by Anna Morgan
Mateo lifted both his hands and extended them over the bed. A spell to keep her asleep would do the trick. He breathed. And Calla lunged upward with a knife. Mateo's vampyr rose. He flashed to the side and dodged an expert thrust aimed at his gut. She pursued with shifter-assisted speed, driving Mateo back to the wall in shock. This wasn't a flailing defense of a woman just startled from sleep. How long had she known he was there?
He'd underestimated her. A mistake he rarely made—and wouldn't make again. That was probably what he got for thinking with his cock.
Before she could gain the upper hand, Mateo pulled his sleep spell from the ether and cast it down on Calla. She dropped to the floor, the knife skittering to his feet. He picked it up, assessing it for poison or spells as he did so. It was a solid weapon, practical and unadorned. The kind of blade a warrior used in battle. And Calla wielded it with an expertise that came with decades.
Mateo tossed her pillow back and found the knife's protective sheath. He sheathed the blade and tucked the clip to his belt. That was one souvenir he was willing to claim.
Calla lay unconscious on the floor in nothing more than a loose shirt and sleep pants. He was reluctant to take her away without some practical clothing but he couldn't linger any longer. Her face twisted and he tightened the spell around her. She was fighting his hold. And winning.
Moving quickly, Mateo hauled her over one shoulder and spelled them both unnoticeable to make his escape. He left a glamour of her in the bed to stall their discovery. With any luck, her disappearance wouldn't be noticed until well into the day. He left the castle in the same way he arrived: slowly, methodically, and with patience. He kept one arm wrapped around Calla's strong legs and forcefully redirected his mind from lingering on the way her body felt against his. He was a mercenary assassin and she was his target. This distraction with her fate was unlike him.
But he couldn't help his curiosity. Who was Calla Andris the woman… and what would she feel like in his arms?
Calla fought, scraped, and clawed her way out of the living fog around her. It swirled like a mist, but as she struggled, it condensed into bands and rope, binding her down and keeping her human. She gasped awake abruptly. The ropes remained lashed around her arms and legs. She was tied to a recliner. No, an airplane seat. It was spacious, private, quiet. She twisted in the seat as far as the binding would let her, but they held fast and tight, digging like nails into her skin.
Maybe if she could shift… Calla closed her eyes and called on her dragon, pulling the beast to the surface and sensing the first ripples of the change. But then white-hot pain cracked into her body and she braced against the airplane seat in sudden, gasping awareness. She was bound to her human form. For now. As soon as she was free of these—
"I wouldn't struggle. It'll only get worse."
Calla froze. Her heart lunged up into her throat and made it hard to breathe. That voice… his dark sensuous voice… she'd known that man was trouble. Calla looked up from her seat. Mateo Guerin had one hip propped against a chair near the front of the plane. His thick arms were crossed over his chest and he watched her with sharp, unyielding eyes. He knew she was dangerous and he was on alert.
The reality of her situation crashed over her in waves. Mateo had breached their island on the pretense of entertainment, located her, somehow stole into the castle, and walked her out. She remembered waking when her room door slid open, her palm dry and sure on the handle of her dagger. She'd tried to gut him with it. Something had happened, though. Some… pressure of unconsciousness. Why hadn't she split him open?
The Delphina… Calla tamped down on a moment of true fear, worry over what would happen when her disappearance was discovered. She didn't have the luxury of fear. This creature would sense it.
She glowered at him from the chair, knowing just how ineffectual it looked. He watched her in return, wary, posture subtly tense. Her dragon rolled under the surface of her skin and she fought for calm. She would escape. And she would tear this man apart for his presumption.
The very efficient nature of her capture disturbed her, though. Mateo was competent and not to be underestimated. The enemies of the court had chosen him well. A direct fight had already failed once, and with this binding restricting her strongest self, she had to find another tactic. Some weakness she could exploit. She shifted in her seat, seeking a better position, and in the adjustment of her hips she found her strength. Mateo's eyes flicked briefly down her body. He didn't linger, he wasn't there to ogle her, but Calla was certain his attempt to seduce her backstage had been genuine. He'd wanted her. Good. She'd use that against him, somehow. She'd dismissed him before. She didn't dismiss him now.
