Energy pulsed in the air around him, lighting up the sky like aurora borealis. Reddish-pink shimmered into greenish-gold. A pretty sight any other night, but as Wallaig rocketed out of the clouds, white contrails streaming from his wingtips, he didn’t give a fuck about the light show. He was hunting rogue. He needed a heat signature, an energy blip on the horizon—something, anything to indicate the enemy knew he was coming.

He hoped to hell that wasn’t the case.

The element of surprise always worked in a dragon’s favour. But after the clusterfuck of the last twelve hours, he refused to take anything for granted. Not with Amantha on his back and a potential firefight in his future.

Senses pinpoint sharp, he scanned the horizon above the distance shore. Ten miles out, the craggy coastline rose like a spectre in the dark and…all clear so far. Wallaig prayed it stayed that way. He could use a little all-calm-on-the-Scottish-front tonight.

Making sure he hadn’t missed anything, he surveyed the terrain again. White cliffs rose against the night sky, standing strong against churning surf and surging seas. With each rolling assault, water crashed against the rocks, spraying mist sky high. The smell of brine swirled in the air, mixing with the scent of coming snow.

Amantha shifted on his back.

He tapped into her bio-energy, checking to see if she was all right. The Meriden reacted, opening a channel. Potent and powerful, the current Amantha carried reached out to stroke him. Wallaig hummed as her emotional grid popped up on his mental screen. He exhaled in relief. All good. Still steady. Riding high as she followed his flight corrections.

Gripping the spikes behind his horns, she leaned left and shifted right, adjusting to his movements, flying like a pro. Happiness burned through him, blurring the lines, making him forget the mission for a moment.

Goddess, she made him proud.

Despite her fear, she stayed the course, refusing to back down. No tears or hysterics for his lass. Just stone-cold courage in the face of adversity. His beast purred in appreciation. Her intelligence and quick wit, the determination she showed—everything about her delighted him. His mouth curved. He must have been born under a lucky star…or with a horseshoe up his arse. He didn’t care which reason applied. He’d take it and run…as long as it meant he got to keep her in the end.

By no means a sure thing.

Wallaig knew it. No matter how powerful, energy-fuse wasn’t a cure-all. The magical bond between mates pulled couples together, but it didn’t keep them that way. Healthy relationships took time to grow, needing care and nurturing along the way. Which meant he still had work to do. His dragon might have chosen Amantha, but he needed her to choose him back. Nothing short of wholehearted consent would do, so…how should he proceed? Push or pull. Chase or allow her to come to him. Sad to say, but he didn’t know.

The confusion left him reeling. Uncertainty wasn’t a strong position, but the fact remained—he couldn’t force the connection. Amantha needed to make up her own mind about him. Accept or reject him. Be his mate or not. Walk away or stay forever.

Nerves hit him like a body shot. So much at stake. Too much to lose. Somehow, some way, he must convince his female to give him a chance. So far, he hadn’t given her much reason to stay. From the moment he broke into her apartment—and scared her half to death—he’d made one mistake after another. Not very romantic. If he could go back, he would’ve done it differently. Wine and dined her. Treated her like a princess. Taken her out on the town and shown her a good time.

A lovely thought. An even better idea, but well…shite. He’d already blown his shot at making a good first impression.

As it stood now, the only bright spot in a long line of disasters was her desire for him. He felt it with every breath he took. Drank in her need, sensed her longing even as he suffered from his own. His female might not understand why she reacted to him the way she did, but the bond he shared with her was strong. Almost unbreakable even after a few short hours. The sharpness of her reaction told him she wasn’t immune. Which gave him hope and…made him feel like a jerk.

Seven miles out now, Wallaig levelled out over the water. He wasn’t being fair to her. She deserved the whole truth, not the bits and pieces he’d given her. Aye, she knew a lot about Dragonkind now, but nothing about energy-fuse. Selfish of him, but…God smite him dead with a thunderbolt. He hadn’t wanted to chance it.

He longed for Amantha too much to risk her rejection. Not yet. Not so soon after meeting her. She needed time to come to know him. He needed time to convince her, so…screw transparency. Throw conventional thinking into a deep, dark hole. He would tell her when she needed to know, and not a moment before he was ready.

Inhaling deep, Wallaig exhaled slow and, tightening his control, tucked the problem away to deal with another night. Now was no time for distraction.

Attention locked on the cliffs, he located his entry point. Six miles ahead, a hair north of his position, the mouth of the canyon lay tucked behind a jut-out on the coastline. Searching for movement along the rocks, he sent out an exploratory ping. Inferno-like heat expanded in his veins. He hung onto the power, allowed it to burn higher and hotter, then released it. The rush tumbled out in front of him, blanketing the water before hitting land. Like the giant wave, the fury of his magic splashed up and over, settling over the terrain, feeding him information.

Five miles out and closing fast.

Firing up mind-speak, Wallaig reached out to his pack. “Lads—I’m here.”

Kruger growled in greeting.

“Time to target?” Levin asked, his tone full of predatory intent.

“Forty-five seconds,” he said, coming up on the three-mile marker. The instant he broke through the barrier, the rogues would be able to detect him. “Get ready.”

