And wasn’t alone.
Ignoring the warning, he fine-tuned his radar. His night vision sharpened, allowing him to see everything: the rough bark on each tree trunk, every blade of grass and twig in the underbrush, individual raindrops on leaves splashing up and out as Ferguson sped past, aura burning bright through the gloom.
He wanted to intervene, needed to help her catch those who’d attacked the inn—itched to let his exhale loose, carve into the earth, and stop the bastards in their tracks. The idiots had, after all, nearly blown him to pieces too, but…shite. He couldn’t bring himself to ruin her fun, or prevent the new innkeeper from finding her stride.
She was learning, evolving as he watched. Leaning into her magic instead of away, discovering herself one mile at a time. What she’d do when she captured her prey, he didn’t know. Probably build a campfire and lecture them. Maybe even offer the arseholes a glass of scotch.
Kruger huffed in amusement. Venomous green smoke puffed from his nostrils as he banked into a wide turn to avoid the high bluff.
Ferguson rode straight through it, taking a narrow path cut through solid rock by centuries of wear and tear, erosion sculpted by the spirit of the Parkland.
Buffeted by strong updrafts, he hovered over the crevice, keeping his eyes on her.
Pride tightened his chest. Goddess, she was glorious. Her bioenergy was at full flare, streaking like a long-tailed comet behind her. Evergreen and crimson touched by gold. A gorgeous expression of her power as she rode wild, jumping over streams, pivoting around boulders, leading a pack of Haetae in the hunt.
Exiting on the other side of the bluff, she rode into a thicket. The field of tall grass swayed. Thick bramble creaked, rasping against the Haetae’s scaled sides. Ferguson didn’t let up. Strong in the saddle, she crashed through thick underbrush, then dove into another stretch of woodland, following a trail only she could see. Kruger heard the thundering of paws from five hundred feet up—the scraping and clawing, the bloodcurdling howls as the pack caught the enemy’s scent.
His pride for her grew. A female on the hunt. Driven. Determined. Smart and strategic as she tracked the enemy, forcing the rabble to run harder, change tack, and search for a new way out.
Kruger grinned, baring the tips of his fangs. His mate was incredible, a sight to see as she upped the pace, directing the pack from her perch atop one of them, commanding the Haetae like she’d been born to lead them.
A city girl from another country. A magic wielder who met and matched him—a female he’d never be able to hurt with the venom bubbling in his veins. She absorbed his toxicity instead, turning it into something sweet and extraordinary. Such an unexpected gift. One he didn’t deserve, but now must decide whether to accept.
Fear sliced through him. He swallowed past the knot making a permanent home in the center of his chest.
Bloody hell, but…he wanted to keep her. Even knowing he should let her go, he yearned to build a life with Ferguson. A terrible idea. Dangerous for him; potentially lethal for her.
Claiming her in the way of his kind was the height of selfishness. His magic burned hotter than other Dragonkind, his volatility dove much deeper. And his bloodline? Fuck, it was as heinous as his sire’s history. Making her his would only damage her in the end—diminish her authority as the innkeeper, taint any children they might have together, leaving her alone to raise his infants if the global Dragonkind community discovered who had sired him.
His was a warrior race. None of them would go lightly. His own pack included. Forgiveness would never be part of the equation. The second his kind discovered Silfer’s son lived in the earthy realm, the hunt would begin. He’d be forced to run for the rest of his life. And Ferguson…
He drew a choppy breath.
Shite.
His mate was the innkeeper. Her place was here—in the Parkland, providing sanctuary, seeing to the health and care of any Magickind who visited. She couldn’t leave. If his secret came out, he couldn’t stay, which meant he should fly away now, leave her to the hunt, trust her to deal with The White Hare’s enemies in her own way. Do the right thing instead of the selfish one.
Twin beacons raged onto his radar.
He turned into the signal, hunting for—
A flash exploded across the night sky, lighting up his peripheral vision.
Electricity sizzled around him. Raindrops evaporated. Storm clouds stilled. He dodged, losing sight of Ferguson, twisting into a spine-bending flip to avoid the blast. He should’ve heeded the warning, taken his attention from Ferguson long enough to assess the threat. A stupid mistake. He acknowledged it a second before the invisible wave struck like a supercharged tsunami.
His head whiplashed. Kruger felt his scales crack and split open. He smelled his own blood as agony detonated like a bomb, making it impossible to breathe.
Choking on bile, he hung in the open air, fighting to stay airborne. Too little, too late. A second surge hit him. Electrical current curled nasty claws around him, cutting through flesh to reach his bones.
His magic flickered like a dying light bulb.
Clinging to consciousness, he clocked the Danes in the distance. Fuck. After months of playing keep-away, the bastards had arrived with firepower so powerful, he couldn’t shake the net closing around him, or counteract its effects.
Kruger heard one of the warriors laugh.
The bastard shocked him again.
High voltage. Brutal in intensity. No hope of escape as the violent current picked him up then dragged him down, driving him horns-first into the ground.
17
The glowing footprints grew brighter at the edge of the clearing. Staring through a break in the trees, Ferguson tugged on the Haetae’s mane. He obeyed without hesitation, slowing from run to walk, settling into a prowl, keeping his head low as his shoulder blades bobbed. The pads of his paws were silent against the compacted earth on a well-traveled trail that led to an open space beyond the edge of the woods.
The buzz inside her head amplified, feeding her information.
A crossroads, of sorts. With multiple paths leading in different directions. Pathways that intuition told her the men she hunted knew well and visited often. A gathering place, then, but…for whom?
Shifting sideways, she saw five shadows wearing dark gray cloaks, kneeling in the center of the clearing, swords unsheathed and lying on the ground in front of each one.
Dread dripped through her, hitting her like the raindrops pattering against the leaves overhead. A drizzle, nothing that would impede her progress, or mess with her visibility.
Thank God. Nerves and a bad case of what the hell am I doing? were already messing with her head. She appreciated the fact Mother Nature didn’t feel the need to pile on.
Glancing skyward, she looked for Kruger. He might be up there, flying overhead. He might not. She couldn’t tell or see much of anything. The leafy canopy was too dense, the branches too big, the treetops so full deep shadows reigned, lording over the forest floor.
Jakamo, the Haetae she rode, snarled. Zensi, his mate, growled in return, setting off a series of low, quiet rumbles from the entire pack. Prickles attacked the nape of Ferguson’s neck, then streamed down her spine as the cascading chorus fell like dominos, spinning around the clearing. A warning from the Haetae protecting her…and the Parkland.
Problem was, she didn’t speak their language. At least not fluently yet, which left a lot open to interpretation. One thing for sure, though—the Haetae disliked her hesitation. The pack wanted to attack.