“Me?” Theo said then laughed. “You won’t be my captor.”
“You have to keep the faith,” Wynter began to insist but Arach approached her quietly. When he dropped his hand on the back of her waist, a flurry of sparks shot from the point of contact.
“Take me,” he said in a low rumble and Caleb heard a wealth of meaning in that invitation.
Wynter surveyed Arach again, her eyes narrowed, then Caleb watched her inhale slowly. “You’re Pyr,” she murmured and he smiled.
“And I’m all yours,” Arach said.
“What’s this light?” she demanded.
“A firestorm,” Arach said. “It means you’re my destined mate.”
“I don’t think so,” Wynter protested as everyone in the bar watched with open interest.
“Well, since I’m your hostage, we’ll have plenty of time to find out,” Arach countered.
Wynter opened her mouth and closed it again, then glanced at Caleb as if she’d appeal to him. As far as he was concerned, she’d created her predicament herself, and he didn’t mind one bit if the Pyr kept her busy while he regained leadership of the Others.
“You made the rules,” he told her. “You get to live with the consequences.”
Wynter’s eyes narrowed, her gaze nearly lethal, then Arach took the final step between them. The firestorm’s light flared to brilliant white and Wynter stared at him. Her lips parted, then she licked them. She shook her head, swore with gusto, then spun to face him. Without warning, she caught Arach’s face in her hands and kissed him.
And the mates who had followed her from Alaska cheered.
Five
Alasdair had been sleeping so hard that Hadrian hadn’t wanted to wake him up. Balthasar was out cold, too. Hadrian made a pot of coffee and poured himself a huge mug, then returned to his studio to examine the blades he’d left to cool. They’d come out better than he’d dared to hope. There was no telling when his mate would return, so he heated the forge again, drank more coffee, and got to work.
He could sleep when he was dead. Ha. Somehow that joke wasn’t funny, given his current situation.
When would his mate return?
Hadrian soon forgot his exhaustion as he became absorbed in his task. He hammered each blade for the flattening and tensioning. It was good steady work, if a bit repetitive, but he was motivated to get these gloves done. It was satisfying to see his plan coming together, too. He finished the pot of coffee and made another, forcing himself to remain awake as morning progressed.
He knew the instant his mate arrived. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. The air moved in an unusual way, just as he’d noticed when she’d vanished or appeared suddenly before. The firestorm flickered to life: he felt the glow of its icy fire and felt the flurry of white sparks collide with his back. It all happened at once.
He knew that it was now or never to make his play for survival. He’d already seen that she could be easily prompted to talk, and he had to think that the more she knew about him, the harder it would be to kill him. He’d work with what he had. Hadrian spun to find his destined mate a step away, a different blade raised in her hand. She was poised to strike, but then her gaze met his.
He saw the difference immediately. The expression in her eyes wasn’t as hard as it had been. The line of her lips was softer, and she flicked a glance over him. She hesitated to make the strike.
She had doubts.
Was that because they’d been talking? Or had something changed in her?
Either way, Hadrian would welcome progress wherever he found it. He moved like lightning to close the distance between them, caught her around the waist and bent to kiss her in the same moment that he seized the dagger in her grasp. His mouth closed over hers and she sighed with satisfaction, then seemed to remember herself. She broke their kiss and snatched for the blade but it was too late.
Hadrian summoned the change since the most interesting things happened when his mate was surprised. She was visibly startled to find herself in the grasp of an emerald and silver dragon. Hadrian liked that she wasn’t terrified. Her heart skipped once, then she surveyed him with curiosity.
Fearless. He admired that.
He loved how she ran her fingertips over his scales. It felt heavenly, the barest whisper of a caress lighting an urgency within him. He could get addicted to that pretty easily. Her touch and the shimmer of the firestorm sent shivers through him, making him want that kiss all over again. His heart pounded as he watched her eyes darken.
As if their thoughts were united.
Then she abruptly stepped away. Hadrian let her go, watching her lips tighten and her gaze lift to the blade.
“Give it back,” she commanded, as if he would do any such thing.
He spun the blade, hooking a talon through the lace on the hilt, letting it catch the light.
“A Scottish dirk,” he said with approval. “As sharp as the best ones are reputed to be. Nice ornamentation on the handle. I like the Celtic knot and the stone in the pommel. Is it amber?”
“Smoky quartz,” she acknowledged, then glared at him. “Give it back.”
Hadrian ignored her. “How old is this one?”
“Victorian,” she admitted through gritted teeth. Her lips tightened into a thin line as she extended her hand in silent demand.
He laughed. “We both know that isn’t going to happen. I like the collection I’m building, by the way.” He twirled the knife and tucked it beneath his scales, well aware that she was watching him. It didn’t matter. She’d never find the weapon on her own. Then he shifted shape again and had a thought. She liked challenges, too.
He lifted his hands, offering himself, and grinned at her. “Why don’t you try to find it yourself?” he teased.
She propped her hands on her hips. “You’re not making this easy,” she complained.
“Why should I?” Hadrian countered. He leaned against the table beside her, watching the firestorm brighten between them. “I’m not in a hurry to die.”
“I’m not going to make that deal with you,” she insisted. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”
“You talk a lot for a cold-hearted killer,” he noted, studying her. “Are you lonely?”
She bristled visibly. “Why would I be lonely?”
“Maybe because you’re alone. You work alone, maybe live alone. That would leave you with no one to talk to.”
“How I live and work is irrelevant to you.” She was fingering the partially finished blades, as if assessing how useful they might be to her. Hadrian suspected she could use one in a pinch and deliberately stepped away from his worktable. He guessed that she would follow him and, after a moment’s pause, she did.
“You have my ring,” she said and Hadrian lifted his hand to admire it. “You should return that to me, too.”
“I’ll trade it,” he suggested.
“For what?”
“The story of it.”
“The story?” She looked confused. “It’s a ring. It’s mine. End of story.”
“Come on. That’s not a story. Who did it belong to? How did you get it? Why do you keep it?” He wagged a finger at her. “If you want to learn about telling stories, you should listen to Alasdair. That dragon can spin a yarn, and illustrate it.”