“Shite,” he said, interrupting the thought midstream.
He’d gone around the bend. Getting involved, being sucked into the mystery, was a bad idea. He wanted The White Hare shut down…period. He didn’t need to unearth its history—or understand how the past affected the female driving him insane. Jumping inside that wormhole, knowing about Ferguson, would only lead to him wanting to know more…and then more after that.
With a curse, he slammed the album closed. His dragon shifted deep inside him, then balked, waking up to express his opinion.
“Bugger off,” he muttered, trying to ignore the insistent nudge. “We cannae allow her tae stay. She isnae ours.”
His beast bared his fangs.
“Move off it.”
An acrid ripple curled through him. The rustle of scales clattered through his head. Heat prickled over his nape, then down his spine. All the reasons he must investigate further streamed through into his head. His dragon wasn’t messing around, asking questions Kruger kept trying to pretend didn’t exist. Things like: was Ferguson safe inside the inn? Would the forces that had eliminated her sire return now that his daughter stood in his stead? Would they try to kill her too?
“Double shite,” he growled, staring at the olive branches crossed like swords stamped in green leather. “You’re not going tae let it go, are you?”
His dragon snorted, forcing smoke up his throat.
Kruger blew out the toxic plume. Tasting fire and brimstone on his tongue, he sighed in resignation. Looked like he’d be breaking the agreement he made with Ferguson, upping the timeline and—
“Do you make a habit out of talking tae yerself in here?”
His attention snapped toward the open door.
Wearing a pair of black wraparounds, one shoulder braced against the jamb, Wallaig stood watching him. A sneak attack. His XO knew how to maneuver and, when he sensed something about to go awry, seldom let things lie. It didn’t matter that Wallaig had lost his sight fifty years ago and couldn’t see (at least, not in conventional ways). The lethal male never allowed his blindness to slow him down, turning a shortcoming that would kill most Dragonkind warriors into a strength, refusing to accept it as a weakness.
Seeing without seeing, his XO leveled him with a look.
Kruger tensed. Flames danced across his shoulders as his dragon reacted to the perceived threat. He doused the blaze, pretending the male’s unexpected visit hadn’t startled him.
Dark red hair glinting in the low light, Wallaig raised a brow. “A wee bit jumpy, arenae you?”
“Why’re you up so early?” Kruger asked, deflecting.
“Felt you prowling around. Smelled the smoke and venom. Amantha’s still asleep, so I came tae see what’s got you in a bind.”
“I’m—”
“Donnae do it.”
“What?”
“Lie tae me.”
“Fuck.”
“Something’s crawled up yer arse. Spill, laddie.”
Pushing away from his desk, Kruger leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. So many straight lines. Lots of perfect angles. No scorch marks on the oak planks. A symphony of symmetry, unlike the jagged, lopsided mess inside his head. He should take Wallaig up on his invitation to talk. A smart male would accept a hand up and out of the turmoil. Holding the uncertainty in wasn’t working. He couldn’t wipe the slate clean and un-meet her.
Every time he told himself he could move forward without taking Ferguson’s wellbeing into account, he ended up right back where he started: fucked up, confused, without the tools necessary to snip the thread, tie off the situation, and—
“It’s the lass, isnae it? The innkeeper.” Wallaig frowned. “What’s her name?”
“Ferguson.”
“Rannock says she’s spectacular.”
Kruger’s nostrils flared. He bared his teeth, disliking the idea Rannock had been talking about her.
Wallaig huffed. “Down, boy.”
“Fuck off.”
“You got it bad.”
“Not kidding, mon. Fuck. Off.”
“Rookie mistake,” Wallaig murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Fight it all you like, laddie—gonna be fun for the rest of us tae watch—but word tae the wise, you’ll lose in the end. Once yer dragon’s locked on, you’re cooked. Done. No turning back or negotiating with it. Best tae accept what you cannae change, Ruger. Work it out with yer brothers, then do what needs tae be done and—”
“What? Claim her?”
“Now you’re getting it.”
Kruger clenched his teeth. “It isnae like that.”
“You sure?”
“Aye.”
“Cuz you donnae sound sure tae me.”
Of course he didn’t. Since the moment he left Ferguson, all he’d wanted to do was go back. Draw on her scent. Taste her. Touch her. Give her and her smart mouth something better to do than argue with him.
No way in hell he would admit it, though—or cry defeat so early in the game. He could still win. All he needed to do was figure out another plan of attack.
“I want The White Hare, not her.”
Wallaig snorted.
“Unlike you, I donnae enjoy drama queens.”
“My mate isnae a drama queen. She’s spirited. Opinionated. Smart as hell, too. Fuck, Ruger. ’Tis shocking how bloody smart she is. Keeps me on my toes without even trying. Me, mon. Can you imagine?”
Not really. Well over three hundred years old, the male had seen a lot and done more. Feed his IQ into the equation, and no one ever outwitted or outmaneuvered him. The fact Amantha challenged Wallaig in ways the male found difficult to follow made their relationship all the more dynamic, all the more precious. And honestly, Kruger was happy for his friend. The male deserved the best, every ounce of contentment life offered after the loss he’d suffered fifty years ago.
“You like it,” he said, studying his friend. “When she butts up against you, disagrees with you, challenges you—you like it.”
“You bet yer arse I do. Hell, I tweak her tail just tae taste her fire.” Pushing away from the door, Wallaig moved farther into the room. Powered by the essence of fire dragon, magic swirled into Kruger’s airspace as the big male unloaded his bulk in the armchair opposite him, lifted his legs, and planted his size sixteens on the desktop. “Smart females are the most fun. The feistiest, too. Wicked hot in bed. Compelling out of it. A win-win all the way around.”
A win-win. An interesting concept, one Kruger never entertained while closing business deals. His instincts ran much more lethal than that. He wanted to dominate, not compromise. He wasn’t above dismantling a company to get what he wanted, the way he wanted it. Some might label that cruel. Kruger called it the way of the world: eat or be eaten. The weak or insecure didn’t belong in the arena he played in every day.
Popping the sunglasses onto the top of his head, Wallaig rubbed the inside corners of his eyes, then raised his head. Damaged, stripped of color by deadly UV rays, white irises met his, except…
Kruger frowned.
Wallaig’s eyes were no longer white. Not completely. His pupils looked normal now. Black. Round. No longer covered by thick film. Stranger still, patches of dark green broke through the milky layer, making his irises look like a warped checkerboard.