Dragon Shattered_A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy Romance

by Keira Blackwood

  “Let’s walk the hall,” I said, confident in the security members we had posted throughout the first floor. A quick kiss with Ariana could hopefully get my mind off what might happen with her tonight, so I could concentrate more on the job at hand.

  She smiled, her deep brown eyes sparkling in the light shining down from chandeliers. The silver dress she wore hugged her form as she took a few steps ahead. She turned to look at me over her shoulder. “Coming?”

  I held back a groan. She had to know how she affected me, didn’t she? The woman was intoxicating.

  The hall was overall well-lit, but a pedestal midway down had been placed to hold a gigantic vase. Behind it was a darkened nook. Ariana’s hand gripped my wrist and she turned us quickly into the shadows. I closed my eyes as her lips met mine, the searing heat between us overcoming my senses. I stroked her ass through the thin fabric of her gown and she moaned into my mouth.

  Suddenly, a soft bell rang out from the foyer. I pulled myself away from Ariana. Breathless—she made me breathless. I didn’t want to lose contact with her for even a second, but we had a job to do.

  She stared at me, dazed. “That was—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our auction will begin in ten minutes,” a deep voice announced from the foyer. “Please make your way to the Renne Room.”

  “I hope you were going to say amazing,” I said, brushing my finger along her cheek.

  Her eyes were half-closed, her lips plump and waiting.

  Oh, the things I wanted to do with those lips.

  “We have to get back to the job,” I said.

  I held her hand as we walked down the hall toward the stairs leading to the Renne Room. Several guests milled around, and I recognized them from when they’d entered and been greeted by Pelletier. The French couple wafted past, graceful as a stereotype in their ethereal lace gowns, followed by the young brunette, Maeve, and her date from New York.

  A scent filled my nostrils—swamp, Draconda deinaboethus. I dropped Ariana’s hand. “Something isn’t right,” I said, and walked quickly through the guests, trying to pinpoint the smell.

  “What is it?” Ariana asked, her hand on my elbow.

  “Someone didn’t come from where they said they did.” I surreptitiously glanced at Maeve and her date. “One of those two. They said they came from Crete and New York, but one of them smells like Draconda deinaboethus, commonly referred to as ‘gator grass.’ It’s only found in Florida; it won’t grow anywhere else.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “My mother is a botanist. I spent too many bored afternoons in her study. Anyway, one of them is lying.”

  Ariana pressed her comm unit. “Okay, we’ll keep an eye on them.”

  When Maeve’s date moved up the stairs, I saw a glint of silver at his belt.

  “Follow them upstairs, now,” I said.

  We had to act, and we had to do it soon.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ariana

  The Renne Room was packed. At the far end, a picture window looked out over the garden. At this hour, there was nothing to see but darkness. A podium was set atop a platform in front of the window. Above us hung a golden chandelier, much like the one in the Brightwater’s entry, only smaller. Low pedestals flanked the podium, each holding a single artifact from the Lotus War—chipped urns, presumably damaged during combat. Stationed behind the platform were two of our guards. Everything appeared as it was meant to.

  Guests milled about, creating a slow-moving mass of tuxedos and gowns. They threaded through lines of chairs, chatted while standing along the walls, and admired the urns.

  I couldn’t hide my disgust. This auction was a celebration of the worst shifter war in North American history.

  Quentin seemed to notice my unease. “People spend money on ridiculous things.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Let’s just find these guys and get out.”

  Including the personal security of Pelletier’s guests, there were easily a hundred people to comb through. I scanned the backs of heads, the shape and color of gowns, until I spotted them.

  “There,” I said to Quentin, and nodded in the direction of the couple he had indicated. They stood by the chairs in the second row from the front.

  Both suspects appeared young, well-dressed, and at ease. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the man—dark hair, thin mustache, athletic build, and the sort of face that blended into a crowd rather than stood out. His date reminded me of a fashion model—tall, somewhat pretty, and so thin that a strong breeze might carry her away. Both wore fake smiles that didn’t meet their eyes.

