by Meg Ripley
He collapsed on the ground and she landed hard on top of him. Feeling the slackening of his hands on her wrists, she tugged forcefully, but as she lunged to her feet, the man—the ringleader—who she had sent flying a moment before was there, and he grabbed her arms, his grip digging so deep into her arms, she heard the crack of her bones shattering.
A wave of panic came crashing down as she cried out in pain. He laughed, but it sounded like a snarl. She searched her mind frantically for the calm that had settled over her, that had given her body more power than she thought possible, but it was just out of reach. She didn’t know how to pull it back. She had no idea where it had come from. And then it leapt even further away as two sets of hands joined the ringleader’s, holding her tightly in vice-like grips.
She was trapped.
Chapter 6
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.
Chapter 7
Oh no, not again! she thought as she opened her eyes to unfamiliar surroundings.
She didn’t recognize the paintings on the wall or the curtains on the windows. The bed on which she laid was not her own, and the satin sheets against her skin were far too luxurious for her budget. Her breathing came faster as her eyes darted back and forth, searching for anything familiar.
Nothing.
But this wasn’t like the last time. For one thing, she could clearly remember the panic that had welled up inside her the last time she’d woken up with no memory of anything. If she’d lost her memory, then how could she remember the last time it had happened?
And there was more. She remembered walking out of the museum, and the fear that had grabbed hold of her when she spied the man in the parking lot.
And the strange calm that had come over her seconds before she’d turned into some sort of human fighting machine.
Where the hell had that come from? The woman with the strength of ten men? Well, perhaps not quite so much. She could also clearly remember when the group of them had overpowered her. She’d given in to a split second of fear, and the calm that had settled over her fled just long enough to render her ineffective against them.
The rest came back to her quickly. A man had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, but her vision had been so blurry, she hadn’t been able to see him clearly. He’d fought them though, she was sure of it, and watching the mesmerizing way he moved, she’d felt the calm come back to her.
But what happened? One minute, she’d been back on her feet fighting, and the next…she had no idea.
She looked down at her body, inspecting her physical condition, which surprisingly wasn’t so bad. There was blood on her torn clothing, but it didn’t appear to be hers because she bore no evidence of injury. Her wrists were smooth and flawless, despite the vicious grasp that held them and there were no bruises where the man had crushed her arms in his grasp. She could still clearly recall the painful throbbing in her face, quite certain at the time she’d broken every bone from her forehead to her jaw, but there was no pain there now.
But why couldn’t she remember what had happened next?
She tested the back of her head with her fingers, searching for some sign of injury that could explain it, but found none. Quickly she realized though that the biggest problem she faced at the moment was figuring out where she was, not how she got there.
Had they taken her somewhere? Was she being held captive? And again…why?
She leapt from the bed suddenly alert, looking for something—anything—she could use as a weapon. If she’d failed fighting with her hands, then she needed something more. She’d be ready the moment they opened that door.
The pickings were slim, but she found a candlestick. It was very old, but sturdy, and the base of it was embellished with gold leaves, each of which came to a nasty point.
She’d no sooner picked it up when the door began to open, so slowly, her anticipation grew and stretched taut. She clutched the makeshift weapon tight, prepared to attack, but then she froze.
It was Grant, and seeing him now, she was suddenly quite certain he was the man who had come to her rescue last night—or, at least she thought. But if he’d been there to help her, why was he holding her captive now? Her arm shook with her indecision.
“Is that any way to say thank you?” he asked, his deep whisky voice making her muscles relax just a little. While he appeared at ease, he also seemed to be eyeing her just as suspiciously as she was eyeing him.
“Where am I?” she asked, delaying the decision to attack.
“You’re in my home.”
Why would he tell her that if he had any intentions of letting her go? Why would he have shown his face, for that matter? A niggle of fear tickled the base of her spine, but she forced it back, remembering what had happened when she’d let the paralyzing emotion rise up.
“Why am I here?”
He chuckled lightly, but then his look turned serious. “What… are you, Freya?” he asked.
What? She wasn’t a ‘what,’ she was a ‘who.’ “I’m Freya Cullen, as you very well know. What am I doing here?”
He ignored her question, throwing his previous one back at her. “What are you?”
It was her turn to ignore him. “What are you going to do with me?”
Whatever his plan for her, she had no intention of going along with it, but she could try to glean as much information as possible.
He stared back at her; his eyes met hers, and it seemed like he was searching for something. Like yesterday, it felt like he was trying to see deeper, but his broad shoulders relaxed a moment later, and the look on his face changed.
“I plan to take you home once you’re up for it, which appears to be soon,” he said, glancing down the length of her body. “And I trust you’ll stay out of trouble in the future.”
“You’re going to let me go?”
Was he the decoy sent to put her at ease? If so, he was one hell of a decoy. Despite the upheaval going on inside her, she was innately aware of him; his broad chest and muscular arms barely concealed beneath a soft cotton T-shirt; the slim taper of his hips drawing her gaze downward, settling on the bulge beneath the fly of his jeans that couldn’t possibly be all him. Could it?
If those men were hiding somewhere beyond that door, waiting for her to let h
er guard down, she was sunk. But he wasn’t like them; some part of her was sure of it.
“You…you aren’t one of them.”
“No,” he replied simply.
“Then why did you bring me here?”
He was silent for a moment, and it appeared that he’d turned inward, as if he were searching for an answer to that question, too. “You were unconscious,” he said matter-of-factly. “It didn’t seem wise to leave you to see to your own well-being.”
“Thank you,” she said after a long, troubled moment, staring at him, trying to ignore the awareness that was sending tremors of desire through her veins. And by the heat in his eyes, she’d guess he was experiencing the same thing. But there was still no proof his intentions weren’t sinister. It could still be a ploy, and even if it wasn’t, she needed to get out of there; to go home and try to sort through all that had happened.
“Look, I appreciate your help, but I really have to go.”
He was silent for a long moment, but then he nodded. “As you wish. There are clothes next to the bed. I’ll be down the hall when you’re ready.” He looked at her for a few more seconds, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She listened closely, waiting to hear the turn of a lock, but she heard nothing except his footsteps that grew quieter with every step.
Reeling with confusion, she found the clothes he’d mentioned next to the bed and stripped out of the dress that had been torn in so many places, it did little more than create a lace-like cover over her body. Undressed, she surveyed her body once more, still amazed that she hadn’t suffered more damage. There was a yellowish bruise on her hip she hadn’t noticed at first, but aside from that, she’d escaped unscathed.
She slipped into the borrowed clothing and then hesitated. It could still be a trap; there was no proof otherwise. But then, why would he go through the charade of pretending to let her go?