by Kayle Wolf
“Yeah,” she said simply, looking straight at him. “Is that okay?”
His head was spinning. “I—”
“Don’t. You don’t have to say it. Dragon, remember? All the time in the world. I don’t want you to say it until you’re certain it’s true.” She smiled at him, impossibly composed, impossibly beautiful.
He opened his mouth to speak—then closed it. Words weren’t enough. So he reached out to her, drew her to him, and kissed her for the first time since the night they’d spent together. She threw her arms around his neck and drew him in, pressed her body against his, kicking back the covers on the bed to wriggle herself more completely into his grip. He could feel her smiling against his lips, and he was smiling too, tears of relief and joy in his eyes. As complex as the world may be, at this moment, in this bed with Helena in his arms, he felt real, true hope in his chest for the first time in a long time. Not just a willingness to go on—but a belief that the future could be good, that there were bright things on the horizon just waiting for him to reach out for them. Dark things in the rear vision mirror, too, and he’d come to terms with them in time.
Helena broke away, her breath coming quicker. “How are you doing?” she murmured, her hands moving gently across his body, seeking out the points where his wounds were healing.
“Fine. Absolutely fine.”
“I don’t want to tear your stitches open again—”
“Worth it,” he growled, rolling on top of her, and she squealed in delight, wriggling with mock-consternation as though trying to escape. He pressed his lips to her throat, seeking out a few of the more sensitive spots he’d located during the evening they’d spent together, and it wasn’t long before she was gasping in response, her body responding more and more to his touch. He smiled to himself a little smugly. She probably thought he hadn’t been paying attention, but he had.
He hesitated a little as her fingertips found the buttons of his jeans, shooting a glance towards the window that was set in the wall of her room. “Can anyone—”
“Not a soul for a hundred miles that way,” she said breathlessly. “Come here.”
This time, the removal of their clothing was far less awkward—it was amazing what a little bit of practice could do. She lay before him in all her golden glory, and he sat back on his heels, absolutely floored by the sight of her. The hotel room they’d shared hadn’t been nearly as well-lit as this one, and the cold air had meant they were buried under the blankets for most of their time together… he hadn’t gotten a proper look at her body before. She quirked an eyebrow at him, stretching her arms above her head in a mock-casual gesture that almost drew a groan from him.
“Not bad for an old dragon, hmm?” she joked, and he snorted laughter.
“Not bad? You’re like—like a sculpture. You ought to be in a museum.”
“I’ve been sculpted in my time,” she informed him, tossing her head. “But if I were in a museum, I couldn’t do this.” And she sat up, lunging forward to press their bodies together. Before he knew it he was overcome by the force of her, her hands moving across his body, starting fires everywhere she touched. He was painfully hard, electricity pooling in the bottom of his stomach, his heart pounding with need for her, his head almost spinning with the scent of her hair and the flash of her eyes. Exultation in his chest. They had all the time in the world, to do this—no rush, no need to hurry. No looming deadline, no check-out time, nothing. They could be together for hours, days, weeks. Draw this out as long as they wanted.
And he wanted to. So he waited patiently until she was distracted—then he grabbed her around the waist and reversed their positions, pressing her back down to the bed. When she protested, he ran his hand down her body, seeking out with his fingers a particular spot that he knew would make her putty in his hands. And sure enough, she sighed, dropping back against the pillows like a puppet with its strings cut. Grinning, he kissed her hipbone, lingered with his face over the heat of her, letting his breath touch and tease at the soft flesh there—
“Art,” she groaned. “C’mon.”
“I thought dragons were patient,” he murmured, his lips against her sex, and she growled, writhing on the bed beneath him as he ever-so-slowly entered her with his fingertips. There was a trick to this that he was very much looking forward to mastering. Like playing a sport, or an instrument, he thought with amusement as he explored her body, drawing sounds from her that threatened to send him completely mad with desire. What did they say it took… ten thousand hours? That would be a good start.
He brought her to the edge of her climax, her whole body taut and straining against the mattress, her hair wildly askew and her hands clenched tightly in the bed-sheets. Then he eased off, pressing kisses to the side of her thighs, let her catch her breath—then dove in again, bringing her closer and closer with powerful strokes of his fingers and careful movements of his tongue. He managed to repeat the pattern four times before she sat straight up with a murderous growl, her golden eyes several shades darker than he remembered, her lips dark red and her whole body flushed with desire.
“That,” she said menacingly, “is a dirty trick.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, as innocently as he could manage. “How can I make it up to you?”
With a strength that surprised him, she flipped their positions, flattening him against the bed, then climbed astride him, sinking him to the hilt inside her in a smooth motion that almost made him bite his own tongue off. Just like that, any illusion of control he had was gone—and he surrendered with enthusiasm, letting her pin his hands to the bed beside his head as she claimed him, rolled her hips back and forth, drawing him deeper and deeper inside her until he felt like he was going to pass out with the power of the sensation, with how absolutely consumed he was by her. It wasn’t long before her breath started to stutter and gasp, and he knew she was close, knew he could let himself go—he drove his hips up to meet her with all the power he had left in his body, and she buried her head in his shoulder and screamed as she came. He wasn’t far behind, the sensation hitting him like a tidal wave, like a nuclear bomb, knocking out any and all resistance in him and leaving his head spinning deliriously, his heart pounding, his body absolutely on fire with electricity.
