by Zoe Chant
Mated to the Storm Dragon
By Zoe Chant
Copyright Zoe Chant 2017
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Naomi
Chapter Two: Gregory
Chapter Three: Naomi
Chapter Four: Gregory
Chapter Five: Naomi
Chapter Six: Gregory
Chapter Seven: Naomi
Chapter Eight: Gregory
Chapter Nine: Naomi
Chapter Ten: Gregory
Chapter Eleven: Naomi
Chapter Twelve: Gregory
Chapter Thirteen: Naomi
Chapter Fourteen: Gregory
Chapter Fifteen: Naomi
Chapter Sixteen: Gregory
Epilogue: Naomi
A note from Zoe Chant
More Paranormal Romance by Zoe Chant
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Chapter One: Naomi
Naomi Edwardson stared at her phone, willing it to ring. The only thing that could help her now was a miracle...
Her rent was due in less than a week, and this month they’d cut her hours again at the shitty retail job she’d been forced to accept just to stay afloat.
Long ago, at college, she’d dreamed of the magical life that was waiting for her. Back then, her head had been filled with images of magic and beauty, and she’d spent nights painting and days studying and tutoring. Back then it had felt as if she’d never run out of energy or inspiration.
But that was then. Now she was broke, and most days she ended up so exhausted she wanted to cry. During the nights, her worry of how to pay her rent kept her awake. Now she hadn’t painted in nearly a year.
At first, that was what had hurt the most of all. But these days all she felt was numb.
She’d been young and stupid back then, thinking that her dreams would be enough to find a job she loved. Instead, she’d ended up working retail with a manager who kept staring at her boobs instead of her face, and with hours that continually got cut. Every spare moment, she spent tutoring the children of the rich in art, who’d much rather play with their iPhones than pay attention to Naomi.
It’s over, she thought as she stared tiredly at her phone. It won’t ring, which means that no one bought that painting. But I’ve known all along it wouldn’t sell. Nothing I’ve tried to sell has.
In a last act of desperation, she’d begged a favor from her old acquaintance Jeff who owned a gallery. He’d added the last painting she’d held on to to his current exhibition—only because he liked her, as he’d told her several times. He really didn’t think the painting would sell, because people were so over unicorns and princesses and sparkly fairies.
Naomi hadn’t needed to see his face to know that he was sneering. She’d been so tired it hadn’t even hurt to hear his opinion of her art.
It was art, she thought dimly, a small spark of rebellion still left in her heart. And it wasn’t a unicorn... Her painting showed a dragon, a majestic, powerful beast soaring among storm clouds.
It wasn’t the sort of subject she usually painted. She liked landscapes: the play of light on stone, the green of leaves changing with the seasons, the secrets of light and wind and time that could turn a rock into a fascinating artwork of nature.
Where had the dragon come from? Naomi couldn’t say even now. But she’d painted it in one final, desperate outburst of creativity, before the endless rut of work, work, work killed the final spark in her heart.
Suddenly, her phone’s screen lit up. She stared at it, her heart speeding up, barely daring to believe it.
Even if it’s just a few hundred... I’ll be able to make this month’s rent. Please, please, please, she begged quietly as she answered the call.
“Naomi! Girl, are you in for a surprise!” the voice of her friend Jeff came through the phone.
In the background, she could still hear the soft music and chatter that meant that he was at the gallery’s opening event.
“Has it sold?” Naomi asked anxiously.
Jeff chuckled. “Has it ever! To a mysterious bidder... one of those people buying via phone. You know, I thought those no longer existed. Anyway, he’s bought your little fantasy thing—they say that billionaires often have eccentric tastes, don’t they? Maybe this one is a Harry Potter fan.”
Naomi could hear the sneer in his voice, but even though Jeff seemed personally offended that the mysterious bidder hadn’t bought one of his carefully curated collection, there was a breathlessness in his voice that made her pause.
“How much?” she dared to ask, telling herself firmly that she’d have to be content with three hundred. She’d be able to pay her rent and look for another shitty retail job. She couldn’t demand more.
“Twenty thousand,” Jeff crooned through the phone.
“Fuck,” Naomi said, her vision going black for a moment. She reached out for the wall to hold herself upright.
“You’re joking,” she then said, realizing that there was no way in hell that anyone would pay so much for one of her paintings. “Fuck you, Jeff, if you knew how desperate I am...”
There were tears in her eyes, and she was glad that he couldn’t see her through the phone. She was just so exhausted. She’d worked a twelve hour shift today, and she’d barely slept at night because her mind kept coming up with new horror scenarios of eviction and homelessness.
“Baby,” Jeff purred, “I wish I were joking because I seriously have no idea what he sees in that trite sentimental piece of shit—sorry, sweetheart, but dragons aren’t art. Still, twenty thousand, now that is art. Especially since I’ll get that commission.”
Naomi blinked tiredly. It felt impossible to process all these news. Hadn’t Jeff told her benevolently last week that of course he wouldn’t ask for a cut and he’d take her painting as an act of charity...?
