by Lora Leigh
Emma Jane stared back at Ilya, seeing the shadows in his pale green eyes, as well as the regret and sorrow. He was breaking her heart. There was so much sorrow in his gaze, and above his left brow, in the dragon’s face, she imagined she saw loneliness, sadness.
“I promise, Ilya,” she answered, reaching out, her hand touching his face, the prickle of his short beard against her palm, rasping the flesh. “I won’t cry. But if you find out who it is, you better strike fast because my gun shoots as well as anyone else’s.”
The thought that anyone would try to hurt him by using someone he had helped, because he might care for them, infuriated her. No one was allowed to hurt him. This strong, stubborn man, so determined to ensure no one was harmed because of him, was the man she loved.
She loved him. And she had never loved anyone as she did Ilya.
His expression softened at her words, a brow arching just a bit, the dragon’s face shifting enough to watch her almost warily, as though uncertain whether or not she was telling the truth.
“My fierce little love,” he drawled, lips lowering to touch hers, and despite the pain, despite the bruised state of her body, she felt herself responding to him.
As he eased back, she licked the taste of him from her lips and watched as he rose from the bed, wishing that kiss had been longer, deeper.
“Rest for now. Elizaveta will let you know when your brother arrives,” he promised her. “Goodnight, Emma Jane.”
chapter sixteen
Ilya was pulling away from her, Emma Jane acknowledged the next several nights later.
He didn’t come to bed until nearly daylight and he was up and gone before she woke. He’d stayed busy all day, stopping in the living room where she channel-surfed, napped on the couch, or pretended to read, only occasionally.
The bruising, though deep enough in certain areas that moving could still be uncomfortable, was healing.
Rest would cure it, her doctor had promised, and she took the advice seriously. If anything else happened she wanted to be able to run, fight, or shoot, whatever she needed to do.
The night she had stood outside the living room and listened to Ilya and Ronan talk in the darkness almost seemed like a dream now. His voice hollow, filled with bitterness and echoing with loneliness, still had the power to tighten her throat with the need to cry. Her proud, fierce dragon forced himself into the loneliness that she often saw in his gaze. He was so determined that no one he loved be hurt that he had made the decision to simply not love.
That wasn’t the man who faced her after the explosion, nor was it the man who sat at a desk across the room that evening, phone and laptop both in use.
He’d told Ronan she was balaur pereche, dragon mate. His mate. That incredible tattoo on his chest, layered to appear to sink inside his flesh, the gem floating in those ghostly claws, held safely against his heart, was for her. Her birthstone.
Her dragon.
And he was just going to walk away from her when all this was over.
She picked at the throw blanket covering her legs as she stared at some nature program on the television. The lights were low, the lamp Ilya had on the desk illuminating his features in perfect detail.
He was so handsome.
The tattoo and scars merely emphasized the danger that emanated from him and added to the arrogant cut of his features.
The iridescent scales of the dragon seemed ever changing, shifting or flexing with the slightest shift of his facial muscles. Watching it now, she swore it stared back at her in loneliness, as though aching to join her.
Pure fancy, she thought. It amazed her, though, how that dragon could give the impression of emotion that Ilya’s face usually lacked.
It was a tattoo, it wasn’t alive.
But when she glanced back, it hadn’t changed, the head seemed tilted just enough to keep its eyes on her, its scaled features locked in somber isolation.
Poor Dragon, she thought. So stubborn and proud. And she had no idea how to get past that stubbornness or that pride. How to tell him without revealing what she knew that she ached to be the light to his darkness. That she wanted nothing more than to spend her days, her nights, showing him what love really was.
She finally gave up on the television and just watched that tattoo, letting fancy take her as Ilya’s head shifted to look at the laptop. The scaled features and red eyes of the dragon seemed to peer at the laptop as well, in complete boredom now.
Then the dragon gave the impression of drowsiness.
She grinned at the fanciful thought.
A second later Ilya’s brow arched, lifting the dragon’s head until it looked back at her arrogantly.
“You should be resting,” he reminded her, his attention still on the laptop.
“Your dragon is bored,” she drawled. “You know, Mikayla and I used to sit around after seeing you in the news or society pages and talk about how interesting that dragon was. Whoever did the work was a master. I agree with her—it seems alive at times.”
Ilya seemed to freeze for a moment before he sat back in his chair and watched her curiously.
“Alive? How so?” he asked.
She grinned at the question. “Ilya, sometimes the dragon seems amused, or curious, sometimes angry. With me, he’s incredibly flirtatious.”
It seemed fanciful, but she couldn’t help noticing when it happened.
“You rarely show emotion on your face, but sometimes the dragon does.” She remembered Ronan’s amused disbelief when she mentioned it to him.
He’d actually laughed at her.
“A strange phenomena indeed.” The gentle mockery in his voice almost made her laugh.
“Maybe it’s just me.” She shrugged. “Or maybe your dragon just really likes impressing me.”
His brow lifted again. “I have no doubt he does,” he agreed. “He has rather good taste.”
