Grant paced across the confines of his office. He’d spent the day doing his damnedest not to think about her, but he’d failed over and over again. He should have been focused on what to do next; on how the hell to find whoever had taken the medallion.
He was certain that’s why her apartment had been broken into. Checking the history of the building after he’d left her last night, he’d discovered there hadn’t been a single break-in in all the time the building had been standing—until the day after Freya had taken Sonya’s medallion. That was no coincidence. But who had taken it? Whoever it was, they weren’t human, at least not all of them were. Their quick escape after Sonya’s murder made that a certainty.
And that was the extent of the progress he’d made. He should be out there doing something, anything to track down Sonya’s murderer, but instead he was distracted by emerald green eyes and cupid bow lips, perfectly shaped breasts, and thighs he’d imagined wrapped around his waist more times than he cared to count.
But his response to her last night kept him from going back to her. He’d always been a considerate lover, taking the time to ensure it was a mutually enjoyable experience, but last night he’d come within seconds of tearing her clothes off. He’d never experienced anything he couldn’t control before, but Freya had seriously tested him. There was something about her that was anything but ordinary and it made her irresistible.
What was even worse though, and far more dangerous—no matter how much he’d fought against it—the flames in his core had licked wider, creeping outward. If he ever lost control over that part of him, the result would be catastrophic.
But as much as he needed to stay away from her, he couldn’t keep himself locked up in his own home, pacing the floors until he wore a hole in the Persian rug. It was night now, and he needed to stretch his wings. He’d always despised the confines of human homes, and now, more than ever, he needed to escape. He needed everything human about him to give way to the dragon, to the beast who was unconcerned with his human needs and desires. Then his mind would be clear and he could hone in on what was really important: avenging Sonya’s death and retrieving her medallion.
He strode out into the warm night, and on his first step away from the house, he called upon it. He welcomed the heat of the fire as it flooded every fiber of his body. In a flash, it spread further, and he stretched his wings and soared high, with no particular destination in mind. He glided through the sky, letting his wings take him where they willed. He breathed in the odors and aromas of the city, trying to drown out the memory of her heady scent. But it stayed with him, even more potent now than it had been all day. At the same time, he realized that it wasn’t his memory of her that wafted to him in the air, he realized his massive body had angled to the right, drawn to her and soaring in her direction without conscious effort.
All of a sudden, a scream rent the air, so loud he would almost have been able to hear it with an ordinary human’s ears. It was her scream, he was sure of it. The voice, riddled with pain and fear, didn’t glide over his skin as it had earlier, but he recognized it, nevertheless.
With his next breath, he recognized something else in the air, a scent he would recognize anywhere.
Dragon.
He increased his speed, flapping his massive wings, and when he spotted her a moment later, the scene nearly stopped him cold.
It was a group of men—at least ten of them. Several of them held her motionless, her arms pinned above her head, and her legs subdued by the weight of four men. And one more—the dragon—straddled her hips, and he held something in his hand, poised against her neck.
But the rest of them were no ordinary men. Hell, some of them weren’t men at all. They were all hunters, though. He could smell it in the air; so much hatred and vileness had an unmistakable scent. But he’d never seen so many hunters after one target.
He should have left her there. From the moment he’d first seen her in Sonya’s hotel room, he had known there was something different about her, something not quite human. And though he still had no idea what she was, with a hunting party like that, he had no doubt she was dangerous.
But he couldn’t do it. There was no way in hell he could leave her there. He swooped down low, reining in the fire and morphing into his human form at the same moment he touched the ground.
And despite the years it had been since he’d shown himself to any hunter, he strode toward the fray with a sure step.
“Stop!” he hollered as he approached.
Every head turned in his direction, recognition dawning in several pairs of eyes, but his step didn’t falter. “I don’t know what you want with her, but you won’t have it today,” he said, his voice smooth as steel.
The man who straddled her chest stood up and stepped toward him. The dragon in human form, Grant could tell by his cocky stance, he was the one who’d orchestrated this attack…this witch hunt. Was that it? Was she a witch?
