by Livia Quinn
Conor took a long gulp of the local beer, S.O.S., and set the glass down on the bar. His eyes lost their smile, and narrowed on her, making her feel like a little bug who was about to be eaten by a big lizard. A really, really big lizard. She willed herself not to shrink back, instead, narrowing hers right back at him defiantly.
He relaxed, lifted his glass in a toast and guzzled the rest. When he’d finished, one bronze finger slid up the side of the frosted glass to collect the cool moisture. His long muscular arm moved toward her gracefully. She watched it, her eyes nearly crossing as his finger met and transferred the droplets to her bottom lip. Involuntarily her tongue flicked out to lick it off.
His eyes swirled and heated. “I saw you earlier, in your medical unit ‘caring’ for your man,” the words low and almost…
Her mouth dropped open. Jack and Dylan had told her he was there, but she’d no idea he’d reached this conclusion. “He’s—”
“Careful, Victoria. I will know if you lie.”
Really, Montana’s eyes narrowed. How?
“Rafe is my partner, not my man,” she said firmly.
“Looked like you were partners with—how do they say—blessings?” Both black brows sank over those swirling eyes.
“Benefits. And it wasn’t what you thought,” Montana said, and wondered why she was explaining.
The Knight’s handsome face broke into a grin. Which alternately made Montana want to kick him in his metal plated shins or clear off the bar and have him right there. The sword fighting last night had been exciting; for a warrior almost as good as sex, but—who was she kidding—she didn’t want to fight with him, not with hands, feet or swords. She wanted him under her. She looked around to see if Liam was listening, then leaned in. His head tilted to match the angle of hers. Curious, he leaned in as well.
She whispered, “I want to ride your dragon.”
His chin dropped, both eyes flashed then reduced to gold slits, as they’d done in his dragon form, but the heat receded when he got her true meaning. He grumbled, “This is not a carnival, and I am not your carousel horsey.”
Montana waved her hand. “Well, don’t get all offended like. I’ve just been daydreaming about seeing Destiny from the back of a magnificent fire-breathing dragon such as yourself, but…” she shrugged, “…I’m sure you’re not the only dragon in the sky.”
She willed herself to keep a straight face as tendrils of smoke oozed from his ears and nostrils, escaping in small erratic puffs as if his fire was percolating like Kilauea. His irises changed to the color of orange flame, and the temperature in the bar rose about ten degrees. Her eyes flew open when the tattoos on his back seemed to swell like the molten cap on a volcano before it blows.
She smiled at him mischievously, “You need to lighten up, Conor. Can’t you take a joke?”
Chapter 19
Montana found herself upside down over two very wide shoulders sharing the space with those glittering swords, watching rocks skidder away from under his metal boots. Mother of Zeus, but he was strong. As her hair flopped against his back she resisted running her hands over the bunching bronze muscles and called over her shoulder, “Um, drago, where are we going?” No response, but his steady march toward… she raised her head to watch the retreating landscape. He was eating up the distance between the bar and wherever he was headed.
To pass the time, she began counting his steps but got bored and gave up. Finally, the road and the trees began to look familiar.
“Conor, where are you taking me?” She wiggled in his grasp, trying to get free.
“Quit, Dinnshencha. You will appear undignified,” he growled.
“Well, you’re the one who put me in this demeaning position.” There was silence on his end for three long strides while he thought about that. “If I had my Dinnshencha power you would not get away with this.”
Conor slowed and his broad hands, which had been holding her tightly to him, softened their hold. Moving down her spine, he cupped her butt and lowered her very very slowly, until they were eye to eye.
“Which is why we must prepare. And then, tonight…” Big sigh, “We will fly, if it is your heart’s desire, Victoria.”
“Damn it, it’s Montana.”
“You are much too extraordinary for such an impuissant—inadequate—name.”
Well, when he put it that way, Montana thought.
“What is your real name, little dragon.”