Emma Jane’s soft laughter stroked over Ilya’s senses, calming them, arousing them, making his skin ache for her touch. It was soft and warm, everything he wasn’t. Everything he had never had in his life until his Emma Jane. And keeping his distance from her was killing him. He literally ached for her touch and it wasn’t just the lust that rose inside him for her. He wanted to feel her warmth, just feel her against him longer than the few hours he was allowing himself at night.
As he watched her, ached for her, he rolled her to her back and propped the pillows beneath her shoulders. She watched him fully now.
“Who did the work? They were amazing in their artistry,” she said, her gray eyes stroking over him.
“My grandfather,” he answered, remembering the old man’s tears as they ran over his craggy face while he did the work. “Sometimes Grandmother will draw a design if something or someone touches her, but Grandfather always does the work.”
She bit at her lip, questions burning in her eyes, Ilya thought. She wasn’t adept at hiding her curiosity.
“What?” he demanded. “Whatever’s on your mind, ask it.”
She picked at the edge of her blanket again before looking at him once again, her expression filled with compassion and regret.
“Did he do the tattoo to cover the scars on your face?”
Ilya stared at the top of the desk for a moment, hating the past and its memories. Thankfully, memories of his grandparents represented a short grace period of peace in his young life.
“He did,” he finally answered her. “But the dragon would have been mine eventually. I’m the Dragon’s grandson, and the Dragon heir. It’s a tradition among my people.”
But he should have been with the Dragon from birth and with their people, not trying to survive in hell.
“Is it tradition to place it on the face?” It was evident she liked his dragon there though. Of all the women he’d known, only Emma Jane had found pleasure in the ink.
“I’m the first to carry it on my face,” he confirmed. “The son chooses where to carry his dragon, and though it’s generally on the forearm, my f
ather wore his on the left side of his neck. It has to be seen, be identifiable, or its protection is limited.”
He could see her hunger for information, to know more than just his body, his here and now. And there was so much he needed to keep hidden from her.
“My father was Romanian, my … mother, for lack of a better term, from Russia. As the Dragon heir I’m head of our people when my grandfather steps down. Until then, the ink proclaims me the Dragon grandson and heir.” He grinned in anticipation of how she would take the coming information. “When Grandfather steps down, I’ll be head of all the dragon tribes and those loyal to them. You could say I’m a prince of a very large, far-flung nation of gypsies.”
There were many in America now, Ilya thought, as he watched Emma Jane’s eyes widen in surprise and anticipation. He’d stayed distant from his legacy, denied it whenever he had a chance, until now. If he had to take his place to protect her, then the sacrifice would be more than worth it.
No one could gather intel like gypsies, especially those of the dragon tribes. If he knew his grandparents, at this moment they were heading in from France, aunts, uncles, and cousins converging from other areas. Thieves, cutthroats, and assassins dropping good-paying jobs to come to the heir’s aid.
He could feel them drawing near, he always had. It was his link to his people, his grandfather had always told him. Once they were there, he’d take his place as the Dragon officially, then no thief or assassin in the world could hide from him.
“Gypsies?” She sat up, breathing the word as though the thought of it were treasure. “Honestly? Ilya, what a man of mystery you are. I would have never guessed,” she teased him.
His lips twitched at her mirth. “The tribes keep their secrets among themselves. They wouldn’t survive otherwise.”
Emma Jane watched him, a little awed now. She knew her dragon was so damned arrogant for a reason. And how could one boring receptionist hope to hold such a man? If she hadn’t realized before how hopeless her love was for him, then she did now.
“When you have a son, will you do his tattoo?” she asked, aching at the thought that it wouldn’t be her to give him that child.
“It’s tradition.” He nodded, his gaze somber, the dragon appeared despondent. “I’ve trained with the ink since Grandfather found me. He refuses to allow me to slip. Only the Dragon can ink those of his tribe with the dragon our name comes from, and each generation brings its own gifts in the work with the ink.”
They would have made beautiful babies, she thought. Wild, intelligent, and bold as brass.
“Can you tattoo someone that isn’t part of your group?” she asked, watching him intently, the question far more than it appeared, and he knew it.
“Only the Dragon or his heir can if it’s a dragon image. So I can mark anyone I choose,” he told her. “In any way I choose. But there are rules. You can ask for my ink, but you have to let me choose the design and where. The dragon image isn’t one we take lightly.”
There was nothing he wanted more than to mark her as his woman, to place his dragon on her wrist for all the world and his people to see. But the most dangerous of his enemies would only be more determined to destroy her.
Before she could say anything more, a knock at the closed doors leading to the entryway interrupted the request he knew she wanted to make.
“Enter,” he called out, having already checked the entryway camera on his laptop
The door opened and Maxine stepped in, her blue eyes flicking from him to Emma Jane, then back again.
“Ivan’s about two minutes out. He asks to meet with you privately when he arrives,” she told him. “He sounded a little testy too. Journey must not be with him.”
Fucking great.
Ilya stilled the rising irritation at the news. He’d asked Ivan to stay away from this. This wasn’t a Resnova problem, it was his problem. And once he had proof, he’d take care of it.
Rising to his feet, he faced Emma Jane. “Do you want to wait on me here or I can help you to bed?”
