by Leigh, Lora
Ilya glared back at him. “Don’t start, Ivan, I’m not one of your damned lackeys you can insult and yell at,” Ilya informed him with brutal emphasis.
The dragon’s heart was inked with his woman’s birthstone gripped in the shadow claws, but it was the dragon to be inked on his mate’s left wrist.
It ensured that every criminal, assassin, or wannabe cutthroat knew the hell her dragon and his entire clan would bring down on entire families should even one dare harm her.
There wasn’t a Mafia family, cartel, or gang that wasn’t aware and wary of the dragon’s mark and of Ilya.
What criminals knew to steer well clear of someone else was just waiting for, and she would delight in taking Emma Jane from him.
“Lorena,” Ilya said, disgust heavy in his voice as he let himself admit to someone other than himself who he suspected was making the attempts on Emma Jane’s life. “Who would her or that fucker she married convince to challenge me in such a way?”
Ivan’s expression of amazed disbelief was faintly insulting. “Anyone that’s part of that family. Emma Jane doesn’t carry your mark, but if they know you carry hers, they would be more wary. Whoever took this job is spending more time jacking off than actually trying to kill her. Third times a charm, dammit. Mark your mate before they put a bullet in her head.”
The words had that image slamming in his head, his soul. It was his greatest fear, his nightmare, and he knew the other man was right. If she was targeted by Ilya’s mother, and he was certain she was behind it, then the only protection Emma Jane would have would be that mark.
And with it, would come the truth of his past.
“God damn, Ivan, no one should have known about her,” Ivan snarled viciously. “If I ink her, she learns the truth of what I am. She wouldn’t understand…”
“Well, she’ll be alive while she’s thinking about it then,” Ivan sneered. “Now I brought your kit and your inks. Damned if I knew which ones, so I just brought it all. There’s enough of us here to witness it. I’ll have the notices loaded to the dark web, then you can find your way with her without her death hanging over your head.”
Ilya shook his head furiously. “Lorena will never honor that mark, Ivan. She’ll find someone to strike against Emma Jane.”
Ivan smiled. It was the smile of the shark he actually was.
“When we finish with her and her half-cocked bastard husband, she’ll be lucky if she can hire anyone to acknowledge her. You’re the Dragon heir and I head the Twelve Families of the motherland. There’s no one stronger, Ilya. Even your brother.”
But if the brother didn’t remain neutral, then it would be a war.
“And the point is moot if Emma Jane doesn’t carry the dragon where it can be seen,” Ivan finished. “And she’ll be too dead to give a fuck.”
Plowing his fingers through his hair, he knew he had no other choice really. Lorena was but one, but if he didn’t protect Emma Jane there would be no stopping the teams that came after her.
“I’ll make the call,” he sighed.
Ivan stared back at him, outraged. “What? You have to ask fucking dragon permission?”
Ilya glared back at him. “Only Grandfather can turn the reins of the Dragonovich families over to me. And only then can I ink her myself as the dragons mate. Otherwise, only his hand can do the job.”
Ivan stared at him as though he were insane. “I’ve seen your work!” he snapped. “That’s bullshit.”
Ilya felt like punching the other man. Which was where many of their arguments led.
“There are rules, Ivan!” he snapped. “You should understand those. I can ink those that I consider warriors, or who are under my personal protection. But only the head of the tribes can ink a dragon or a dragon’s mate. Get it?”
“Whatever.” Disgust marked Ivan’s face. “Make that goddamned call before it’s too late. And get me another damned drink…”
chapter seventeen
When the doors leading from the living room to the entry opened and Ivan and Ilya walked in, Emma Jane slowly sat up, instantly on guard to the tension whipping between the two of them.
What had transpired between two men during their meeting Emma Jane had no clue. One thing was for certain, Ilya was furious.
The anger made his icy green eyes like chips of frozen rage and the tattoos’ iridescent scales seemed to shift eerily.
