Dead Sexy Dragon(6)

“Shit.” Stig turned on his heel and shut himself away in the bathroom. He started a hot shower and peeled out of his clothing. A quick glimpse in the mirror and he caught the flash of his dragon’s reptilian eyes. The beast was subdued during daylight but lurked and waited for his chance to strike. If Cora’s smell made him ravenous with need, how the hell was he supposed to control himself in the same room with her?

With a groan of frustration, Stig stepped into the shower and stuck his face in the bracing spray. The blast of hot water cleared his foggy head. After a night forced into dragon form, he always woke a little groggy and confused. Hopefully a shower and some breakfast would allow him enough time to get his dragon instincts under control. He couldn’t risk behaving inappropriately with Cora—or revealing his true identity.

Shit. Cora. What the hell was he going to do about her? She couldn’t stay here—that was for damn sure. Until his mating period ended, it was too dangerous to keep her nearby. She spurred his arousal into dizzying heights. He couldn’t imagine how strong his scent must have been last night. Were it not for the safety of his lair, he’d have been a bright shining beacon for the Knights who hunted his kind.

Thankfully his human form produced very little dragon scent of any kind. The sunlight burned away whatever excess might have clung to him. In the old days, dragons had used the precious daylight hours to move from hiding place to hiding place, their scent signature masked. Shunning—the practice of separating males about to go into heat—had been common among the small tribes. Separate one to save many.

By the dawning of the twentieth century, new compounds were discovered by the alchemists among the dragon communities that suppressed the heat phases. The side effects were mostly intolerable and often dangerous. Stig had requested the drugs to suppress his phases during his military service. Because the Brotherhood of the Green Hide—the dragons charged with protecting their species from the slayers of the Knights of St. George—needed intel and artifacts from areas like Afghanistan and the old buried sites in Iraq, he’d been given permission to obtain and use the compounds.

They’d very nearly killed him. After leaving the service, he’d spent four months at Nico’s manor in a sort of rehab. He’d sworn then that he’d never take the drugs again. Locking himself up in the cell was better than going through that.

Stig wrapped a towel around his waist and crossed the hall to his bedroom. He paused in the doorway. The smell of bacon and brewing coffee made his stomach growl. He backed out and craned his neck at Cora’s door. It stood open and revealed a neatly made bed and stacks of luggage. He fought the urge to go inside and snoop. The odds of finding anything in her bags to tell him why she’d shown up on his doorstep were low. He’d rather not risk being discovered rifling through her things.

The ring of his cell phone startled him. He snatched it off the dresser and glanced at the display. It was Ignatius, the oldest dragon of their cobbled-together tribe and the head of the Brotherhood.

“Yeah?” Stig didn’t bother with the usual “good morning.”

“Any problems last night?” Ignatius was gruff and all business.

“No.” Stig didn’t hesitate. Mentioning Cora’s presence would just piss Ignatius off, and that was the last thing he needed right now. There was no reason for his very, very old friend to get bent out of shape. Cora would be gone by lunch.

“Good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The line went dead. Stig tossed his phone onto the bed and made quick work of pulling on some jeans and a navy blue tee. His work boots and belt completed his laid-back ensemble. Finding out what had brought Cora to his doorstep last night, complete with her entire apartment in boxes, remained his top priority. If she was in real trouble, he’d move heaven and hell to protect her, but if it was something less pressing, she had to get out of his cabin until his phase ended. As he dressed, Stig tried to think of how to approach the subject of evicting Cora from the guest bedroom. It sure as hell wouldn’t be easy.

Downstairs the delicious scents of a home-cooked breakfast nearly knocked him off his feet. His mouth watered with anticipation as he entered the kitchen and swept his gaze over the table near the bay window. Plates laden with his favorites took center stage: biscuits fresh out of the oven, scrambled eggs, and crispy bacon strips. Apparently she intended to butter him up with food. Frankly that was a-okay with him.

“Morning.” Cora smiled at him from behind the butcher block island. Seeing her in the same light blue camisole and striped cotton drawstring bottoms from the dream hit him like a punch to the gut. She alternated scoops of vanilla yogurt and berries into rocks glasses. “You don’t have parfait cups,” she explained, and placed the glasses on the table.