  The woman’s heart rate was even. I could see her pulse tick on her tiny wrist. The man glanced around the room, not in and of itself suspicious, but after what Quentin had said, my money was on the man.

  The young woman flipped her long, golden hair from her shoulder and turned her attention to another pretentious socialite. The two chatted and stood close together to stare at something on the other woman’s phone—likely photos or social media posts. Quentin took a step forward, only for someone to slam into his side.

  Pelletier. Plastered like a frat boy.

  “Excuse me,” Quentin said.

  “Certainly.” Pelletier bowed and swept his hand out as if clearing the way.

  Pelletier moved on, his sights set on his date’s ass. I was just glad it wasn’t me.

  Quentin remained still, inadvertently watching the wolf shifter’s path until he was well past me.

  I turned my attention to the male suspect. A glimmer of light reflected from his waist.

  His finger twitched over the shining metal circle that hung from his belt. What was it? High-pitched and barely-audible, an oscillating sound filled the room.

  The floor vibrated. Conversations cut short.

  A shrill scream echoed—unsurprisingly, the scream came from Pelletier. Others followed his lead. Some of the guests dropped to the floor, while others pushed past me for the stairs.

  I kept my eyes locked on the suspect. He remained calm and controlled as he shoved the other guests out of the way, including his date.

  Was he after an urn? Nothing else had been brought in. There was nowhere to go when he fled except through me or out the window.

  “Outside, southside window, second floor. Go,” I said into my comm.

  Non-Whitesong security drew weapons. Faces distorted in panic. People slammed into each other. Drawn weapons only heightened the danger to bystanders.

  Guests scurried around the overpacked room, making it difficult to see, let alone move.

  Quentin pushed his way through the riled masses. While everyone else moved toward the back of the room, he fought the current.

  “Thin mustache, five ten,” Quentin yelled to the guards at the front of the room.

  Something was wrong, beside the tremor. Why would the suspect run when he hadn’t stolen anything? It had to be the urns—that, or he could have taken something off of one of the guests.

  I remained in place and loosened my stance so I could tackle him. He would not get out this way.

  The vibration of the floor grew more violent.

  Strings of gold and glass fell from the chandelier. Framed art jostled along the walls.

  “Stop, now! You have nowhere to go.” Quentin reached the front of the room and stood facing the suspect. Hand on his taser, he added, “You’re going to hand over—”

  Smiling, the suspect shoved the rotund auctioneer into Quentin.

  I lost the two in the commotion, but not the suspect. He dove at the wall, not the window.

  Instead of making contact, wallpaper and drywall gave way to the man’s hand, to his arm. It didn’t make sense, but it was happening anyway. He was moving through the wall.

  I ran out of the Renne Room, down the hall, toward the vault. My pulse raced with excitement and nerves. I’d never seen anything like this.

  The whirring noise stopped abruptly. My heels slid on the marble flo
or, and I banged my fist on the door to the vault.

  “Tell me one of you is in the vault,” I said into the comm.

  The door cracked open. Confused, but exactly where I needed him to be, stood Slade.

  He looked even more imposing than usual in his tuxedo. The already small room was dwarfed by both his stature and presence. There was no one I’d have rather had with me in that moment.

  Before I had the chance to explain what was happening, the wall rippled. Slade whipped around toward the strange sound.

  The would-be-thief stepped through. It happened so fast—the appearance of a black dress shoe, followed by all the body parts attached. His beady eyes went wide when he saw Slade. He reached out, grabbed a slim dagger from a shelf, and touched the disc on his hip. The high-pitched whirring sound started again, and the wall seemed to blur and move.

  “Don’t let him—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, Slade tackled the man. They grappled with each other halfway between the vault and the next room.

  “Slade!” I called.