“We’re good tae go…hidden amid the cliffs inside the labyrinth,” Tydrin murmured, the scrape of sharp claws over rock coming through the connection.

“Keep tae the plan.” Scales clicked as Cyprus shifted, preparing to take flight. “The second Grizgunn and his pack enter the canyon behind you, bug out.”

“Got it.”

“I’m serious, Wallaig,” Cyprus said, the mistrust in his tone telling. “Protect your female and head for the lair. No heroics.”

Wallaig bared his fangs. Cold air blasted over his teeth and…bloody ever-lasting hell. He hated the fucking plan—absolutely despised the idea of leaving his brothers-in-arms behind to fight while he flew home. As the eldest of the Scottish pack, he led more than he followed. Duty dictated the path. Honor held sway over the rest, making him the first warrior into battle, and the one last out. But not tonight. His commander was right. He needed to take a backseat and let his pack mates lead the way.

A hard truth to face.

He did it anyway. Screw his pride. Forget about the desire to fight. Both needed to go on the back burner. He must protect his mate. Amantha was too precious to risk, more important than the momentary pleasure of cracking Grizgunn’s skull.

The thought centered him.

“No heroics,” he murmured, flexing his talons. “But Cy?”

“Aye.”

“Donnae miss.”

“I willnae, brother. I’m going tae rip Grizgunn’s guts out and tie a bow beneath his chin.”

He huffed. Well, all right then. Good enough. No need to doubt his friend’s commitment to the coming violence.

Adjusting his trajectory, Wallaig blew past the three-mile marker. “Amantha.”

“I’m ready,” she said, tightening her grip on him.

Nay, she wasn’t. Never would be either, but he refused to argue. “Stay low, lass. I want you pressed right up against my scales—got it?”

Amantha didn’t answer. She obeyed instead. Shifting forward, she laid down flat, pressing her belly and chest to his spine. Her cheek met his scales. She found new handholds, flexing her fingers around spikes behind his horns. Scanning the cliffs again, he increased his wing-speed and descended another one hundred feet. Whitecaps rolled beneath him, kicking up spray, coating his interlocking dragon skin with salt and sea.

The distance between him and the coast closed, bringing him within range.

His eyes narrowed, he hunted for a flash of blue on rocky outcroppings. He knew Grizgunn lay in wait. With his magic up and running, he detected multiple rogues in the vicinity, but needed the males to move. The second one of them shifted, the magical displacement would cause a chain reaction and light up his radar, allowing him to see the bastards in the dark.

A great strategy. One tiny problem.

The longer the enemy remained patient—and still—the closer Wallaig would be when the rogues took flight. Less distance to target equaled little time to react, making close quarters claw-to-claw combat a real possibility before he reached the canyon.

Smart of Grizgunn.

Bad for him.

Understanding dawned. Bloody hell. The bastards were reeling him in. Planned to tag him on the rocks and cut him off—bring him to ground—before his brothers-in-arms exited the canyon.

With a curse, Wallaig banked away from the coastline. The webbing on his wings caught air. His muscles stretched, threatening to rip as he changed direction. Pain tore across his rib cage. Wallaig didn’t care. Ignoring the claw of discomfort, he pushed harder, plotting a new trajectory. He needed to find a different entry point into the labyrinth, somewhere north of his position before—

His sonar pinged.

Movement flashed along the cliff edge.

Wallaig growled as enemy dragons left their hidey-holes. Rogues at two, six and three o’clock, wings spread wide, already in the sky. As he watched, the rogue pack organized in mid-air, forming three fighting triangles, killing all hope of him making it into the labyrinth.

“Goddamn it.” Wallaig turned north. His wingtip dipped into the water, making him wobble. He snarled, tore free of the ocean surf, and increased his velocity. “Cyprus—primary point of access no longer an option. Too many rogues for me to fly through.”

“How many?”

“Nine warriors. Three fighting triangles.”

Cyprus cursed.

“On my way,” Levin growled, wings already flapping. “Your plan?”

“Head north. Use the stone towers along the coast as cover. The mist is always heavy there. I’ll lose’em in the tall rocks.” Looking over his shoulder, he checked the rogues’ position. Less than a quarter of a mile away. Too fucking close. Another couple hundred yards, and the bastards would be within range. Close enough to exhale and unleash the fury of a fireball. Not good news for him. Even worse news for his mate. His scales would protect him from a barrage of fire and acid, but Amantha’s skin wouldn’t withstand the onslaught. She’d be burned alive, reduced to nothing but ash on top of his back. “Move yer arses, lads. I’ve got a pack of rogues on my tail.”

Attuned to his pack, he sensed his brothers-in-arms take flight. The warriors split into two groups: Levin and Kruger flew north to intercept him. Cyprus, Rannock and Tydrin took a wider path, hoping to sneak in behind Grizgunn and divide the enemy’s attention.

“Hold on, Wallaig,” Rannock said, calm even in the face of a clusterfuck.

Kruger snarled, seconding the sentiment. “We’re coming.”

Not fast enough. He needed back-up now. Before the rogues caught up, and he lost his female in the fray.