Enchanted By Fire (Dragons Of The Darkblood Secret Society Book 3)

by Meg Ripley

  She thought nothing of it at first, just a random act of thievery, until he recommended that she stay elsewhere for the night—just to feel more at ease. The thing was, she had nowhere else to go. Freya couldn’t remember having anyone, no friend or family member had shown up at her door in the past three months and the people at work were casual acquaintances at best.

  So, she would stay there. She could waste her money on a hotel room, but she refused to be driven from her home. It was the only thing that she knew with any certainty had been there before her memory had vanished. At least, she presumed it had been since she had seven months remaining on a twelve-month lease.

  She thanked the officer for the suggestion and told him she’d be just fine. He seemed hesitant, but left a moment later with a parting reminder to lock her doors and windows.

  And then she stepped into her apartment.

  There were broken dishes strewn all over the floors; every drawer and cupboard had been emptied, the contents tossed randomly throughout every room. Lamps had been knocked over, curtains had been ripped off the walls and her television was lying face down on the carpet. The only place of refuge she’d known was in shambles. Someone had broken into the only home she could remember and destroyed it.

  She waited for the well of emotion to spring forth—anger, sadness, a sense of violation that came with her privacy being invaded. She could feel them in the pit of her stomach, but there they stayed, and instead what she felt more than anything was a calmness, a clear understanding of what needed to be done.

  She stepped carefully through the chaos of broken china and glass, and surveyed her surroundings, looking for what was missing.

  Nothing.

  She’d made it through the kitchen and the living room, but she couldn’t think of a single thing that was missing. It was all there, if in a few more pieces than before. Into the bedroom, she checked the jewelry box that had been sitting on the chest of drawers. It was on the floor, the contents strewn on the carpet, but the few pieces of jewelry that had been there before were still there now.

  Only one other possibility sprung to mind, and she opened the closet, tossing out the few items that remained in the small space. She crouched down and crawled to the back where she’d discovered a hidden box behind a false wall when she’d rummaged through the apartment three months ago. The false wall was still neatly closed, so she pushed on it gently, disengaging the simple magnetic strip that held it in place, and found the box there. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched, and when she opened it, they were still there—the medallion she’d hidden and the necklace that had been nestled there already.

  She was quickly coming to suspect that since nothing else had been taken, the intruders hadn’t found what they’d been looking for. The expensive-looking necklace had been tucked away in its hiding place for the past three months without incident, so it seemed an unlikely target.

  That left only one logical conclusion: the intruders had been after the medallion. It was what worried her when she’d realized she’d taken it with her from the hotel, and it seemed her worry had been well-founded.

  Returning the box to its hiding spot, she closed the false wall and got to work, cleaning up all the broken, ripped and torn contents of her apartment, all the while contemplating what to do next. She could chuck the medallion off the Grand Canyon and be done with it, but if they suspected she still had it, they’d be back. She could somehow arrange a meeting to hand it over, but something in the back of her mind told her she couldn’t allow it to fall into the wrong hands.

  By two-thirty in the morning, she was no closer to an answer than when she’d started, but she had cleaned up all the mess, a stack of garbage bags at the front door filled with all the items that couldn’t be salvaged. At least cleaning days would be easier, she thought wryly, glancing around at the near-bare cupboards and empty shelves.

  She padded down the hallway to her bedroom, exhausted and desperate for a few hours’ sleep before the workday began. The intruders had been kind enough to leave her mattress, though it had been ripped and torn in so many places that the metal springs protruded from both sides of it here and there. She was so tired, though, she figured she could fall asleep just about anywhere at the moment.

  She laid down on the lumpy mattress, careful not to flop back too hard against the rogue springs, but it wasn’t the mess in her apartment or the medallion at the forefront of her mind when she closed her eyes.

  It was Grant.

  An image of him had sprung to mind, dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit—a suit that she’d imagined tearing off him at least a dozen times during their brief dinner. She’d been loath to leave him, so much that she’d almost accepted his offer to drive her to her apartment. Part of her hadn’t cared about the break-in, or the medallion, or the fact that she’d had no intention of welcoming him into the privacy of her home. She’d resisted the temptation, though, and wasn’t sure now if she was grateful or if she regretted it. She wouldn’t be lying in bed alone then, her body throbbing with unsated desire if she’d sacrificed her silly privacy.

  Tossing and turning, she drifted off slowly, taking Grant with her and pulling him into her dreams. And there he stayed all night, his hands and his mouth driving her wild while she sampled every inch of his body with her lips.

  ****

  She grabbed her purse from the table in the staff room at the end of the day, a day that had been no different than any other in the past few months, despite the upheaval of the night before.

  She hadn’t heard from Grant, which meant he’d likely found himself a new amusement by now. She was disappointed, more so than she should have been over a man she’d known for less than forty-eight hours, and knew from the start that he wasn’t the kind of man to stick around. And that had been fine with her; in fact, it was precisely what had given her the freedom to pursue a carefree night with the devastatingly hot man. But after their evening had been cut short—and she’d spent the entire night submersed in erotic fantasies of him—she couldn’t help but be irritated by the abrupt end.