She didn’t have that promise in writing, she realized. She really should have known better. But still... Twenty thousand?
“You’re not kidding?” she asked quietly, her heart pounding in her chest.
“I wish I was.” There was a hint of jealousy in Jeff’s voice. “You might not like this part though: He’ll only pay if he gets to meet the artist. You’ll have to hand over the painting in person.”
Naomi felt faint. She’d never heard of anything like this happening. Everyone she was still in contact with from art school was happy to just make ends meet.
“Twenty thousand?” she asked again, her voice cracking. “For twenty thousand, I’ll wrap it all up with a bow for him.”
“Tomorrow evening, baby. Don’t be late.”
Chapter Two: Gregory
“Gregory Drago, Dragon of the Storm, come forward,” a voice boomed.
Gregory strode forward, determinedly facing the council that had gathered in the giant chamber of hewn stone, residing in a hollow mountain top where their kind had reigned for hundreds of years.
On large plinths of granite, two dragons sat, facing him.
Into one plinth the symbol of earth was engraved. The dragon sitting there was called Damon Drago, an earnest man who in his dragon form was the intimidating gray-black of rock, his claws and teeth glistening like diamonds.
The plinth on his right bore the symbol of water. The dragon sitting there was called Timothy Drago, and in his human form, Gregory got along well with him. He was a cheerful man who spent much of his time traveling the world, exploring the ocean and the world’s finest beaches.
Now, as a dragon, Timothy gave him a grave look from eyes that were the dark blue of the deepest ocean, his body that was covered in glimmering blue-green scales sitting forward at
tentively, his tail curled lightly around his legs.
The plinth on the other side stood empty. It bore the symbol of air, and it was the seat that was by right Gregory’s. There, he had often sat when the council had to discuss an incident.
That was why the council usually convened: arguments between their kind that needed to be settled, or incidents that threatened to upset the secrecy that veiled dragons and their realms from discovery by humans.
Now, for the first time in his life, Gregory was called before the council.
“I’ve done no wrong,” Gregory said firmly, not cowed by the way his human voice echoed in the large cavern. “Question me if you must. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“We have heard a tale that concerns us greatly,” the disembodied voice boomed once more. “Griffin, come forward and make a report.”
Gregory’s heart gave a jolt as the familiar form of his friend and griffin shifter Jared came forward out of the shadows. He was in his griffin form: the body of a lion, with the majestic head and powerful wings of an eagle.
The glance Jared gave Gregory was apologetic, but he did not hesitate.
“Noble council, a painting has recently been shown in a gallery that shows the dragon form of Gregory Drago. We saw it together at an art exhibition a few days ago to which I accompanied him. The dragon in the painting is Gregory, there’s no doubt about it. Whoever painted it must have seen him. There’s no other explanation for the resemblance.”
“Humans can’t see me. You all know that as well as I do. It’s impossible,” Gregory said. “The resemblance must’ve happened by chance. You know as well as I do that humans still make movies about us, even though we withdrew from their world centuries ago.”
“Chance?” Damon, the earth dragon, asked with obvious concern. “I don’t believe in chance. If the griffin says that it shows you, your true form—”
“It does,” Jared said, his eagle wings shifting uncomfortably. “I looked at the painting myself, and I saw my friend’s true power in the lines of the painting. Whoever painted it must know him.”
“Buy the painting and destroy it,” Timothy, the water dragon, now cheerfully interjected. “Why make such a fuss? Maybe someone caught a glimpse of him one night. Accidents happen. Burn the painting and there’ll be no harm done.”
“I’ve purchased it already,” Gregory said. “I couldn’t let it fall into wrong hands. But I demanded that the artist hand it to me personally.”
“Good,” the disembodied voice boomed again. “Recent reports have greatly alarmed me. There have been rumors about a dragon hunting sheep in Iceland. And all along the Atlantic Coast, local papers talk of livestock disappearing. And now the painting. Find out who is behind this. If someone tries to threaten us—you know what to do.”
Respectfully, Gregory inclined his head. On the stark wall of rock before him, a shadow moved. For a moment, he could make out the outline of the terrible creature that ruled the council: ever-changing outlines showing a glimpse of the head of a lion, then the body of a dragon.
A chimera.
An old and powerful creature. Long ago, or so rumors said, the chimera had been a dragon as well: Gareth, his name had been, and his element had been light.
But Gareth had not found a mate, as all dragons must before their inner power could consume them. Most dragons simply went mad and had to be taken out.
Gareth had been strong, so the legend said. Gareth had clung to his power and his sanity for as long as he could, even without a mate to anchor him. But in the end, his unfettered power had twisted him. His dragon’s soul had broken into shards, and he had been trapped forever in the twisted form of the chimera.
Gregory shuddered as he looked at the giant shadow stretching across the cavern’s wall. Was the same fate waiting for him...?
Gregory had one year left to find a mate. He’d traveled far, but his heart had never heard another person call out to him.
Until a few days ago, when he found himself staring at a painting in a gallery.