“I’ll just nap here.” She shook her head, picking up the remote again. “I’m tired of bed.”
He hated leaving her, hated seeing her pleasure in the small bits of information he had given her. Her eyes had lit up, filled with the same intensity other women showed toward diamonds.
Moving to her, he bent, took the kiss he’d been aching for, or at least a taste of it. As her lips softened beneath his, he pulled back.
“Rest,” he ordered gently. “I’ll be back soon.”
* * *
He left Maxine with her and as he left he motioned Tobias to keep watch on the entryway as he opened the front door.
Ivan’s car was easing to a stop in the driveway. Two agents stepped from the vehicle and flanked him to the house.
“Dammit, Ilya, stop siccing these fucking bodyguards on me or I’m going to punch you in the face,” Ivan cursed as he stepped into the house and closed the door before the other two men could follow him. “Assholes.”
He glared at Ilya. “The day will come that I’ll get you back for this.”
Shaking his head, Ilya motioned him to follow him to the back of the house and the small office Emma Jane rarely used. Once Ivan stepped inside, Ilya closed the door, then strode to the bar and poured them both a drink.
“I checked on Nik before coming here,” Ivan stated as Ilya handed him the vodka. “He’s making the staff crazy, but other than causing Mikayla to roll her eyes at him and teaching his child how to intimidate doctors and nurses alike, he seems in good shape.”
“I spoke to him earlier.” Ilya nodded. “Had it not been for him, Emma Jane would be dead.”
That knowledge weighed on him, Ilya admitted. Nik had created a debt that could never be erased, and for the first time in his life that thought didn’t bother him.
“Journey and rug rat doing well?” he asked the other man when he remained silent.
The son Ivan’s wife had given birth to had pulled together twelve shadow power families in Russia under Ivan’s leadership, making him a force Russia’s new president couldn’t ignore.
“Journey and little Gregori are doing well,” Ivan assured him. “Journey sends her love by the way.”
“And mine to her,” Ilya expressed, watching Ivan closely now. “Is this the reason you showed up tonight?”
A small grin touched Ivan’s lips as his dark blue gaze remained thoughtful. “No, my friend, this is not the reason why.”
Ivan was a pain the ass when he got in one of these moods. It was generally when someone within the family thought they could live a life without his sole permission.
“Are you going to explain it to me, or would you like to sleep on it first?” Ilya asked mockingly.
On a good day, he didn’t have a problem with Ivan’s little machinations, because he was usually in on them with him. They worked well together like that.
Ivan knew better than to use such delay tactics on him though. Still, the other man only grinned at the suggestion before finishing his drink.
Setting the glass on the table next to him, Ivan stared at it for a moment before lifting his gaze back to Ilya.
“Ms. Preston is doing well?” Ivan asked, then sipped at his drink. “Elizaveta said she’s moving about easier now and, surprisingly enough, following doctor’s orders.”
“She’s healing,” Ilya confirmed the report as he sat down in the chair facing Ivan. “Nik took the brunt of the falling ceiling.”
“Steele’s a damned good man.” Ivan nodded. “I brought that case of Dragon’s Blood that you asked your assistant to send to you. You plan on drinking a lot, Ilya?”
Ivan was watching him closely now, as though wondering if he needed to worry about a problem.
“The Dragon’s Blood is for Nik.” He waved the suspicion away. “I hadn’t known he’d been trying to find it to purchase for several years.”
Ivan nodded at that, finished his drink, and looked around the office curiously.
It was obvious the other man had something on his mind and hesitated to broach it. Which was highly unlike his friend.
“Goddammit, Ivan, say whatever the hell is on your mind!” Ilya snapped. “Don’t play your games with me unless you want me to play mine against you.”
Ivan glowered back at him then. “Fine, Ilya. Why the hell did I have to learn you had the mating ink done by going over your fucking records from the surgery when you took that bullet six months ago? Why didn’t you tell me at least so we could have better protected her?” The look of disgust on Ivan’s face was almost insulting.
Ivan stomped to the bar for another drink as Ilya stood still, watching the other man and saying nothing for long moments.
His medical records.
He’d taken that bullet six months ago, mere months after his grandfather had inked his chest. The bullet had slammed into the image, right next to the emerald the dragon’s claws gripped so possessively.
The doctor would have seen it, but Ilya couldn’t imagine him betraying either him or Ivan. The surgeon and his medical staff perhaps?
“She was targeted because of me,” Ilya stated “Just as I thought. Which of the medical staff betrayed me?”
Ivan shook his head before quickly swallowing another drink. “The surgeon’s office was ransacked, his files rifled. When he realized your file was missing, he contacted me. Unfortunately, that was this morning.” Ivan pushed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “I had your in-house records pulled and saw the image then. Then I checked out Ms. Preston. Are you aware she’s the only female you’ve been around in the past years whose birthstone is an emerald?”
This was his fault. He had made it incredibly easy for his enemies to find her.
The capriciousness of fate.
Go figure.
“You inked your mate over your heart, but you didn’t afford her the protection of the dragon’s mark as well. Are you insane?” Ivan all but yelled at him now. “You could have at least told me, Ilya. We could have protected her.”