She was sick of the little dragon moniker so she steeled herself, breathed it out with a disgusted sigh. “Branislava.”
“Ach, Glorious Protector… that suits. I get excited just thinking about it.”
Montana’s eyes widened at the fire leaking from his nostrils. “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that, fire-breather.” She planted her hands around his strong masculine cheeks, felt his jaws flex as he realized her intent. A deep rumble escaped his chest much like the startup of a winter furnace after a hot summer of disuse. Intriguing thought, that. She took his lip between her teeth and tugged, feeling an increase in the heat seeping from his skin. His hands on her butt tightened and he snugged her pelvis tight against his granite-like hardness. It felt like the National Monument, or at the very least the trunk of an oak.
She felt the smile on her face as she anticipated how completely he would fill her, if they were suited. Without a gauge from the past to compare, or the power that had been a part of her for almost a century, she wondered, and yet, the way he complimented her skills; his respect for other species and for women, his persistence even when he thought she and Rafe were a thing; his sheer size and abilities in both forms dazzled her like no other had. She would use enthralled but that was a no-no word in her occupational handbook for women. It spoke of being under another’s spell, without control, which was something she educated her women against—subjugating themselves to a man. Letting themselves become powerless.
Montana had never been powerless—well, until now. But the Knight… dragon—whatever, was not really taking advantage of her lack of strength. After all, he had spent hours teaching her the dances that choreographed his own swordplay so that she would survive the chaos. He didn’t know about her vampirism. And she didn’t yet know him well enough to give up her last secret.
She kept her fangs retracted even though the urge to ingest his rich intoxicating blood was almost more than she could ignore.
He leaned her against the wall of her own home while he drizzled fire down her neck to her breasts, leaving a scorching trail of desire that traveled even further to her core. “Beautiful Branislava, the queen of defenders.”
He eased back from her and let her slide down his massive body. That was another thing. She was no petite miss but six feet of muscle and speed, albeit “six luscious feet”, remembering something he’d said at her house that morning. With him, she felt almost delicate in size, not weak, as he never made her feel the way the abusers she’d annihilated over the years had made their victims feel. This dragon lived up to his Knight-ness.
“I have watched you from afar.” Hmm, that was probably an exaggeration. “We will take each other, but first, we will practice. You must learn less honorable ways to fight.”
“Hey, I can fight dirty—oww, what was that for?” She rubbed her butt, and looked up at him from the floor of her concrete porch where she’d landed when he’d dropped her unexpectedly.
“The first lesson in death fighting: Honor has no place. Do not give your opponent a chance to predict your next move. If I’m right, you’ve had the advantage of surprise in most of your past confrontations, and the ability to shift which you will not have.”
She rolled and found herself between his legs as he anticipated her. Only pure strength and speed allowed her to pop his knee from behind and roll out as he stumbled. “Very good.” He pronounced it guud. He reached down to give her a hand, “Shall we go inside?” She took his hand planning to use the momentum to surprise him, but he’d seen that one before—not o
ne of her cleverest ideas, anyway. He flicked his wrist and brought her into him like a top, or one of his dance moves—ballroom?
Wrapped in arms like steel she brought her heel down on his metal boot, which just made him chuckle and tighten his hold until she was incapable of taking a breath. He shifted and her heel caught the soft pad beneath his knee, making him stagger. She leaned to that side and he lost his balance, but her delight was short-lived as his hand tightened on her breast and he kissed her neck.
It was so unexpected, she moaned. He whispered into her skin, “I believe it’s time we went inside to continue your training, little dragon.”
He pulled the door open as he continued to alternate kisses and fire down her throat. She moaned again. His hold loosened so he could set her feet on the floor of her great room. She bent over, pretending to get her breath. His hand rested on her back.