Whoever had drawn it had seen his dragon’s soul. It wasn’t just the physical form of his dragon. It went deeper, much deeper. In his eyes, there had been the power of the wind—and that twisting sadness that dug deeper and deeper into his heart with every day that he spent without a mate.
Whoever had painted him had known about dragons—real dragons, not the ones from human movies.
“I’ll settle this,” Gregory said firmly. Then, with another curt nod at the gathered council, he turned and walked towards the end of the cave, where it opened to cold air and a spectacular sunset.
Gregory took a deep breath. Cool air filled his lungs. Then he jumped forward and stretched out his arms.
A heartbeat later, he had shifted into his dragon. His large, powerful wings caught the current, and with one beat of his wings, he shot high up into the air, parting his jaws to roar playfully at the wind that was his to command.
One year left to find his mate. One year left to find an anchor for his steadily growing power.
But first, he had a mystery to solve and a painting to buy. And once that problem was solved, and whoever had dared to threaten him in such a way was suitably intimidated, perhaps he would ride the storm all the way from coast to coast until his mate called out to him.
She had to be out there somewhere, waiting for him. His dragon was sure of it.
Chapter Three: Naomi
Trust Jeff Tyler to make use of any chance to get some publicity for his gallery.
Naomi blinked into the blinding flashes of the cameras, smiling nervously at the waiting reporters. Jeff had told her to dress nicely for Mr. Mysterious Billionaire—but Jeff had failed to mention that he’d invited the press.
Naomi had put on her favorite black cocktail dress for the occasion. These days, it was also her only nice dress, but it hugged all of her curves in just the right way. And the mysterious buyer wouldn’t know that it had lasted her five years already, after she got it on clearance.
“Smile, baby!” Jeff hissed in her ear, grinning triumphantly at the cameras.
It went on for way too long, but a moment later, she was saved from all the attention when a newcomer entered the gallery. Flashes went off again, and the man froze for a moment, a displeased look on his face.
Then he strode forward, disregarding the gathered journalists—coming straight towards where Naomi and Jeff were waiting.
That has to be the mysterious buyer.
Naomi felt her knees go weak. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Eccentric billionaires, in her mind, were old and feeble, with white hair and flashy glasses, spending their afternoons by a pool, where they made bids at art auctions from their phone.
But there was nothing old or eccentric about this man.
He had to be in his thirties, with the broad shoulders and incredible biceps of a man working at a construction site, and not someone who lazed around on a patio all day.
His hair was a peculiar color somewhere between blond and brown, as if he spent enough time outside that the sun had bleached strands to gleaming gold. It looked a little windswept, although surely someone rich enough to drop twenty thousand dollars on a painting wouldn’t walk here.
Perhaps he’d just stepped from the private jet that had brought him here—or a helicopter. She couldn’t quite pin it down, but there was something about him that made her think of gusts of wind tugging at his hair, and the warmth of a gentle summer breeze.
But right now, there was nothing gentle about his expression.
He strode forward with powerful steps, exuding an air of command. He stopped in front of Jeff, displeasure on the handsome, rugged face that made something inside Naomi tighten with unexpected need.
“I said I wanted to meet the artist,” the stranger said, his voice accompanied by an angry rumble in his chest. “I said nothing about reporters.”
“Now, now,” Jeff said breezily, turning to beam at the gathered reporters once more. “Just
a bit of fun for the press, won’t take a minute, and then I’ll let you and Naomi have a chat.”
The stranger gave Jeff a disbelieving look, his eyes narrowing with obvious displeasure when another flash went off—and then he turned, and for the first time, Naomi looked straight into his eyes.
She felt as if lightning had struck her. As though someone had pulled the ground away from beneath her feet. She was falling, falling... and yet she was still aware of standing in the gallery, next to Jeff, looking at the stranger in front of her.
The stranger had her dragon’s eyes.
She gasped very softly. She couldn’t look away. His eyes were a light gray—the color of storm clouds, filled with the distant illumination of lightning.
She’d never seen anything like it. She’d never felt anything like it.
No, that wasn’t right. She’d felt it once—that one night of overwhelming inspiration, that final night before the constant worries and work drained away what was left of her creativity.
That entire night, she’d felt as though she was carried along by an incredible force—a storm that had picked her up and pulled her along. She’d imagined riding through thunder and clouds and laughing at lightning, filled with a deep, overwhelming joy at the powers of nature.
That had been the image she’d seen in her mind, the picture she’d painted with bold strokes and little dabs for detail: a dragon, master of the elements, a powerful creature commanding the wind.
Freedom.
That was what the dragon had been—and that was what she also saw in the eyes of the stranger.
“I’m sorry,” he now said, his voice a little hoarse. “I’m Gregory Drago. You must be the artist.”
“Naomi Edwardson.” She gave him an overwhelmed smile.
Again a flash went off far too close, blinding her for a moment so that she flinched.
A heartbeat later, he’d taken hold of her elbow, shielding her from the cameras with his body. At the contact, another shiver went through her. For a moment, she could feel the wind on her face, taste the freedom that had seemed out of reach for so long now...