She relaxed into the airplane chair—as much as she could, being bound—and angled her head slightly away. She lidded her eyes and sighed gently. Mateo watched, eyes narrowed. Calla closed her eyes and opened them again with the weight of her intent behind every motion. She assessed him anew, not as a warrior and enemy, but as a lover might appreciate their mate. The straight line of his hips, broad chest, and powyrful eyes all reflected in her expression.
He liked what he saw. She knew it in the way he pushed off the seat and stepped closer. There was caution in his approach, but a dark appreciation in his eyes. General Takoda was wrong, she had plenty of spitfire left in her war-torn bones and she could wield it like a weapon. She waited with the patience of a predator, tamping down anger, banishing all other emotion besides the sensuality of a woman pleased with the male in front of her. If he was stupid enough to think with his cock, and to wonder why the kidnapped First General was batting her proverbial lashes, then he got what he deserved.
Mateo leaned over her, square thumb on her jaw, fingers gripping tight. A command to look at him she couldn't refuse. He pulled his thumb down her lip and she pouted it out, resisting the urge to nibble. She wanted him to believe he could be the one to see and accept her whole—as dragon, general, and woman—he was the one who made her gasp softly. His head lowered.
Closer, mouse. Come closer.
Mateo's pupils expanded. His aura said yes, he was the one. His hard voice said, "Don't get your hopes up, little lizard. I have a delivery schedule to keep." And he turned away from her as if he were utterly unaffected by the body-melting fire between them.
Calla gasped for air, struggling against a vice in her chest that tightened with every step Mateo took. Fury ignited. How dare he walk away when she'd offered herself. He disappeared behind a privacy curtain but even that freedom was minimal in the wake of the need he'd ignited in her body. She clenched her teeth. She'd wrapped herself in her own spell, and he'd walked away, unaffected. Goddamn him. Calla spent several minutes quieting her body, unexpectedly affected. Though maybe not quite unexpectedly, considering how she'd reacted to him last night. How, for a minute, she'd wanted to allow herself to fall under the spell he wove with his husky voice and liquid eyes. The dark look promising her pleasure equal to pain.
4
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Your blood?" she replied, voice sweet. "In a priest-blessed goblet?"
Mateo sat in the seat across from her, hooking an ankle over his knee. "Blessed items are a myth, sweetheart. You should know that."
Her look was scornful. She turned her head to the small window, ignoring him.
"You know, if I thought you wouldn't eat me after, I'd be happy to take you to bed." He waited until she looked at him again, eyes narrowed. "My sense of self-preservation is much healthier than my cock, however." His faint, mocking smile managed to indicate ruefulness.
"I would give you my word," she said, and stretched, unfolding her legs. He'd brought her slinky black leggings, and a navy-blue t-shirt with a plunging neckline… and slashed sleeves. She wondered if it was the drummer's wardrobe.
Mateo's eyes followed her movements shamelessly. "The word of a female?"
"The word of the First General of the Dragon Court."
He snorted. "Even worse. Wel
l, darling, if you don't want a drink, I do."
She watched him walk away. "Bastard."
"Only in bed, Calla Andris," he said over his shoulder. "Especially in bed."
The airplane tilted downward on the final approach and Mateo returned with a pair of cuffs in hand. He traded her bindings for the golden bracers and released her from the chair. She immediately tried to shift, but the powyr just spun uselessly around the cabin. The casually raised brow Mateo shot her stung. She was better than this. She was the Delphina's First General.
Calla let herself be guided off the plane. She would bide her time, wait for an opportunity. And continue to leave crumbs of cheese; eventually the mouse would enter the trap.