He glanced down at her, and had to fight to keep his ire in check. It took every bit of restraint he could muster to keep from ripping them apart, limb from limb.
She was still restrained, but she fought against the men holding her, despite the injuries she’d sustained. Cuts and bruises covered her arms and calves, and a dark, angry bruise marred the previously flawless flesh around her eye, so swollen now that her lids formed little more than a thin slit. Her dress had been torn, and he could see that the bruising extended down her chest.
Even so, he could hear the steady beat of her heart. She was strong.
But she wasn’t a witch; he’d met plenty of them and he didn’t sense that in her. There was something, though; something not entirely human, but also unlike anything he’d seen before. And whatever it was, it was powerful.
“Release her and walk away,” he demanded in a deceptively calm voice. “Now.”
“This isn’t your fight, Grant,” the dragon spoke.
“Ten against one? This isn’t a fight at all. And it stops now, or else every man who has touched her will die.”
“You’re going to kill us all?” The dragon’s tone was filled with disbelief, but beneath it, he could hear the undercurrent of fear. It had been some time since he’d pursued the hunters, and while he’d abandoned that fight—coming to realize that for every hunter he eliminated, two more rose up to take their place—he was well known for his strength and skill.
“If I have to,” he said coolly, “but I’d much rather you just do as I ask.”
The dragon laughed, glancing back at his compatriots and then moving aside as several of them stepped forward. The dragon should have known better. If he knew Grant by name, then he also knew they were no match for him.
They continued toward him, but he was ready for them.
He struck out at the first man who approached him, the heel of his hand driving hard into the center of man’s face. The crunch of bones resounded in the air as the man fell to the ground, dead. Another came close, and he snapped his neck with little more than a flick of his wrists.
And then, as more of the dragon’s lackeys approached, he saw it out the corner of his eye, and it had been so unexpected, that it nearly broke his concentration. Freya had yanked her arms free from the two sets of strong hands that held them, and in the next second, she sat straight up. Her arm shot out, the base of her hand making violent contact with an assailant’s nose, whose head jerked back and crashed into the man behind him.
The injured men rolled to the ground, and she pulled her freed leg up to kick out at the man on her thigh. The blow didn’t just make contact; it sent the villain flying backward, crashing into the man behind him and sending them both sprawling three feet from her body.
She was on her feet in a flash, and was ready for the attack when a man to the left of her came at her. But he wasn’t a man, Grant noticed as he took down another weak human who’d come at him. The man was a púca, a species that had never involved themselves with hunters, but they did have a distinctive, peculiar odor to them no matter what form they took. The púca had been known to play tricks on humans, but never this. He'd never known them to be violent, nor had he ever seen one take human form.
She sent the trickster-turned-hunter sprawling backwards on the ground with one well-placed kick.
Two men came at him then, and by the time he turned back to her, it was too late. The dragon had come up behind her, and he jabbed outward, the fine tip of a needle he’d had concealed in his hand penetrated the bruised flesh of her neck, straight into her carotid artery before Grant could reach her.
She spun around to confront him but no more than three seconds passed and she dropped to the ground, lifeless.
A painful vice gripped his heart, at the same time rage filled every fiber of his being, but before he could unleash it on the few men left standing, a scent in the air wafted toward him and he knew she wasn’t dying. The bittersweet odor of etorphine—it must have come from the dragon’s syringe. He’d rendered her unconscious, not dead. But why? Hunters didn’t take prisoners or hold creatures for ransom. What was she that was so valuable to them?
He eyed the dragon, and the dragon gazed back through human eyes while Grant sent the remainder of his men to the next realm. But just as he stepped toward the dragon who looked immobilized with fear, the human body gave way to blood red scales, and the dragon launched into the air, abandoning his prey to save his own hide.
Grant could have pursued him easily, but he didn’t. He’d find him; he’d sworn to kill every man who’d touched her and he would make good on his promise. But he couldn’t just leave her there, lying unconscious and bleeding on the ground.
So, he bent down and gathered her in his arms, holding her as gently as he could while he unleashed the fire in his core once more.