“Did I hurt yuu—oomph!” He tumbled to his back. She leaped across the expanse of floor and reached for Mathilda, her hand clasping the hilt tightly, then with a dive away from his previous position and an acrobatic flip, she landed, sword at the ready. He had only drawn one sword and with it he swatted hers away as he kicked her foot out from under her; her head cracked on the tile floor, and she came nose tip to sword tip with ‘Excalibur’ or whatever he called his sword.
She blinked his image into focus. So far he hadn’t done anything that a common street fighter couldn’t have thwarted. He was right; she was weaker and needed some new moves if she was going to be able to overcome the loss of her Dinnshencha power.
He helped her up, the iron strength of his arm making her want to get to the taking each other part now, rather than later. “A warm up to start. Remember the minuet? Its beat is delicate, even, precise. Let’s review the basics, like this.”
He demonstrated, humming the melody while he corrected her style, admonishing her to “balance, get your weight centered between ‘those heavy feet’. Light—like the music—inhale quietly, turn, thrust. “Now the new moves I showed you, feel the rhythm.”
Sooner than she expected their warm-up ended and Conor stood over her, swords sheathed once again, “Close the curtains.” Balancing on one foot, he removed one boot dropping it to the floor with a heavy clunk. The other followed.
Huh? Practice was over and now he wanted payment?
Chapter 20
“That was hardly worth a kiss much less sex,” Montana said.
He actually snickered. “Tha’ twas hardly a kiss, and we hav’nae begun to train. Dinna be so impatient, Branislava. We’ll get to the lovemaking, and you will nae be disappointed, eh?”
She’d known he was arrogant but she felt a silent eye-roll nevertheless. “We need complete darkness,” he said, prompting her once again.
Montana did as he asked while he closed the other shutters to block out all filtered light. When she pulled the curtains on the last window and turned, the room was black and the Knight blended as if he didn’t exist. She assumed she did as well.
She listened for movement. There was none. Gripping Mathilda with her right hand, she searched the darkness for some hint, a lack, a movement with her left. She sensed his heat first approaching from her right.
“Aye, use all your senses,” his voice came, low and from all directions. She swung her sword to the right. “Close your eyes,” his voice whispered, from somewhere else. How did he do that? She inhaled—“Don’t. Make your breathing invisible. Your opponent should’nae be able to see or hear your breath. T’will give away your next move.”
She exhaled, allowing the breath to mingle with the air around her slowly. “Ach, stop concentrating so hard. I can hear your brain. Center yourself as if you had your power. Allow your natural abilities and senses to take over for what you have lost.”
She slid silently to her left, inviting her senses to do the work her eyes could not. There, a wisp of air, her blade came up and clashed with Conor’s, slid along its length as she spun and crouched, exhaling a controlled breath and a slow silent intake. There it was again, this time she was sure it was a step, and his heat. Her leg came out parallel to the ground and swiped, hearing his grunt as he leaped and hit the floor on the other side of her.
“Good. Now stand, extend the sword in front of you,” he said. Matilda’s edge touched his blade and as he slid it along the length of hers, she heard him start to hum. The songs from the dance.
With the moves he’d taught her, now, she would fight him in the dark. The first of her strikes was awkward. His baritone tune paused, “Keep your weight balanced”, and resumed as he walked through the steps with her in the dark. Hmm hmm hm, Mm-mmm, satisfaction.” Move, turn, lunge, strike-slide-free, parry, spin, strike… “I can’t get no-o…” Lunge retreat spin-out, duck. She recognized the tune as the beat set the pace for each of the moves; she turned and parried, found her rhythm and realized she was seeing through her other senses.
She heard his breath, felt the heat of it, and the scent of his skin suddenly seemed a part of her. When his back was to hers she slammed the sword hilt into his shoulder, the loud clank of one sword confirmed her aim, but no exhalation, no cry of pain. He was good. Silently, she made three crouched turns in a direction she thought was away from him, rose quietly just as both of his arms manacled her upper body and he whispered, “You’re dead, little dragon.”
