He looked inside himself for his dragon. It wasn’t there.
Fear clutched his chest.
You knew this might happen, he told himself. It’s okay. You knew it might happen. But the fear only grew stronger. His dragon was a part of him. It couldn’t be gone.
He rolled gently away from Rebel, still careful not to wake her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tried to blow a small bit of flame out of his mouth.
Just a little.
There was nothing. The fire that had always burned inside him was gone, as cold and dark as an empty fireplace.
He felt like he couldn’t breathe. No matter how many scientific reports he read, nothing could prepare him for finding the other half of himself had just… vanished.
He left the room and stumbled out into the backyard, still feeling like a weight was crushing his chest. Panic attack, he thought dimly. Dragons don’t have panic attacks.
But he wasn’t a dragon anymore.
Once he was out in the yard, he called his dragon and tried to Change. Nothing happened. He tried again, and again, as if somehow it wasn’t real, as if something would be different.
His heart was pounding now, and he sank to the ground. His dragon couldn’t be dead. It was just a neurological thing. The reports said it might wear off. It would wear off.
Unless it didn’t.
He tried to be logical and rational, repeating the statistics and percentages. But then he saw, amongst the grass, a scattering of dragon scales shimmering blue in the sunlight. Dropped from when he’d been here a few weeks ago, crazed with treasure fever, with Tyr and Rebel fighting him.
He gathered them up, slowly at first, then more and more frantically. When he couldn’t find any more, he sank to the ground in the middle of Rebel’s backyard, clutching the scales in his human hands.
Somewhere, dimly, he heard a low keening sound of grief.
Rebel woke all at once, sitting straight up and staring around the room.
Thorne was gone, and somewhere outside there was the saddest sound she’d ever heard.
Grabbing her t-shirt and pulling it on, she followed the sound out the back door and onto the porch. Thorne was sitting in the middle of her backyard, naked, staring down at his hands. He was quiet now, but his jaw was clenched with the effort of keeping his feelings inside.
She walked slowly over to him. He was holding a handful of dragon scales like the ones in her bracelet, holding them so tightly it seemed like they would cut into his palms.
She lowered herself slowly into the grass next to him. She hesitated a minute, then reached out and put her hand over his.
“He’s gone,” Thorne said.
“Who?” she asked softly. But she knew.
“My dragon. My dragon is gone.” The devastation in his voice tore at her heart.
She rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Maybe he’s not gone for good,” she said. “Lots of other shifters who took the serum got their animals back.”
He nodded. “I know.” He went quiet again, and she waited. “I thought I prepared myself,” he said. “I thought I was being so brave. But I didn’t know it would feel like this.”
Rebel’s heart wanted to break, and as always when she felt that way, she took refuge in snarkiness. “You are brave, Lizard,” she said. “You took me on, and I’m fucking scary.”
To her surprise, it seemed to be the right thing to say. A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth, just for a second.
“That’s true, you are,” he said. But he tilted his head to rest it against hers.
“He’s coming back,” she said, trying to sound as confident as she could.
“How do you know?”
Was that a tiny bit of hope she heard?
“He told me.”
He pulled back and turned toward her. “When?”
“In the spirit world. He said he had to go for a while, because fighting to keep him was killing you. But he said he’d be there. Waiting.”
“In the spirit world?” Thorne’s voice grew thoughtful.
Rebel nodded. Thorne didn’t say what they were both thinking—just because the dragon didn’t know he was dying, didn’t mean he wasn’t.
Rebel stroked the bracelet on her left wrist. She could still feel life in the scales, as though part of Thorne’s dragon was there with her still.
Not a dead memorial, but part of his spirit.
“We’ll get him back,” she promised recklessly. “You can’t give up. You don’t give up. You’re Thorne Greystone. We’re going to kick Vyrkos’ ass, and then we’re going to get your dragon back, and everyone’s going to live happily ever after.”
She didn’t know how they were going to make all that happen, but she got her reward. Thorne nodded and got to his feet. “Okay. Then let’s do it.”
The first thing was to get Thorne inside and into the shower. He was weak and dizzy, despite—or maybe because of—the mind-blowing sex they’d had earlier. She could see how much of a toll the serum had taken on his body.
That should have drawn them closer, but now that the crisis was over she felt strange and awkward with him. This Thorne was a stranger to her.
While he was showering, she managed to find a t-shirt and sweats in her closet that would fit him, just in case his dragon clothes-conjuring trick wasn’t working either.
Then she got out a small leather bag embroidered with magical symbols, and carefully put the dragon scales inside it. They felt important, though she didn’t know why.
Thorne came out of she shower with a towel wrapped around him, looking mouth-wateringly gorgeous and just a little lost and uncertain.
Her heart lurched. “Here, I found these for you,” she said, thrusting the clothes at him. “Put them on, and let’s get going back to the lair. I know what you need.”