5
Mateo rubbed his thumb on his fingertips again, unable to get the touch sensation of Calla's lips off his skin. He wasn't sure he wanted to get rid of it. She was surprisingly daring—and cute with the way she'd thought to seduce him. As if. She was as quick with her tactics as she was with a blade, willing to swing from violence to seduction in an instant. But she was a dragon, their seductions were often violent, weren't they? And he was the master of both.
He rubbed his thumb again, then pressed it against his lips. That moment in the plane, when she'd lidded her eyes, had changed something in him. Mateo had to physically stop himself from rushing her and that alarmed him. His gums ached for her blood. His lips ached for her skin. He took a deep breath and pretended he could smell the wood-fire smoke that was her unique dragon scent. His body had demanded contact but the single touch of his fingers to her chin was far from sufficient. Even now, half a castle away from her securely locked door, he craved her presence. Damn her, anyway. With her attempt at seduction she'd ripped herself out of the innocent category he'd attempted to shelve her in to control his need. But with that little maneuver, he had a difficult time not considering her fair game. She wanted to play? They would play.
But something was certainly different and he had to speak with his sire about it. Nothing had been the same since they spoke on the phone. And this need to possess and… devour Calla was a threat to his ongoing mission. The cognate's will was absolute, their ongoing security his highest concern; anything that directed him away from maintaining secrecy, loyalty, and total control of his place as a vampyr had to be addressed swiftly.
Mateo dropped his hand to the deeply carved door and pushed it silently inward. His foster-father held court with three others, their dark powyr a flame that burned in the center of the room. None turned to address him until Estophen himself lifted his head. Four pairs of eyes descended on him and Mateo called his vampyr to the surface. Their powyr pushed against his, testing for weakness and finding none. Family. Couldn't live without them—and couldn't live at all if they thought him weak. Mateo narrowed his stare at his sire and strode confidently into the room.
This was an aspect of the cognate he didn't miss. Audience with his sire, a closeness with others as powyrful as he, yes, but this constant testing of wills, the inability to let his guard down even for a moment—there was no way to relax here or he'd be taken for a short, sunny walk. Perhaps it wasn't just the dragons who were fond of their violent tendencies.
Mateo passed the first vampyr in the room, a woman who appeared younger than he, but had been turned nearly a century before. Lupe, of few words. Her powyr burned in consistent pressure against his. He pushed back until his fire surrounded her, and didn't relent until she retreated in acknowledgement.
The remaining gauntlet doubled their assault, creating a physical swirl of wind in the hall. Mateo paused, forced to concentrate his powyr around him or be swept, literally, off his feet. The two vampyrs he faced now were his social equals. Lorra, his foster-sister and Estophen's second Descent, was as ruthless in court as she was on the battlefield. He'd seen her eviscerate enemies with both teeth and tongue. He pushed against her now, refusing to submit to her, denying her the opportunity to flex her muscles here. He wasn't one of her enthralled human servants.
The other vampyr he struggled against laughed deep and long. Kragen, Mateo's foster-brother, eternal rival, and Estophen's first Descent, threw his head back and dumped a reckless volley of strength into his show of powyr. The metaphysical flames around him became real, burning around him in dark shadows without fuel or smoke. His pressure increased.
Lorra snarled and the rippling change came across her face. Ridges pulled up in rows over her forehead and she turned to hiss at Kragen. They pushed against each other as fiercely as they fought Mateo, always challenging, always seeking the edge of dominance. Their combined strength forced Lupe from the room.
Then a heavy mist swirled into the space between them, smothering the fires on this plane and the next. Estophen intervened like a weighted blanket, bringing all three of them back down to a conversational level. As the pressure around him eased, Mateo relaxed his outward push. There was no fighting his sire. He brought his powyr close instead, holding it for the next inevitable challenge.
"My children… always testing your strength, reaching for new heights. You never cease to please me." Estophen smiled widely. Then he forced his indomitable will into the very air around him. It struck Mateo over the head and he lowered to his knees, jaw locked. His only consolation was the sound of Lorra and Kragen being forced down with him. They were powyrful beings, but under Estophen's thumb, they were mere children. Ants to torment at will. He never passed an opportunity to remind them.