“Damn.” Her shoulders drooped as he lowered his head to her neck again and ran a lick of fire along it. She knew it was his fire, but why didn’t it burn? “I guess I flunked, huh?”
He chuckled against her neck. “Ach, nae. Ye did fine. It was black as pitch, ye ken?” He released her and walked to the front windows, spreading the curtains wide.
“You could see… in the dark,” she accused. “That wasn’t fair.”
“Ach, remember my first point. You must never think about fair when you fight to win. Only strike first and fast, and repeat ‘til your opponent is dead. Now, again, and stop holding back. You must practice as if you fight to the death.”
Those were the words she needed to hear. There was no other being she could practice with ‘to the death’ without fear of harm. She assumed Conor would be able to turn away or fend off any attack by her, but he’d ordered her to fight him to the death so she would be prepared for anything up to his level. Her heart did a giant flip. He was seriously awesome. And now back to the fight, Montana.
His golden eyes narrowed as he looked into hers and said, “Always assume a friend could be your enemy.” He drew both swords this time and she jumped back, hiding her surprise, doing two backflips to gain some time to set her own sword, as he began to sing this time, in a beautiful rich baritone, “I can’t get no… satisfaction. Unh, two, three, and… I can’t—fight, damn you!”
So, she did. Back to back they moved, trading blows, feet and hands moving to his choreography, with his voice droning on. Her movements became more fluid, her breathing quiet and sure, her strokes more responsive than ever which sent her confidence soaring, until he whipped his swords in his classic scissor move and caught her between them. “More.”
He spun away and this time she recognized the beat of “Battle Cry” with its ethereal beginning, the smooth kata like movements and Conor’s voice, “No one can save you now… do or die”, then he performed a backflip, his feet landing against the door, kicking it open as he rolled through, continuing the artful twin-blade exhibition while she stood gaping. He landed to the imaginary pause in the violins and gave her a gesture to join him.
She strode through the arched doorway and into the clearing, which was coated in a light dusting of snow, though around his feet it was melted. She attacked, leaping into the air and bringing her blade down on his, then in a side twist, landed to his left and ducked as his other sword whistled over her head.
She felt the throbbing beat in her blood and lunged. He parried. She thrust. He countered, and on it went until the last seconds of the silent music died, a battle cry on her lips as his blade clashed with hers.
He said, “Well done.”
She lowered Mathilda and turned away. He circled her neck with his arm and pulled her back to him. “I said, assume yer friend could be your enemy, Branislava. Never turn your back. Never, on anyone. Never let your guard down unless your back is resting against a wall; and then remember, some beings can rip off roofs and burn through walls.”
She got it. Montana nodded, and tossed her sword across the clearing. She felt his hard erection pressing into the small of her back, moved her hips against him, raised her arms to feel the steel over satin biceps. He was hard all over, and she meant to have him right now. No more fighting, no more talking, no more dancing, just… her lips tilted up in a smile… satisfaction. She would get some.
His broad palm came up to cup her cheek turning her face up to his. Dark eyes stared into hers, simmering with inner fire. “You are a clever woman and an exceptional fighter even though you are down to mere human strength. I fear you may not be clever enough to surprise a truly fearsome being, though, little dragon. I worry for you.”
“I’ve lived nearly a century without your training, Knight, not that I don’t appreciate it. I realize my Dinnshencha power has been more… automatic… less instinctive.”
“I see some improvement—” his brow rose beneath his lush black hair.
“Gods, but you’re hard to convince. But then, you’re just hard.” She wiggled against him again and this time he groaned, or growled, she wasn’t sure what to call the sound emanating from deep within him, but she felt it all the way down her spine. Her hands roamed down his powerful hips, up his arms to stroke his biceps. He turned her and took her mouth in an explosive kiss, one that sent heat skidding through her blood and turned her limbs to liquid fire.
He muttered into her ear. “So fierce, so proud…”
“So annoyed, Conor. Shut up and kiss me.” She gripped his hair in her hand and dragged his head down to hers.