Sitting on the couch now, she watched them stride across the room, and something flashed in Ilya’s expression that had her heart racing and panic edging at her mind.
He wasn’t just angry. And it wasn’t a hot blaze-and-expire anger. This was a rage long buried, tightly leashed for the moment but pushing at the bonds Ilya had on it. As though an old wound had been reopened, the bitterness of it leeching free and pulsing inside his soul.
She knew there were things inside him that were so dark, so hidden, they might never see the light of day or of love. A wild, dangerous cauldron of emotion brewed within him now and all those conflicting demons were hurting him.
The very fact that he had it contained was terrifying.
If all that murderous fury ever slipped his control, then whomever it was directed toward would never survive.
“Ms. Preston.” Ivan’s smile was pure charm as he moved to the chair to her left, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and practically plopped in the chair like a misbehaving teenager.
Hell.
“Mr. Resnova…” she began.
“Ivan.” He gave a wave of his hand as a grimace crossed his face. “No formalities please.”
“Very well,” she said as Ilya sat right beside her, so close their thighs touched. “Elizaveta was showing me pictures of your son the other day. That’s a future heartbreaker.”
Pride suffused his dark face and blue eyes.
“Thank you.” He grinned. “He’ll be a handful I have no doubt.”
Ivan already had a grown daughter, but Emma Jane realized he barely looked old enough. He was one of those men who would probably still be imposingly handsome at eighty.
He and Ilya both had those strong jaws, arrogant cheekbones, and chiseled features. And both their expressions reflected the tension rolling off them in waves.
Ilya sat back against the couch, still and silent as Ivan made small talk. They talked about his son, his wife, her home, and the weather.
A half hour into the impromptu little visit, Emma Jane had enough. She was about to gag from the tension that seemed to thicken by the half minute. Ilya hadn’t spoken half a dozen words, and only then because she shot him an irate look.
“Why don’t I leave the two of you to discuss whatever has you strung so tight?” Why hadn’t they just kept it in the office where it had begun?
As she moved to push herself from the couch, Ilya’s hand settled on her leg in a silent demand to stay.
“Please, Emma Jane.” Ivan smiled his most charming smile. “I must admit, I rather rushed in here to speak to you. If Ilya and I are left to our devices at the moment, I’m afraid we’ll be using our fists on each other. That tends to get a little bloody.”
Okay, she understood that, she thought, nodding.
“Mikayla’s brothers are like that. She’s hoping they grow out of it.”
“He hasn’t…” Ivan and Ilya spoke at the same time, with the same petulant hostility.
Oh wow, this was about to become precarious.
“So, why are you and Ilya disagreeing to the point of using your fists on each other?” No one spoke. “I mean”—she gave a little wave of her hand and continued with mocking cheerfulness—“Ilya and I were having a perfectly nice evening until you arrived. You want to mess up my evening, you can explain why.”
Ivan’s gaze flicked uncertainly to Ilya as though wondering how much he could actually get away with. Evidently, it was a question he wasn’t certain how to answer.
Finally, he gave a heavy sigh, rose, and rebuttoned his jacket.
“Perhaps he’ll tell you,” her
told her, though it was clear he didn’t believe that was going to happen. “Either way, welcome to my family, Emma Jane. You have a lovely home, and once Ilya releases it for use I’m certain our clients will enjoy it.”
Something resembling a growl left Ilya’s throat as he tensed to rise, and Ivan visibly braced himself.
Emma Jane slapped her hand to Ilya’s hard thigh and turned on him with a narrow-eyed warning glare.
“Not in my home, my yard, or my driveway. The two of you would no doubt break everything but yourselves!” she snapped, desperate to avoid the fight she could feel coming.
The tattoo at the side of his face flexed, rippled. The multi-hued scales seemed to come alive despite the emotionless gaze that met hers.
“Mr. Resnova.” She gave the other man a disagreeable look. “Why do I suspect you’ve instigated a majority of those fights in the past?”
His smile was a somber acknowledgement of her accusation.