When he came back to himself, she was flopped across his chest, looking about as drained and exhausted as he felt with her eyes half-shut and a rather silly-looking smile on her face. One of her eyes opened and met his, and she let out a dizzy little laugh.
“What?”
“You look like you’ve been punched in the face,” she giggled.
“I have,” he declared, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “You’re amazing.”
“You are,” she countered sleepily, yawning. Art watched as she fell asleep, his heart full to bursting with the love he felt for her, the true and certain knowledge that wherever he went, whatever he did, whatever the world had in store for him—the only fixed point he needed was her. Let the pieces fall where they may. So long as she was at his side, he could do anything.
Chapter 17
“—and there’s a new pack moving into the old Mossley spot, at the river bend,” Angela was saying. Helena lifted her head from her meal, her interest piqued. Lisa had outdone herself again—this was her best Sunday afternoon stir-fry yet. It had become something of a tradition for Lisa and Art to cook together on Sunday afternoons, ever since he’d off-handedly offered to whip something up for dinner one evening and it had been the most delicious thing any of them had ever eaten. Lisa had thrown her hands up in despair.
“I can’t turn into a huge lizard or a bear or a wolf, I don’t know shit about history, and I’m not magic. All I had was my stir-fry queen crown, and now you’ve taken that from me, too. Helena, this is all your fault.”
She’d laughed, pressing a kiss to the side of Art’s head. By way of apology, he’d helped Lisa cook every Sunday from then on. It had become a pleasant little tradition for the two of them, a way to spe
nd more time together. He was surprisingly good at that—at setting little traditions that brought him closer to people. It felt like within a week of staying at the palace, he had a ritual organized with everyone. He spent a few afternoons a week reading in the library with Angela, both trying to find the most obscure book they could in the depths. Some mornings, he’d sit in the sun with Stephen drinking tea and looking out over the valley in absolute silence. He and Jessica went running together in the valley a few times a week after dark, half competitive, half cheering each other on. With Samuel, he wandered the passageways of the palace, finally starting on the project of actually mapping the place that Samuel had been putting off for decades. And with Alexander, he argued about politics. That had worried Helena the first few times—overhearing them, voices raised in the little room Alexander used for important meetings—until she looked through the door and saw her brother alive with energy and enthusiasm, passionately defending some strange quirk of constitutional monarchy. She’d had no idea Art was such an expert.
“Noah had a bunch of books about politics. Wasn’t much else to do in the evenings,” was all the man would say by way of explanation. She supposed she couldn’t argue with that.
For such a quiet man, it wasn’t long before he was fast friends with everyone in her family. At first, she’d felt a little jealous, possessive of him, wanting more of his attention than he was giving her—even though he was nothing but loving when they were together. He needed time to work through his grief, to heal, she knew that—but it wasn’t until she overheard him talking to Stephen one afternoon that the penny dropped.
“It doesn’t stop hurting,” her father was saying, in a tone she’d never heard him use before. “You just grow around the ache.”
The look on her lover’s face had made her turn away, ashamed of herself for being so demanding of his attention. He could talk to her about anything—she’d told him that. And he did. He told her everything, these days—he’d made it clear that he’d never hide anything from her again, and she trusted that completely. But with grief like his, you needed more than one person to talk to, more than one kind of insight into your pain. Who was she to deny him that? Besides—there was something wonderful about seeing him forge new friendships. This strange man, who’d been so broken when she’d met him, finally beginning to come out of his shell—taking Angela under his wing like a little sister, bickering good-naturedly with Jessica about who was the fastest, sitting in companionable silence with Stephen. In their own way, they were healing him.
“A new pack?” Art said now, looking up from his stir-fry. It had been six months since she’d first brought him home, covered in blood. Nothing remained of his injuries save for some faint scars, which grew fainter every day. And the transformation otherwise was enormous. His face was brighter, he smiled more easily, and his eyes were full of light, not darkness. Of course, there was still a shadow there of his loss—there always would be, she knew. His family had been wonderful, and she treasured every piece of information he shared with her about them. It almost felt like she knew them, too, through him, grieved them alongside him. Shared the weight of his loss, in some way. And so did her family.
“Their Alpha split off from a big pack nearby,” Angela was saying around a mouthful of food. She’d finally been allowed to go to a local shifter conference with Alexander and Lisa, and she was full of excitement about the gossip she’d learned there. It was a biannual event, something they’d only learned of recently—an opportunity organized by the local wolf packs to allow various shifters to mingle and share news. Much more peaceful than the Mossley festival, thankfully, though everyone had been on high alert, with Lisa making hourly phone calls home to let them know they were all safe and nothing barbaric or medieval was going on.