  He was halfway through the wall. My heart beat too fast with fear. Disembodied legs flailed, pinned beneath Slade’s knee. Both disappeared, replaced by an elbow, then a flash of dark hair. Grunts and shouts carried through the hall from the adjacent room.

  I didn’t want to imagine what would happen to Slade if the device stopped whatever the hell it was doing. I ran forward to help, to pull Slade safely back into the vault, but a cold, clammy hand grasped my forearm.

  Pelletier was holding me, and his booze breath surrounded my senses.

  I pulled away hard. “Let go!”

  He released me, but he stepped way too close into my personal space, his brow furrowed. My first instinct was to plant my palm into his nose.

  “Move.” I tried to shove my way past, but he met me step for step. The stink of alcohol and his rancid cologne made my stomach churn. I didn’t have time for this.

  “This is not the way I expected this night to go,” he said, slurring his speech.

  Voices carried through the hall, along with footsteps.

  Slade’s crooked arm jutted through the wall, clamped in the middle was the flailing thief. His face was red as he clawed frantically at Slade’s arm. Just as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared again into the wall.

  Every second that passed I grew more frustrated than the last. Any moment, the effect of the device could stop. What would happen if Slade was midway between walls?

  “You’re going to make this up to me.” Pelletier reached a hand forward.

  He was too drunk to see I was still trying to fix this. I slapped his hand aside and threw him to the ground. We were done. Screw him. I had to reach Slade.

  Pelletier squealed some sort of frustration or insult, but I ignored him.

  Slade and the thief rolled back halfway into the vault. The smaller man wiggled and rolled, putting distance between the two. No.

  The bastard laughed, his front half still in the vault, then he phased through the floor like a belly flop to the first story.

  Slade remained halfway between rooms. The device was gone.

  “Slade!” I shouted, bounding past Pelletier.

  A flash of a spear invaded my mind. Of my mate collapsing on slick stone. Of the hopeless panic that fueled me forward. I felt the weight of Marc in my arms, of the despair that washed over me as I watched him slip away. No. Not again.

  Slade’s legs were behind him, his front half in the other room. He kicked, scrambling back, but he wasn’t moving fast enough. With a battle cry, I reached out and pulled his leg as hard as I could. He slid back toward me and spun around into a sitting position.

  The rift closed, and a wave of relief washed over me. Slade was okay. He was scowling, but okay.

  Thoughts of Marc left me unsteady. It was this auction. This vault. These artifacts. It was my feelings for Slade, for Taylor, for Quentin. To care for them left me vulnerable. It meant there was something to lose.

  “I didn’t get him,” Slade said.

  I couldn’t afford to be stuck in my own head. Not now.

  “Downstairs,” I said into my comm. “He’s five-ten, brown hair, about a hundred eighty pounds. He grabbed a dagger, and he moves through walls.”

  “What?” Taylor asked.

  “Full sweep,” Quentin said. “Overlook nothing.”

  Pelletier rose to his feet, swaying with drunkenness and anger. He pointed an unsteady finger at me. “By now you should know who I am, what I’m capable of. You should know that I get what I—”

  Slade stepped between us, a giant wall of muscle. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, tell him how glad I was that he was alive and unharmed. I didn’t.

  The growl that rumbled through his chest left Pelletier’s ugly mouth hanging wide open. When Slade stepped forward, Pelletier moved aside.

  Slade grabbed my hand and led me through the crowd. Everyone made way for him, and we searched for any sign of the thief. Though he’d gone through the floor, we checked all of the rooms upstairs. We passed teams of our guards who were thoroughly sweeping every room, just as Quentin had instructed them.

  “No sign yet out back,” Taylor said through my earpiece.

  “I’ve examined every room on the first floor,” said Quentin. “Our people stopped a few men fitting the suspect’s description. None were him. His date seems to have disappeared as well.”

