He left the box from Donovan on the kitchen counter, only giving the enclosed note the barest glance. He wanted to check out the gloves and they didn’t disappoint. He tugged them on, snapping his fingers so the blades extended and catching his breath in admiration. He turned his hands, admiring the blades’ flexibility and craftsmanship. Quinn had set a high bar even with his traditional methods. He was so detail-oriented.
Sunlight shone through the windows and glinted on the lethal blades. Donovan had explained to Hadrian that he didn’t fold them away with his clothes: in his dragon form, they merged with his claws, lengthening them into swords.
Hadrian couldn’t wait to see that. He moved into the center of the large living space, aware that Balthasar was talking to Donovan already. He summoned the shift and savored the brilliant shimmer of blue light that heralded his change between forms. It always made him feel invincible to shift shape. He thought of Donovan’s advice during the transition and tried to follow it. The shift rolled through him, sharpening his senses and filling him with welcome sense of power.
As always, it was done in the blink of an eye. It felt great to be in his dragon form, his tail brushing against the kitchen counter, his wings almost reaching the high ceiling of the lair.
Hadrian wanted to roar with satisfaction when he saw that Donovan’s strategy had worked. The steel blades were part of his front talons, and he slashed with one claw, watching them flash. Hadrian laughed and slashed again.
“Never mind,” Balthasar said into his phone. “Looks like Hadrian has nailed it.”
He’d intended to shift back to his human form, but his gaze fell on a patch of sunlight on the wooden floor. He saw a footstep in the dust. A small slender footstep, like that of a woman.
Bigger than Lynsay’s footprint would be.
His senses were more keen in his dragon form and he inhaled slowly, checking his impression one more time.
There was an intruder in his lair.
A woman, a tall woman.
Impossible.
But he could smell her skin. It was faint, so faint that he’d missed it in his human form, but the scent was there.
“Who’s having a firestorm?” Alasdair asked in old-speak, glancing around.
“Here?” Balthasar asked. “Now?”
“Absolutely,” Alasdair said with authority.
That was when Hadrian saw the faint glow of white light at the end of his talon. He lifted his claw and it brightened as he reached toward the door to the bedroom. He was aware of both Alasdair and Balthasar watching him.
Hadrian felt the faint tickle of a cold flame and desire stirred within him.
It was different from the golden sparks of the firestorms he’d witnessed in the past, but it had the identical effect upon his body and mind. His thoughts turned to sensual pleasures and his body thrummed with desire.
It was the same light that had burned when he’d had the vision of that woman at Rhys’ place, the one who had kissed his cheek. She’d said then that she’d been looking for him and he didn’t think it was for a good reason. After all, she’d given him that kiss of death.
Hadrian had thought she was a dream, or that it was another fake firestorm, just like Kristofer’s had been at first. He’d seen the red string on her wrist, the mark of Maeve’s curse. He’d concluded that the Pyr were being targeted, starting with him.
But she was in his lair right now. The light revealed the truth.
She’d come after him, probably to finish what she’d started. Somehow she knew that Lila and Balthasar had managed to impede the power of that kiss.
“A fake firestorm,” he corrected quietly in old-speak. “Burning white instead of yellow.”
“A spell,” Balthasar agreed.
“No,” Alasdair said with authority. “An ice dragon’s firestorm. I remember that Notus’ firestorm burned white.”
That reference to Hadrian’s father was a surprise he didn’t need. If his father’s firestorm had burned white and cold, this might be genuine. But how could his destined mate be intent on killing him? It didn’t make sense.
Either way, he wasn’t going to be easy prey.
This time, she’d be the one who was surprised.
He shifted silently back to his human form, keeping the gloves on, then eased toward the bedroom. The light brightened, the cold light of a winter morning, and its demand for sexual satisfaction redoubled.
Hadrian reminded himself that the woman hiding in his bedroom had given him a kiss of death.
That wouldn’t happen twice.
Hadrian moved so quietly that he might have been a predator. Rania was impressed despite herself. She felt the movement of the air as it stirred to let him pass, but only because she was listening so closely. She heard a rumble, like thunder, which made no sense, but refused to be distracted.
Her dragon was cool and collected, a hunter. That made them two of a kind.
No. They had no common ground. She corrected herself: he would be the victim and she was the predator. Only one of them would survive this encounter, and Rania knew who it would be.
The strange white glow that had lit on his return was brightening as he approached and it was distracting. It was more than a light. It sent a thrill through Rania and reminded her how attractive Hadrian was. It made her aware of how long she’d been alone, even though she knew a man’s touch came with a price. It made her yearn in a way that was irrational and had nothing to do with completing her task. She tried to ignore it, but it reached right to her very core, lighting an unwelcome spark of desire.
And it brightened, becoming more insistent, as he drew closer.
Curse whoever was challenging Maeve’s magick!
Curse whoever was compromising her concentration!
Curse him. Hadrian could have been ugly, short or gangly. He could have been unattractive or mean. He was a blacksmith, which should have made him repellent, but he was hot in oh-so-many unexpected ways.
Had she picked the wrong dragon?
Or was she losing her edge?
Was she caught in a greater battle, between Maeve and an ambitious competitor? The dragon prince was dead and she’d thought that fight was resolved.
Rania gripped her dagger, ready to strike. The kiss of death hadn’t finished Hadrian, so she’d use a more traditional method. She narrowed her eyes and fixed her attention on her task, steeling herself against this Pyr’s appeal. He had to die by her hand, as soon as possible.
She saw the blue shimmer of light that so often heralded a change between forms for a shifter, then saw it again. She was prepared for the man to turn the corner.
Rania felt him pause just before the threshold, assessing.
He knew she was there, then. The videos had noted that the Pyr had keen senses. She prickled with awareness of his proximity, that infuriating light as bright as starlight. She lifted the blade with purpose.
There was a shimmer of blue, then a dragon claw suddenly snatched at her.
The scales were a rich emerald gleam, as if they’d been carved from gems, and edged in silver. She was surprised by how beautiful they were and stared in awe.
She hesitated again. How could she injure such a heavily scaled creature, let alone kill him? The dagger she’d chosen suddenly looked small and ineffective, and she doubted her choice. Rania didn’t like to hesitate, not when she was working.