Chapter 22
It felt odd to Thorne, riding in Rebel’s ancient Pontiac while she drove. He was used to flying, or driving in one of the luxury SUVs he kept for the use of himself and his brothers. Rebel’s car was nothing like that. The seats were worn, with tears in the upholstery, and there were fast-food wrappers on the floor and crumbs in the cup holder.
It was as alien to him as she was. He watched her profile, calm and distant as they snaked up Germantown Road toward Skyline Drive.
Was it true she’d claimed him as her mate? He thought it would feel… different. That she would feel different. Act different.
Was any of what he remembered from last night real, or was it just more dreams?
The woman whose heat and passion and will had brought him back from the edge of death was gone. Her walls were back up, and he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
Of course, it might be easier if all the demons of hell weren’t pounding the inside of his skull with sledgehammers. He closed his eyes as they bounced over a pothole, rattling the driver’s door and his brain at the same time.
Fucking hell.
Mate. She had said it, hadn’t she? He remembered fire, and pain, and lying with her in the dark of the spirit world. A feeling in his chest like a sunrise. Joy, soaring on wings.
He’d never soar through the sky again. The feeling in his chest turned to lead.
She looked over at him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
“You okay, Lizard?”
“Don’t call me that!” It came out a snarl.
There was a brief silence. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
He gritted his teeth. This wasn’t her fault. She’d saved him. “I know. Just—don’t.” It hurt too much.
She nodded, then returned her attention to the road.
A wave of dizziness swept over Thorne, leaving him feeling weak. What the hell was wrong with him? Why wasn’t being with her making him feel better?
Maybe they hadn’t bonded at all. Maybe it was a dream.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. Stop hurting. Stop.
He blurted out, “Did you reall
y tell Vyrkos we were mates?” Maybe if they were, she could heal him. Mates could heal each other, right?
She glanced over at him, her eyes cool and unreadable. “I had to tell him something,” she said. “He was claiming to be your king and your god, and commanding you to stay dragon. You were having major seizures, for fuck’s sake. I would have told him anything to get him to leave you alone.”
But it had worked. Surely only a true mating bond could have that power.
“What exactly did you say?” Had she claimed him? Had she pledged herself as his mate?
She shrugged. “Dude. I don’t remember. It’s all a blur.” She paused. “I’m just glad you made it through.”
She didn’t want to be his mate. She’d only said what she needed to say to beat Vyrkos—whatever she could think of in the heat of the moment.
Just like she’d made love to him in the heat of the moment. Because he needed her, and Rebel couldn’t help responding to someone who needed her.
That didn’t mean she wouldn’t walk away once he’d stopped needing her.
So what? he told himself. The Seal was the most important thing. Even if she didn’t have feelings for him, if they could still manage to find the Seal, it would be okay.
But his heart said differently. He felt cold, and empty. He didn’t have a mate. He didn’t have his dragon. He had no one.
He had his duty, and his mission. He tried to take comfort in that, but his head was hurting so bad he could hardly see.
He’d never felt so alone.
It seemed an eternity before they got back to the lair. Rebel drove up the winding driveway and parked in front of the garage. She had to help him out of the car; wavy images moved across his vision, making him nauseated.
“Come on,” Rebel said in his ear, her arm around his waist. “You’ll be okay soon.”
“Get Tyr,” he said. His brother was their healer—maybe he could find something that could help. If this was what the BioGen scientists had done to all those shifters who took the serum, he was going to go back there and kill them.
“Soon,” she said. “You need to lie down first.”
She helped him into the house and down the hall to the elevator, keeping her arm around him even when he was leaning against the velvet wall of the elevator car.
It felt good, having her strong, solid body next to his. Shouldering some of his burden.
No, he couldn’t put that on her. After they found the Seals, he would have to set her free.
That thought was like a knife in the gut.
He’d stopped paying attention to where they were going, just concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Finally Rebel pushed open a carved wooden door and led him inside a room.
Instantly his head began to clear. He looked around—and then realized where he was.
His lair. With his hoard.
A howl began deep in his chest and threatened to burst out of his lungs. He forced it back. He’d never let anyone see his worst pain, and he wasn’t going to start now.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked. “This is a dragon’s hoard. I’m not a dragon. It won’t want me.”
Dragons were bonded to their hoards, almost like bonding to a mate. Their gold and gems strengthened them, healed them, sang to them. They comforted them, mourned with them, rejoiced with them.
He’d lost enough today. He couldn’t handle being rejected by his hoard.
“Shh,” Rebel said. “Listen.”
She stood behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, her breathing deep and even. Slowly, slowly, his own breathing began to match hers. His body relaxed.
And he heard it.
A low, deep harmony, almost too low for humans to hear. It rose as he listened to it, growing louder, rising up through the stone floor and into his bones and muscles, his blood and cells.
His hoard was singing.
He felt something shift inside him, as if a crowd of chaotic, discordant sounds were tuning themselves to the song of the gold. The shattering pounding of his skull began to abate, and his vision cleared.
Whatever he looked like, whatever he felt inside, his hoard still recognized him as a dragon.
There was still hope.
Thorne sank down on a pile of gold coins, eyes closed, fighting the tears.