  I held tight to Slade’s giant palm and hoped beyond reason that we’d find the thief. But I knew in my gut that he was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Taylor

  Ariana drove the Cayenne while Quentin sat shotgun. We were mostly silent on the ferry ride back to Emerald Pines, each of us stewing in our own thoughts. No one at the party seemed to know who the thief was. The chaos that followed left few witnesses to question. None were the thief’s date, and no one seemed to know where either of them had gone. Our attempts to get the information from Pelletier were fruitless. He was too drunk and too irate to do anything but slur and curse.

  Once the ferry reached shore, I watched Ariana’s profile in the moving lights from passing cars and street lamps. Cold night air whistled and whipped through the open windows.

  “I screwed up,” Slade said, kicking his foot over to mine.

  He was so quiet that Ariana and Quentin would have had to be really listening hard in order to hear him over the sound of the car and the rushing wind, so I knew he was only talking to me.

  “Dude, I heard everything that went down,” I said just as quietly. “You did good.”

  He shook his head and looked out his window, resting his hand on the furry orange ball in his lap. Before we’d left the Brightwater, Princess Needleclaw had come trotting up to Slade and twined around his shin.

  Ariana had made a point of saying yes—pets were welcome in the Arrow. Likely Princess Needleclaw was the exception, not the rule.

  I kept my eyes on Ariana’s profile. If she was back here instead of me, what words of comfort would she offer Slade?

  “You were fast in there,” I said.

  “Not fast enough.”

  “Faster than I would’ve been, probably. It all happened in a really bizarre way, and none of us knew what was going on, other than he was on the move. You weren’t afraid to act, though. Is that from being in the service?”

  He shrugged. “I saw some combat, yeah. Had to be swift, although as a dragon I had an advantage. Not all my unit was shifters, though. Lost some friends.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Hey, at least it wasn’t the Lotus War. That was before my time, and it was brutal, from what I heard.”

  In the driver’s seat, Ariana went rigid. I wondered if she’d fought in the Lotus War, or whether she’d known someone who had. If she’d been a part of it in any way, even peripherally, it must have been difficult for her to be surrounded by all those artifacts.

  “Before my time, too,” I said. “I was born right after.”


  “Me, too. A little less than a year after it ended.”

  “Same here.” I gave him a smile, this big guy who was feeling more and more like my brother every day. “Anyway, trust me—you did good tonight.”

  He just sighed, and I sighed, too. The dagger had been stolen. We’d done all we could, but in the end, we’d lost it.

  I’d come into the room just when Pelletier started yelling at Ariana. Slade had stepped in to protect her. He was a good guy, and his pain right now felt like my own.

  “Hey,” I whispered, “at least we all made it out safe.” I shot my gaze meaningfully toward Ariana behind the wheel, then back to Slade.

  He nodded. “That’s true. If she got hurt…” He rubbed the spot over his heart. “I don’t think I could stand it.”

  “Me, neither.”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence and Ariana navigated us into the Arrow’s parking garage. We all clambered out of the car. Ariana used her key code and got us all into the private elevator. Slade, Quentin, and I all stood protectively around her even though there was no danger here.

  Ariana gave us a tight-lipped smile when the elevator reached our floor. “Job well done, guys,” she said.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Slade said, his voice miserable.

  She touched his elbow, the one that held the sleeping kitten. “You were great. You acted without even needing to be told what to do. How were we supposed to know the perp could walk through walls?”

  It echoed what I’d said earlier, but coming from Ariana, it seemed to help Slade more.

  Quentin stopped the elevator door from closing before we could move into the hallway. “Goodnight, Ariana.” Stepping forward, he gave her a hug.

  She inhaled, full and deep, and even though I wasn’t touching her, I felt that embrace as if I were Quentin. Slade, too, looked more peaceful by the time those two let go of each other.

  I felt the stirrings of arousal. I wanted more, always more with Ariana. But tonight, she looked like she wanted to chill out by herself.