“That is unfortunately far too close to the truth,” he sighed. “I’ll bid you good night,” he said with the utmost gentleness before turning to Ilya. “Anything you need, brother.”
Ilya’s jaw tensed to granite hardness, but he nodded to the man he called a friend and remained quiet as Ivan walked from the room and closed the doors behind him.
Slowly, Emma Jane lifted her hand from Ilya’s hard thigh before turning on the couch to face him.
“What’s happened?” Because she knew something had to have occurred. Something he didn’t want to tell her, didn’t want her to know.
“Nothing has happened.” He pushed himself from the couch and moved for the small bar.
The liquor he pulled from the cabinet was one he’d stocked himself. She’d noticed the icy, almost faceted look of the vodka when she’d first seen it. Dragon’s Blood, it was called.
Ronan’s eyes had glazed over in liquor lust when she’d asked him about it.
“Ronan’s threatening to steal your vodka if he finds it,” she warned him, then watched in amazement as he tipped the bottle to his lips and drank from it as though it were water.
His fingers still gripping it, he paced across the room once more until he stood in front of her, where he extended the bottle to her. He watched her with the same icy interest he observed the world with but she had rarely seen out of him toward her.
Lifting her brow, she took the bottle and sniffed delicately. Beneath the strong liquor scent was an intriguing hint of something resonating with wild heat and glacier ice.
Still holding his gaze, she lifted the bottle and brought it to her lips.
She’d learned when she was young to show no fear when liquor was concerned and how to drink it. She took more than a sip but a hell of a lot less than a drink.
The instant wild heat stole her breath. A momentary reaction she had learned how to compensate for. A second later the ice hit her, a freeze that hissed through her senses. When it hit her belly, that wild initial burn multiplied before slowly dissipating and spreading through her senses. It left her face flushed and her toes tingling. Which was probably normal for her.
As he took possession of the bottle once again, his lips kicked up in mocking acknowledgement that she had more than met his dare. Then he lifted it, drank deeply and when he lowered his arm turned away from her and paced across the room.
“My first memory of childhood is of Dragon’s Blood,” he said conversationally, but the tension in his body was building at a rapid rate. “I don’t remember my age.” He glanced back at her with a frown before moving to his desk, drinking as he walked. “I remember my thirst though. There was no water, but tucked beneath the cushion of an old couch was half a bottle of Dragon’s Blood.” He threw her a mirthless grin as she fought to contain her horror.
He drank again before leaning against the desk and watching her with a laser intensity that was frightening.
“I didn’t die of thirst, obviously,” he murmured, the words barely audible as he straightened and turned his back to her once again.
Emma Jane wanted to speak but didn’t dare. Whatever had happened, whatever memories it had dredged up, had turned Ilya back into the icy, emotionless man she’d only seen in tabloids. And he was breaking her heart as he stood apart from her—the isolation that pulsed around him was killing her.
He stood so proud, so strong. There was no self-pity, and whatever he found so enraging he kept control of, though she had a feeling he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
With his back to her, the straight line of his shoulders bunched again as he lifted the bottle to his lips, drank, then lowered it.
“Hunger, thirst, booze, isolation, does something to a child’s mind, I believe,” he mused. “I would sip from that bottle when the thirst was too much, and as it heated my gut, I would always imagine I could hear that dragon calling to me. At some point I remember Cook slipping into the hovel, taking the empty bottle, and leaving a small bowl of food and cold milk. By then, I preferred the vodka, I believe.”
Shock held her immobile.
Cook?
Someone had a cook, yet they’d starved him, isolated him, and let him go thirsty?
“Legend says Dragon heirs will always be strong. They’ll be fierce and like the Dragon they only grow stronger when touched by the fires of hell.” He paused, then said rather ruefully, “Hell’s fires were greedy when I was born.”
Oh God, he was killing her. Her heart was breaking into shards.
“Ilya.” She hurriedly covered her lips to hold back her sobs.
