Mist rolled along the ground and over the ruins as Grizgunn flew overhead. A thin line of sunlight burned on the horizon, reaching out to touch jagged cliffs. His scales tingled in warning. He needed to take cover. In the next ten minutes would be best. He could push it to fifteen if pressed for time, but what would be the point? He was already home. A hop, skip and jump away from entering his new lair.

Angling his wings, he circled once, then set down between the ancient church and the crumbling edge of coastline. His dark blue claws curled into the peat moss. Seawater churned on the rocks below, roaring against the stone face, nature’s way of throwing a tantrum. The show of temper epitomized his mood—pissed off with an unholy need to punch something.

With a snarl, he bared his fangs and folded his wings. Goddamn the Scot. The red-scaled warrior had been slippery as an eel, injuring two of his crew before slithering into the city, disappearing like a ghost in the night. His brows furrowed. The male’s proficiency at hiding presented a problem. One he needed to solve before sunset. Otherwise, he wouldn’t get another shot at the warrior. The whoreson would slip beneath his radar—again—and he’d never get his claws on him…or the high-energy female he protected.

Yeah, he’d seen her.

She’d been hard to miss, her aura glowing bright against the Scot’s scales before he’d turned tail and run. A smart move, the only one given the precious cargo he carried. Cracking his knuckles, Grizgunn shook his head. Another HE female, the second in as many months. Unprecedented. Shocking too. Females who tapped into the Meridian, drawing power from the source, weren’t thick on the ground. A rarity in the world, most Dragonkind males never encountered one. Which made him wonder what the Scottish pack knew that he didn’t. Grizgunn rolled his shoulders. Scales ruffled, clicking together like dominos before settling back into place. He frowned. What the hell was he missing?

The question pissed him off.

The idea the Scots held more knowledge worsened his mood.

A low growl erupted from his throat. He shut down the show of fury. Allowing his rage out of its box wouldn’t help. He must remain calm and stay focused. His warriors needed him. Had chosen him to lead the Danish pack, for better or worse. Now was no time to lose his patience. Not when he was close to getting what he wanted—Cyprus’s head on a pike and the Scottish territory back under his family’s control. He’d made a promise to his sire. The pretender would pay for his treachery. He would accept nothing less.

Inhaling deep, Grizgunn doused his temper and shifted forms. Blue scales morphed into human skin. Bowing his head, he stood naked in the shadow of a stone wall and brushed a hand over his shaved head. Steam rose from his shoulders as he closed his eyes and conjured his clothes. Jeans and a sweatshirt in place, he stomped his feet into boots and, without waiting for his warriors to land behind him, headed toward his new home.

Once a church, the empty shell stood like a stoic solider near the cliff edge. Abandoned by humans. Unloved by historical societies. A relic long forgotten by those in the shire. He didn’t care. The disinterest and isolation suited him, providing the perfect place for him to put down roots. The tunnels and living spaces beneath the ruin were almost complete. Another couple of weeks, and the lair would provide all the comfort he required.

Boot soles crunching over a shattered stone path, he walked beneath a broken archway. He kicked a rock out of his way. Fucking hell. It was frustrating. He hated defeat. Despised being outsmarted even more. Success depended on a three-pronged approach: accurate information, a solid strategy and precise execution. He’d managed two of the three tonight. Item three had been blown to shit by the red-scaled whoreson in Edinburgh. The fact a member of Cyprus’s pack had outmaneuvered him rubbed him the wrong way.

It should never have happened. He’d had the area locked down.

Clenching his teeth, Grizgunn swallowed a curse. He needed a new way forward, a failsafe plan that would throw the Scottish pack off balance. Footfalls echoing across eight-hundred-year old stone, he strode into the roofless nave. His mind churned as he sorted through possible strategies. A hostage situation might work. Getting his claws on the warrior who’d disappeared in Edinburgh along with the woman would no doubt shake Cyprus’s tree. The aloof mother-fucker wouldn’t be so nonchalant then.

He flexed his hands. An enemy male to torture for information. A high-energy female for his warriors to enjoy every day. Grizgunn hummed. Excellent plan, but first…

He needed to find the red-scaled male before Cyprus flew to the rescue. A lone dragon was a vulnerable one. Easy to pick off and overpower once cornered. The trick would be bringing the warrior to ground and caging him fast. The second the Scottish pack showed up, Grizgunn would lose his chance. Not a good outcome. So…where had the Scot gone? How had he hidden with so many dragons on his trail? His eyes narrowed. Searching his memory, he thought back, running through the night’s events and…

“Shit—the harbour. The ship.” Grizgunn cursed under his breath. He should’ve thought of it sooner. The conclusion made perfect sense. Other than working cranes and the humans on the ground, nothing else had been moving. Nothing but the ocean freighter, light blue hull pushing through the water as the tugboat helped it exit the port. “Smart move.”

But not smart enough.

He knew where to look now. An image flashed in his mind’s eye. He saw the flag of Norway flying above the stern and right below it, the name of the ship painted in bright white letters.

“Den Skumløse.” Jogging up a set of steps, he stopped beside the alter at the front of the church. “Clever way to escape.”

A little disconcerting too. The Scot must be determined. Only a strong male would disregard his fear and enter the water. Not that it mattered. Determination only got a warrior so far. Pressing his palms to the altarpiece, Grizgunn glanced skyward. Stars faded as dawn arrived. Discomfort prickled down his spine. His sonar pinged. Multiple sets of paws set down in the yard outside the ruined church wall.

“Hakon,” he said, his voice bleeding through mind-speak. “Get everyone inside. The sun’s coming up.”

“Got the door open?”

“Almost. Move your ass.”

His XO grunted.

Grizgunn unleashed a wave of magic. The heavy stone topping the altar shifted up and to the side. Stairs came into view. He descended into the darkness, one thing on his mind. He must get to his computer. A few minutes of research would provide what he needed— the ship’s route along with its exact location on the ocean. The second he possessed the information, he would be able track Den Skumløse’s progress from dawn until dusk. He smiled in anticipation. Come evening the Scot would be in for a surprise, one that would see him captured and the female he guarded warming Grizgunn’s bed.