“Completely normal. You are new to Dragonkind. You donnae know what to expect, but I do,” he said, rubbing her back. “I know exactly how it’s going to go. Donnae be afraid, lass. I’ll be with you every step of the way. I will keep you safe.”
She nodded. “Okay. Let’s go…before I lose my nerve.”
He smiled against the top of her head. “Impossible. You are braver than you believe.”
“Maybe,” she said, his faith in her waking something deep inside her. Something long dormant, and as her heart came alive, cracking open, grabbing hold of him, Amantha swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t understand it, but what Wallaig thought of her mattered. She needed him to value her—to want her, no matter what happened in the next few hours. “I did threaten you with a rolling pin, after all.”
He snorted. “You clubbed me with it.”
“You deserved it.”
“Aye, and so much more,” he said, his voice guttural. “Lass?”
“Yeah?”
“I want you—today, tomorrow…forever and always. Never doubt it.”
His pronouncement startled her. She jerked against him. “You can’t know that.”
“I can.” With a quick pivot, he trapped her between his body and the railing. “Now is not the time to speak of it, but know this—you are my mate, Amantha. Mine. So you’d best get used to me fast, lass. I’m keeping you.” The thrill of being claimed grabbed hold. Hope invaded her heart. The independent woman inside her stomped on it. “I’m not a pair of shoes, Wallaig. You can’t just decide to—”
“Sure, I can. Now, hang on.” Without warning, he shifted into a dragon.
Hard scales brushed her cheek. She screeched like a sissy. “Merde! A little warning next time, please.”
Baring huge fangs, Wallaig laughed and shook his head.
Surprised she wasn’t afraid, she set her hands on her hips and glared up at him.
“And she thinks she isnae brave,” he said more to himself, than to her.
She scowled. “Listen—”
“Later, lass. Time to go. We’ve work to do.”
An enormous paw tipped by black claws reached for her. Amantha braced for contact. His blood-red talon came around her. An instant later, she landed on his back. With a shift of his massive bulk, he settled her between the spikes on his shoulder blades. Invisible tethers wrapped over the tops of her thighs, ensuring she stayed in place. He murmured, telling her to hold on, then unfurled his wings and leapt off the ship.
Her stomach dipped.
Cold air cracked against her skin a second before a warm bubble closed around her. Protected from the wind, riding Wallaig into the unknown, exhilaration took hold. She whooped as he spiralled upward, entering the night sky, making her forget she was headed into dragon battle with nothing but a pair of invisible leg straps—and absolutely no safety net.
Sixteen
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.
Seventeen
Flying fast between huge standing stones, Wallaig dodged right, then banked left, diving behind a jagged column jutting up from the sea floor. Nipping at his heels, the yellow dragon hissed behind him. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. A set of fangs flashed a second before flames flared in his periphery. The air warped. Blistering heat nipped the tip of his tail. The multi-headed spikes along his spine rattled as he roared around another rock formation and—
Boom!
The fireball slammed into the cliff above his head.
The rock face shattered. Shards rained down, pelting him with shrapnel.
Amantha called his name.
Tightening the shield protecting her, he murmured, hoping to calm her. A long shot, but…shite. Anything was better than feeling the chaotic spike of her bio-energy. Her emotion grid indicated fear. She was panicking, heart thumping hard, breathing too fast, her palms so sweaty she kept losing her grip on him.
Wallaig growled as rage too hold. Goddamn the rogues. He wanted to whip around and nail the warrior shadowing him through the rocky maze along the coastline. Not to save himself, but to spare Amantha. He couldn’t stand her pain. Hated the situation along with the necessity of bringing her to this point. And as anger on her behalf tipped into aggression, Wallaig fought to maintain control. The need to rip the yellow-scaled arsehole limb from limb coursed through him.
His mind supplied the details of the kill.
Weaving in and out, he faked right and flew left. The rogue stayed with him, dogging his every move. An imagine took shape and form inside his head. He pictured the bastard’s blood on his claws, heard the screams as he grabbed the warrior’s horns and tore his skull in t
wo.
Christ, but he wanted to do it. Turn the tide. Fight instead of flee. Kill instead of evade. Only one thing kept him from it—Amantha. He didn’t want her to see the bloodbath, never mind get any smeared on her skin. His mate deserved better from him. Was too fine to be touched by such filth, so instead of fighting, he whirled around a rock face and, cutting through thick mist, searched for a way to stay ahead of enemy claws.
Rounding a bend, he reached toward an outcropping. The sharp tips of his talons scraped over stone. A huge boulder broke away from the stone wall. Gripping it like a baseball, he spun around the next curve. White trails whistling off his wingtips, he sensed the rogue following.
“Come on. Come on,” he murmured, waiting for the male to poke his nose around the bend.
A white and yellow dragon snout appeared.
Baring his fangs, Wallaig somersaulted up and over. Halfway through the rotation, he launched the weapon. The huge rock hurtled through the air. Pale scales shimmering in the lowlight, the male squawked, tried to adjust, but—
Bull’s-eye.
The boulder slammed into his head.
Yellow scales blurred as the rogue’s neck whiplashed. His skull slammed into the side of the cliff. Stunned by the blow, the warrior hung in mid-air, struggling to stay airborne.
Kruger snarled his name.
Flipping sideways, Wallaig ducked. Green, black-tipped scales flashed in the moonlight. A bladed tailed whipped past as Kruger dove over top of him. Dark gaze glowing with demonic light, his friend grabbed the rogue by the horns. Spinning full circle, his pack mate gouged the enemy. Black claws pushed into the male’s eye sockets. Dragon blood sprayed up Kruger’s forearms as he punched through the yellow dragon’s skull. The warrior screamed. Kruger showed no mercy, and with a quick twist, snapped his neck. As the bastard died, his corpse turned to ash, sending a flurry of grey flakes into the air.
Flicking flecks from his claws, Kruger glanced his way. “Go, brother.”
“Aye. Get her out of here.” Blue, grey and gold tiger stripped scales streaked into view as Levin rocketed over the cliff edge. “We’ll hold the line until you’re safely away.”
Fury of Denial: Dragonfury Series SCOTLAND Book 3 Page 9