“Why the split?””
“Forced marriages,” Angela said, eyes gleaming. It was an especially sore subject for her and her sister, both of whom had almost been forced to marry the Alpha of their previous pack. “The old Alpha wouldn’t let them marry for love, so all the wolves who weren’t happy about it started their own pack. They’re trialing a democratic pack structure. Electing an Alpha every year.”
“Sounds like your kind of scene,” Alexander said, shooting Art a look—he grinned back at him. Some reference to one of their ongoing debates, Helena assumed, smiling to herself. She knew better than to get involved.
“Speaking of foolish ideas,” Art said, glancing at Helena, “any news from William?”
Alexander heaved a sigh. “Still sticking to his guns. Refuses to come to any gatherings, threatening to revoke his loyalty to me, a whole lot of empty threats.”
“I wish he’d just meet Art,” Helena said testily. “It seems like the least he could do.”
“He’s a stubborn old man,” Stephen said. “Take it from a stubborn old man, it’ll be a while before he comes around. But he will. I’ve known William for a long time. He’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”
It bothered Art, though, Helena knew, stealing a discreet glance at her lover as the conversation moved on. Sure enough, his eyes were shadowed. Clearly lost in thought. And when he caught her by the hand when they were rising from the lunch table, she followed him straight away. She knew how to recognize his unspoken indications that he needed her support. She did frown a little as they walked past Stephen, though—had her father actually winked at Art? Surely not. He’d never winked in his life. He didn’t even know what winking was.
Art led her down a familiar passageway, and she realized with an amused smile that it was the same path she’d taken all those months ago, that fateful day that she’d gone for a walk after lunch and gotten herself kidnapped. Well, they knew the Mossley clan was completely disbanded. There were a few rumors of the remaining white dragons setting up a little colony over the border, but she knew they’d think twice before they tried kidnapping and selling anyone again. And it was a beautiful afternoon, bracing and cool, with birds singing up a storm in the trees.
Art kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She pretended not to notice—but her interest was thoroughly piqued.
They sat down beside the river on a couple of raised rocks. Somehow, Helena got the feeling that Art had come down here ahead of time to scout out a good place for them to sit. That was the kind of thing he did. Her heart was fluttering in her chest, but she focused her attention on the stream, watched the river rolling by. She’d learned a lot about patience in these last six months. A lot about grief—about waking up in the night to hold her lover as he wept, about leaving him to his devices when all he needed was to be alone, about being there but not being overbearing, insisting he take care of himself without nagging. It was a balancing act, and her instincts for what he needed were getting sharp. Right now, he was nervous, so she was placid. Balance. Easy as that.
“Helena. I wanted to talk to you.”
For all her best efforts at being carefree, worry crept into her stomach. But she nodded, waiting for him to continue.
“These last six months—you’ve all been so good to me. You’ve helped me so much. I—I was a broken man when you met me, Helena. You’ve seen my absolute worst side. It’s all you’ve seen of me. And you responded with—with love, and care, and patience. You healed me, and then you brought me home, and let me share your home, welcomed me into your family… You’re—unbelievable. Stephen was right, I should have written this down,” he said abruptly, and she saw that his eyes were shining with emotion. She reached out and took his hand, not trusting herself to speak. “Helena, I love you. I loved you yesterday, I’ll love you tomorrow. I loved you when you brought me here, I loved you when I first saw you, I think I loved you the day I was born, I just didn’t know what that was. And I wish I’d said it six months ago. I hate that I’ve wasted so much time that I could have spent telling you, over and over again.”
She laughed, dashed at her eyes where tears were threatening to spill over. “You didn’t have to tell me. I kn
ew.”
“Yeah?” He was smiling at her, those dark eyes shining in the sunlight. She gazed back at him, admiring the flecks of bright gold that lit up those dark eyes of his.
“Dragons are an ancient and wise people, you see,” she said primly—then yelped in shock as he leaped at her in a completely unexpected spear tackle that carried them both down onto the soft grass behind the rock. They rolled down the gentle slope of the hill together, laughing at the damp grass soaking through their clothing.
“Ancient and wise,” he echoed when they’d rolled to a stop, a tangle of grass-stained limbs. She rested her head on his shoulder, gazing up into the bright blue sky above them. There were still challenges ahead, she knew—grief was a long and thorny creature. And who knew what the future would bring? Dissent within their community, new ties being made with outside clans of shifters… it was a time of big changes, both political and personal. But as the sun beamed down on them, she knew they were out of the woods. And when he murmured a question in her ear, casual as anything, she’d never been surer of the answer to a question in her life.
“Of course I’ll marry you,” Helena murmured, and the grin that split across her soulmate’s face was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
*****
THE END
About the Author
Kayla Wolf is a mom of two, an obsessive reader and a total sucker for paranormal romance. Sexy shifters, sassy women, steamy encounters, and dangerous enemies are the things that make her lay awake at night. Whenever she thinks about these things, she just has to get up and write about them immediately... Come on in, and spoil the beast in you.
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