"My children," he repeated. "You must grow out of this showy arrogance. A true vampyr doesn't fight constantly for his place. He seizes it without hesitation." Estophen fisted one hand in emphasis.
Kragen pulled his head up and growled at their sire, fangs down and his vampyr in full force. His eyes flashed red.
Estophen took a single step forward and pointed at Kragen. "Sheath your milk fangs, fledgling, your insecurity is showing."
Mateo suppressed a smile. Kragen had been taunted into flashing his fangs, a show of fear that Estophen wouldn't tolerate. Lorra's vampyr had come full to the surface, changing her face and eyes, but she retained control of her teeth. Mateo had only called his other self high enough to defend his position in the cognate. He showed neither fangs nor facial ridges. It was a minor victory, but victory nonetheless. He suspected Estophen manufactured these little spats to keep them all in fighting shape. Something roiled under the surface, some energy Mateo wrestled to bring under control, a rebellion he'd never felt before. He shuttered it, filing away the instincts to examine later, when he was alone.
"Leave us," Estophen demanded, shoving his palm and powyr at Kragen hard enough to slide him away. Kragen stumbled to his feet, snapping at Mateo as he passed. Mateo growled back but kept his place. He knew how to pick his battles.
The oppressive blanket lifted, the mist dissipating into the floor. Mateo sat up and saw Lorra do the same. She had successfully drawn her vampyr back down and lost the ridges that marked the first stages of the change. She flashed sharp eyes at him, though, and he knew her powyr simmered at the surface, ready to fight again.
Mateo inclined his head slightly. "I'm here only to report on my assignment. Your position is secure, sister."
"So you say." But she turned to face Estophen without challenging his right to be there.
Estophen gestured with one hand, turning away towards the dais at the front of the hall. That he exposed his back to them raised Mateo's ire, but his sire had already proven he could afford to dismiss them.
"You did tell them the next time they saw you, they had better guard their backs."
Mateo grimaced. He remembered the argument. He'd been angry at the time, some trivial matter he could hardly recall now, and succumbed to temper and threats. He hadn't really thought they'd take him seriously.
"Your strength has grown in the last several years, son," he added. "They begin to fear you."
Mateo grimaced and turned to business. "The First General is safely behind lock and key, Sire. She's shackled as directed
."
"And uninjured?"
"Yes, Sire. Untouched. She could try to best me in human form—but I believe she is canny enough to realize she's weaker without the dragon strength to draw on." Mateo said it with satisfaction. How many of them could say they'd stolen into the royal home of the dragon clans and taken their lauded warrior and strategist without a scratch to either of them? Had been able to imprison a powyrful beast to human form, containing its strength?
"Adequate," Estophen said. The ruler of their cognate was notoriously difficult to please. "I'll inform the client. You'll wait until further instruction."
"Yes, Sire."
After a lengthy pause, Estophen turned slightly, his long-fingered hand trailing on the arm of the dais. "What is it?"
Mateo lowered his head, choosing his words carefully, especially since Lorra was still present, listening. "I am not indifferent to her fate. It is… difficult for me to be away from her." It was more than difficult. He couldn't go five minutes without thinking about Calla, without imagining the expanse of her skin under his palms. "I feel…" he made a fist with one hand, knowing every word was a step away from the cognate's will, but he couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to stop himself. He'd never felt this kind of desire—
"She has be-spelled you."
Mateo's stomach dropped. Was that the answer? Calla had been unable to shift since he caught her, but what was the true extent of a dragon's powyr? He didn't know.
"Open to me," Estophen said, palm out to Mateo, and waited. They were long past the days when his sire could open Mateo's mental shields with impunity. Another sign of his growing strength. Mateo relented, relaxing his guard, and Estophen's powyr flooded his mind. He gritted his teeth, disliking the vulnerability of having the elder vampyr shuffling through his head. But he endured, because he'd opened the door by asking for help.