Chapter 23
Rebel sat next to Thorne in his lair, listening to his hoard sing. The vibration made her uncomfortable, and something pointy was digging into her left hip. She guessed you had to have dragon hide to enjoy hanging out on a pile of gold.
Thorne lay back, stretching out. To Rebel’s surprise, the gold moved as he lay down on it, shifting and molding itself to cradle the contours of his body. He let out a deep sigh, like someone lying down on a soft, comfortable mattress when they were exhausted.
This was so unfair to him. He’d spent years—decades—protecting Portland and everyone in it. He’d taken the serum so he could keep doing it, and look what happened. His dragon had been stolen from him.
She couldn’t imagine what that must feel like. She’d lost her parents, and the pain of that was so bad she refused to go back and think about that night. Ever.
Thorne had been through that, too. And this must be even worse. Tears stung her eyes.
Fucking dragon. Making her feel things again. Making her care.
The dragon-scale bracelet vibrated with the gentle hum of Thorne’s hoard, making her antsy. She stood up, rubbing her wrist. She didn’t belong in here. The song felt wrong to her. She remembered Blaze talking about how the song of Zane’s hoard welcomed her in.
One more reason to believe she wasn’t the Destined Mate. Or the Keeper of the Seal.
For the first time, looking at Thorne lying there, she wished she was. She wished what she’d told Vyrkos was true—that Thorne was her mate, that she could commit to him and love him and just not look back, not look for a way out, not look ahead to when it all went wrong.
Because it would.
The bracelet grew warm, almost hot. So did a spot on her thigh, under the pocket of her cargo pants.
The dragon scales. She pulled the bag out of her pocket. It felt like the scales were moving inside the bag, like they were… alive.
No problem. She’d be happy to. They were freaking her out.
She went over to the wooden workbench near the fireplace. It had lots of tiny tools and spools of gold and silver wire, and piles of gemstones in little dishes like beads, and what looked like a forge, with molds and hammers and pliers and other things that she had no clue what they were.
There was also a cuff bracelet made of gold filigree. Rebel rubbed hers again. A mate to this one?
She glanced back at Thorne. His color was already better, and he looked more relaxed.
Rebel opened the bag of dragon scales and dumped them on the worktop. She almost expected them to attack her hand like little leeches or something, but they drifted out across the table like feathers, moving toward the other bracelet.
Then, as she watched in fascination, they burrowed their way into the gaps in the wire. All different shades of blue, shimmering in the light from the sconces on the wall.
In a few minutes, they were all gone—part of the bracelet. Rebel picked it up and turned it over.
The dragon scales had formed a design. Not a dolphin this time, but a pair of stylized dragon wings.
The hoard had given Thorne back his wings.
Rebel went over and sat down next to him. “Thorne?” she whispered.
There was only the sound of his deep, even breathing. He was asleep.
Rebel reached over and slid the bracelet onto his wrist. It molded to his arm, the way hers did. In his sleep, Thorne smiled.
The sight of that took her breath away. He was supernaturally gorgeous, with his unruly black hair and sculptured cheekbones. He had a little stubble on his cheeks, just enough to be sexy.
As if he needed any help.
Her t-shirt was too tight on him, outlining his pecs and shoulders, his biceps stretching the sleeves. Her sweats clung to his muscular thighs.
But his face drew her gaze back to it. Long, dark lashes resting on his still too-pale cheeks. The tightness around his eyes still hadn’t relaxed.
He had the weight of the world on his shoulders. She knew what that felt like, when it was only the responsibility for taking care of her sister. His responsibility was so much more.
She remembered what the dragon had told her.
She doubted that. She had too many holes and empty places in her heart—there was no way she could make anybody whole.
But maybe she could make Thorne less lonely.
She leaned over and kissed his forehead, and he reached out in his sleep and took her hand. Rebel lay down next to him, her head on his shoulder, and this time the hoard shifted underneath her, softening and molding itself to her body.
Maybe lying on a bed of gold wasn’t too uncomfortable after all. Suddenly the song of the gold seemed soothing, welcoming, and she drifted off into sleep.
She was awakened by Tyr’s voice. “Thorne? Are you okay? You’ve been asleep for hours. I know how pissy you are about your hoard privacy, but I’m coming in.”
The door creaked open and Tyr poked his head through the crack, a bluish magical shield undulating around it like a depressed soap bubble. She assumed that was in case Thorne woke up suddenly and decided to flame him for invading his lair.
Tyr’s eyes went wide when he saw the two of them. “Holy fuck. He’s human. It worked!”
Rebel sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Shh,” she hissed at Tyr. “Don’t wake him up. He’s exhausted.”
“Too late,” Thorne said without opening his eyes. “I’m awake. How many thousand times have I told you not to come busting into my lair without knocking? In fact, how many times have I told you not to come in here at all?”
Tyr counted on his fingers. “Approximately once a week, fifty-two weeks, ten years and three months… only about five hundred and forty times. It just seems like more.”
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