Ilya just watched her, his green eyes holding a faint glow as the rage he kept so contained rose to the surface.
The next drink he took was longer than the others. When he finally lowered the bottle he looked at it for a long moment before turning back to her.
“You weren’t attacked because of Ivan,” he stated, his voice harsh, his nostrils flaring as his teeth clenched. The dragon’s scales shimmered, seemed to move and flex warningly. “You weren’t attacked due to any fault of your own.” Murder gleamed in his gaze and the red of the dragon’s eyes were the color of fresh blood. “You were attacked because of me.” He drank again. “Seems hell isn’t finished with me yet.”
He turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
A sob broke free, silent but powerful enough that her whole body jerked from the force of it. Before the tears could fall, she jumped from the couch and rushed for the doors, throwing them open to follow him.
She rushed into the entryway to find Elizaveta sitting on the stairs, her face in her hands.
At the sound of the door opening, the other woman’s head jerked up and Emma Jane could see the tears in the her eyes as their gazes met. Elizaveta shook her head before Emma Jane could say anything.
“Return to the living room.” Elizaveta’s voice was thick with unshed tears. “Leave him to himself. When he drinks Dragon’s Blood, he prefers to be alone.”
“Well, isn’t that just too damned bad!” Emma Jane pushed past her. “As long as he sleeps in my bed, he doesn’t have that option.”
* * *
Finishing the vodka in one long drink, Ilya tossed the bottle to the small waste can, a mocking smile curling at his lips at the clatter and bang it created.
“Fuck,” he muttered in disgust.
He should have brought the other bottle. What he had to do wasn’t going to be easy. It would be the first step in destroying himself and any hope he’d harbored of holding on to Emma Jane—for a while longer at least. But then if he had thought his grandfather would catch him in a drunken sleep and place the dragon’s heart mark upon his chest, then he wouldn’t be in this mess. Because the fucking doctor had put a picture of it in his file, and when that file had made it into Lorena Vasilyev’s hands, she’d had the proof she needed to strike out at Ilya in the worst way.
By taking the woman he loved.
Now, to protect Emma Jane, he’d take his place within the family he’d been born into, and he would do it
alone. Because he simply couldn’t imagine Emma Jane leaving her life to follow him into his.
Pulling the cell phone out, he made the call he knew he had no choice but to make now. He’d known from the moment he laid eyes on Emma Jane that this day would come though.
“Grandson.” His grandfather knew he’d be calling of course. Ilya had never called him that he hadn’t known beforehand. “I have been concerned for your grandmother, she has been worrying about you.”
Or rather his grandmother was concerned and his grandfather was pacing the floors as he was wont to do.
He grimaced at the knowledge that his grandfather had always known when the past would return and paint Ilya’s world in blood.
“Grandfather, when you chose the image for my mate’s mark, did you draw it, or did Grandmother?”
Silence filled the line for long seconds and he could feel his grandfather’s concern, his sorrow.
“When you were but a boy the image came to me,” his grandfather said softly. “In the month that your dragon called for you to accept his power. In his song, he whispered his hope to my dragon, and I saw the image I was to one day draw.”
Ilya sat down on the bed heavily. “Grandmother didn’t draw it then.” Had she drawn it he could doubt the truth of it.
“A dragon sings only to dragon blood,” his grandfather reminded him. “I watched you after you took the ink and the dragon curled upon your face that night. You slept on the floor, close to the fire, unaccustomed to bed or blanket. My heart wept for you, and my dragon sang his sorrow and his rage with such strength that within hours the dragon warriors stood outside our door, demanding vengeance. We would have cut the head from that serpent bitch if possible.”
Ilya closed his eyes wearily.
The murder by dragon guards of a dragon’s immediate family was serious business. At the very least the tribes would have been forced to bar his grandparents from their presence forever. That would have killed them.
“Your dragon has whispered often to mine,” the old man said. “He whispers in joy and hope of your woman. She is the light to the darkness, the strength of the sons that she will bear you.”