  She pushed him from her mind for the umpteenth time that day, and walked back through the museum on her way out. She still found it strange that she could call up the name of every artifact there, some of them thousands of years old, but her own history was an absolute blank.

  She slipped out the back door and paused for a moment, breathing in the night air as the click of the door’s lock sounded behind her. She started through the staff parking lot—empty aside from the security guard’s vehicle parked at the far end—but her step slowed a moment later when she heard footsteps coming up quickly from around the side of the building. Her first thought was Grant, but that was likely wishful thinking. It was probably just a passerby.

  She continued toward the back of the lot, toward the street that would lead her to the residential area a few blocks away. A man strode out from beside the building and he continued in her direction, each of his long strides covering the distance of two of hers. She picked up her pace as a shiver ran down her spine, which was ridiculous, of course. This was Las Vegas; there were plenty of people wandering around late at night.

  “I bet you didn’t expect to see me again, did you Freya?” the man asked, striding ahead of her and stepping into her path.

  She came to an abrupt halt, looking at the man but not recognizing him. Did she know him from before? By the sinister look in his eyes, she got the immediate impression that if she had known him, she would rather not have. He was attractive, with jet black hair, deep green eyes, and a long, thin scar across his cheekbone that only seemed to add to his appeal.

  She looked more intently, thinking that if she did know him, something about him would come to mind. Like the artifacts at the museum; though she couldn’t remember how she knew them, their names and origins would pop into her mind, seemingly out of nowhere. But looking at the man, there was nothing.

  “I’m sorry, I think you have me confused with some
one else,” she replied, and moved to step around him.

  He smiled as he stepped in front of her once more. “Is that so?”

  He looked to the left and then the right of her as he spoke, and she realized then that several men had appeared on either side of her, though she had no idea where they’d come from.

  “Why don’t we just see for ourselves,” he said and two men stepped closer.

  All of her focus was on the man directly in front of her. She could only see them out the corners of her eyes, but she could feel them. She could feel the nearly imperceptible vibrations of their steps. She could sense the heat of their bodies warming her skin the closer they came. Her heart pounded so loud she could hear her blood whoosh past her ears, and her knees shook so hard she could barely keep herself upright.

  And then a burly hand clasped around her arm, and all of it slipped away.

  She stopped shaking and her heart beat a serene, steady rhythm in her chest. She was calm and her mind was clear. There was no fear, no panic; there was nothing but clarity.

  Her hand closed over the fingers that dug painfully into her flesh. She twisted and shoved in one smooth motion, snapping the man’s wrist and forcing him several steps back as he hollered in pain.

  The next man didn’t even get close. She kicked out at him with lightning speed, making precise contact in the vulnerable center beneath his rib cage. He stumbled back and grasped futilely at his chest; he couldn’t breathe, and her blow to his solar plexus would limit his air supply for several minutes.

  Two men approached from behind to take their comrades’ places, but she was ready. She reached back and fastened her hand around one’s wrist, and jerked him hard. He went soaring into the other assailant, knocking them both off their feet.

  She was aware of the ringleader’s eyes on her the whole time. He watched on in amused silence, always staying a step outside the fray. “Do you still think I have you confused with someone else, Freya?” he asked, and that made her pause for just a second too long.

  The giant of a man who had snuck around behind her clasped her wrists in his meaty hands and jerked her arms backward. She was trapped, and the panic threatened to rise anew.

  She tested his grip, but it was too strong. She tugged harder, but he didn’t budge.

  The ringleader took a step forward, his evil smile growing wider. “The tables have begun to turn, haven’t they?”

  He laughed and took another cocky step forward. This was her chance. She lifted her feet off the ground, resting all of her weight on her trapped hands, and kicked out with all the strength she could muster.

  He flew through the air, at least ten feet back, before landing on his back. His head thumped against the ground, making a sound that made her stomach churn. But with the ringleader out of the way, she turned her attention to the giant behind her, kicking back hard with a blow to his knee. She heard the crunch at the same time he cried out, but he didn’t release her hands; instead, he took her with him when he stumbled backward.

  He collapsed on the ground and she landed hard on top of him. Feeling the slackening of his hands on her wrists, she tugged forcefully, but as she lunged to her feet, the man—the ringleader—who she had sent flying a moment before was there, and he grabbed her arms, his grip digging so deep into her arms, she heard the crack of her bones shattering.

  A wave of panic came crashing down as she cried out in pain. He laughed, but it sounded like a snarl. She searched her mind frantically for the calm that had settled over her, that had given her body more power than she thought possible, but it was just out of reach. She didn’t know how to pull it back. She had no idea where it had come from. And then it leapt even further away as two sets of hands joined the ringleader’s, holding her tightly in vice-like grips.

  She was trapped.

