a car driving down the narrow lane that led to Hadrian’s lair. She moved closer to watch, curious, still in her swan form. The car stopped at the last curve and she could see that a woman was driving it. The woman studied the vehicles in the driveway as Rania watched. There were two Land Rovers, a blue one and a green one. The blue one had been there when Rania had first arrived, so the green one must be Hadrian’s. The woman’s indecision was as clear as her longing, and Rania wondered who she was—and what she had to do with Hadrian and the Pyr.
The woman was pretty, with long red hair that she’d tied up in a ponytail. She frowned at the house, seemed to wipe away tears, then shook her head with frustration. Was she a girlfriend? An admirer? Rania wasn’t sure, but she memorized the license plate for future reference.
The woman backed up the car and abruptly turned around, grinding the gears, then drove away from the lair so quickly that Rania had to jump back to be hidden in the shadows.
Once the woman was gone, Rania shifted back to her human form. The clipping of her feathers had followed her between forms: her fingernails on that hand looked as if they’d been trimmed shorter than the others. Rania wished she had a way to make the nails on both hands match.
Maybe she’d use Hadrian’s clippers once she’d finished her assignment. She smiled at the image of herself, fixing her nails over the body of her victim. No, she’d go straight back to Fae to collect the reward she’d earned. There’d be no more time in the mortal realm than was absolutely necessary.
Rania turned up the collar of her coat, shivering a little at the cooler air. Her resolve grew. It would be evening soon and she wanted to ensure that Hadrian didn’t live to see the dawn. This assignment would only get harder the longer it lasted, given the persuasive charm of this dragon shifter. As she walked toward his home, that white glow began to burn a little brighter and she steeled herself against the direction that it turned her thoughts.
She wasn’t going to think about being cheated of a second massive orgasm.
She wasn’t going to go back for more of that.
She’d wait until the Pyr went to sleep, then strike like a cobra in the night.
Hadrian would never know what had hit him—and he’d have no chance to persuade her to forget her oblication to Maeve.
By dawn, she’d be done.
Three
Why had Hadrian’s mate disappeared in that exact moment? Why would she sacrifice that pleasure?
Something else was more important.
Maybe she had doubts about the firestorm.
It only made sense that she might be uncertain about having his son. He’d lived his whole life waiting for the firestorm, but it was a big expectation to spring on someone within moments of meeting.
He recalled that ring on the chain around her neck and wondered if there might be another reason. Was she in love with another guy? Was that part of the reason she’d agreed to Maeve’s bargain? Or had her heart been broken so badly that she never wanted to get involved with anyone again.
When it came to his mate, Hadrian had questions for his questions. He pushed his hands through his hair, then frowned at the realization that it was the second time she’d disappeared. She’d vanished into thin air when they’d been fighting, too. Plus, an ability to spontaneously manifest elsewhere would explain how she’d gotten into his lair without tripping any alarms in the first place. The dragonsmoke wouldn’t have been an obstacle to her, but the plain old alarm system should have worked. Make that three times. Hadrian had to admit that he hadn’t been thinking clearly since arriving home, thanks to the firestorm and the fact that his mate was trying to kill him.
He had to lift his game or she might succeed.
Alasdair was sure the firestorm was real, but maybe she was deliberately using it against him. She might take advantage of how distracting it was. After all, she had motivation. She was trying to save herself and her twelve brothers. Hadrian could understand that.
He had to be ready when she returned. He pushed to his feet and picked up his clothes. Hers were gone, which meant she’d made some fast moves. He was impressed.
Where had she gone? There was no glow from the firestorm, so she wasn’t close. He supposed the possibilities were infinite—or close to it. She might even have gone to Fae. He had no idea.
When would she be back? Hadrian doubted he’d get a lot of warning when she did return. She’d probably manifest right beside him, a blade at his throat. His heart skipped. She was a hunter: she wouldn’t take the chance of the firestorm’s light announcing her approach.
But he had her knife. She’d definitely come back for her weapon.
She’d tried to retrieve it twice already.
He picked up the dagger and took it with him into the bathroom. If she wanted to reclaim this weapon, she’d have to fight him for it first.
He eyed his own reflection before turning on the shower, noticing how the kiss of death had changed. He turned his head and it caught the light. It looked like a piece of embedded jewelry, but its chill went right to his marrow.
Was the firestorm the reason it hadn’t worked? Or was it just working slowly? Hadrian wished he knew.
His mate might wait until he was asleep to attack. That’s what Hadrian would have done in her place. He’d have to be both lucky and fast to evade her then.
He had to find a way to improve his chances of survival.
What if he didn’t survive? Under a hot stream of water in the shower, he forced himself to consider the worst case scenario, of dying soon, before satisfying the firestorm. What a waste that would be! But sadly, it wasn’t out of the range of possibilities.
He wasn’t going to wallow and he wouldn’t feel sorry for himself. He would make a plan and execute it—no pun intended.
He’d make every moment count.
The first thing Hadrian had to do was start replicating those gloves. If nothing else, he’d leave a legacy that counted. He called to the guys in old-speak as he dressed so they’d know they wouldn’t be interrupting anything when they returned to the house, then considered her dagger again.
Why this one?
Hadrian picked up the knife, testing the weight of it in his hand. It was a good weapon, well-balanced and beautifully made. It was ornate and unusual, and its characteristics might give him some insight into his mate.
“What’s that?” Balthasar demanded when Hadrian strolled into the kitchen. He was already making pasta and Alasdair was stirring sauce. They were both trying to avoid showing their curiosity, but Hadrian thought his lair reeked of their unasked questions.
“The weapon my mate used to try to kill me,” he said, setting it on the counter.
“This time,” Alasdair added. “Last time, it was her kiss of death.”
“Which apparently should have worked.” Hadrian addressed Balthasar.
“That’s probably Lila’s doing,” Balthasar said. “Anticipating two kinds of shifters helping each other would be a stretch.”
Hadrian shook his head. “She said it shouldn’t have made a difference. It’s a wound no one can heal.”