  Chapter 6

  Grant paced across the confines of his office. He’d spent the day doing his damnedest not to think about her, but he’d failed over and over again. He should have been focused on what to do next; on how the hell to find whoever had taken the medallion.

  He was certain that’s why her apartment had been broken into. Checking the history of the building after he’d left her last night, he’d discovered there hadn’t been a single break-in in all the time the building had been standing—until the day after Freya had taken Sonya’s medallion. That was no coincidence. But who had taken it? Whoever it was, they weren’t human, at least not all of them were. Their quick escape after Sonya’s murder made that a certainty.

  And that was the extent of the progress he’d made. He should be out there doing something, anything to track down Sonya’s murderer, but instead he was distracted by emerald green eyes and cupid bow lips, perfectly shaped breasts, and thighs he’d imagined wrapped around his waist more times than he cared to count.

  But his response to her last night kept him from going back to her. He’d always been a considerate lover, taking the time to ensure it was a mutually enjoyable experience, but last night he’d come within seconds of tearing her clothes off. He’d never experienced anything he couldn’t control before, but Freya had seriously tested him. There was something about her that was anything but ordinary and it made her irresistible.

  What was even worse though, and far more dangerous—no matter how much he’d fought against it—the flames in his core had licked wider, creeping outward. If he ever lost control over that part of him, the result would be catastrophic.

  But as much as he needed to stay away from her, he couldn’t keep himself locked up in his own home, pacing the floors until he wore a hole in the Persian rug. It was night now, and he needed to stretch his wings. He’d always despised the confines of human homes, and now, more than ever, he needed to escape. He needed everything human about him to give way to the dragon, to the beast who was unconcerned with his human needs and desires. Then his mind would be clear and he could hone in on what was really important: avenging Sonya’s death and retrieving her medallion.

  He strode out into the warm night, and on his first step away from the house, he called upon it. He welcomed the heat of the fire as it flooded every fiber of his body. In a flash, it spread further, and he stretched his wings and soared high, with no particular destination in mind. He glided through the sky, letting his wings take him where they willed. He breathed in the odors and aromas of the city, trying to drown out the memory of her heady scent. But it stayed with him, even more potent now than it had been all day. At the same time, he realized that it wasn’t his memory of her that wafted to him in the air, he realized his massive body had angled to the right, drawn to her and soaring in her direction without conscious effort.

  All of a sudden, a scream rent the air, so loud he would almost have been able to hear it with an ordinary human’s ears. It was her scream, he was sure of it. The voice, riddled with pain and fear, didn’t glide over his skin as it had earlier, but he recognized it, nevertheless.

  With his next breath, he recognized something else in the air, a scent he would recognize anywhere.

  Dragon.

  He increased his speed, flapping his massive wings, and when he spotted her a moment later, the scene nearly stopped him cold.

  It was a group of men—at least ten of them. Several of them held her motionless, her arms pinned above her head, and her legs subdued by the weight of four men. And one more—the dragon—straddled her hips, and he held something in his hand, poised against her neck.

  But the rest of them were no ordinary men. Hell, some of them weren’t men at all. They were all hunters, though. He could smell it in the air; so much hatred and vileness had an unmistakable scent. But he’d never seen so many hunters after one target.

  He should have left her there. From the moment he’d first seen her in Sonya’s hotel room, he had known there was something different about her, something not quite human. And though he still had no idea what she was, with a hunting party like that, he had no doubt she was dangerous.

  But he c
ouldn’t do it. There was no way in hell he could leave her there. He swooped down low, reining in the fire and morphing into his human form at the same moment he touched the ground.

  And despite the years it had been since he’d shown himself to any hunter, he strode toward the fray with a sure step.

  “Stop!” he hollered as he approached.

  Every head turned in his direction, recognition dawning in several pairs of eyes, but his step didn’t falter. “I don’t know what you want with her, but you won’t have it today,” he said, his voice smooth as steel.

  The man who straddled her chest stood up and stepped toward him. The dragon in human form, Grant could tell by his cocky stance, he was the one who’d orchestrated this attack…this witch hunt. Was that it? Was she a witch?

  He glanced down at her, and had to fight to keep his ire in check. It took every bit of restraint he could muster to keep from ripping them apart, limb from limb.

  She was still restrained, but she fought against the men holding her, despite the injuries she’d sustained. Cuts and bruises covered her arms and calves, and a dark, angry bruise marred the previously flawless flesh around her eye, so swollen now that her lids formed little more than a thin slit. Her dress had been torn, and he could see that the bruising extended down her chest.

  Even so, he could hear the steady beat of her heart. She was strong.

  But she wasn’t a witch; he’d met plenty of them and he didn’t sense that in her. There was something, though; something not entirely human, but also unlike anything he’d seen before. And whatever it was, it was powerful.

  “Release her and walk away,” he demanded in a deceptively calm voice. “Now.”

  “This isn’t your fight, Grant,” the dragon spoke.

  “Ten against one? This isn’t a fight at all. And it stops now, or else every man who has touched her will die.”