Kiss of a Dragon(6)

She struggled for only a split second before realizing the utter futility of that. His arms were bands of iron, pinning her to him. But he wasn’t hurting her… yet.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, peering down into her face. “I’m not going to harm you.”

They always say that. But they lie.

Her heart pounded, and her mind raced, searching for the right thing to say. The thing to keep her alive. But her brain was annoyingly overwhelmed by the extreme maleness of him—cut jaw, broad shoulders, hard-muscled chest. His light amber eyes were blazing down at her. He was easily the most gorgeous man she’d ever been pressed against, and her body betrayed her by responding to him, so close and so hot.

That only welled up anger inside her. “Let me go.” Her words were half whisper, half shudder at his overwhelming sexual presence.

He released her, but it was slow and lingering, fingers dragging across her skin and body before they lifted free. He smelled insanely good—musky and rich and smoky, like a woodland fire burning in the distance. His black hair was tousled like he had just gotten out of bed, and there were little flecks of gold in his blazing eyes—that must’ve been what she saw before by some trick of light.

He stepped back, and the shine in his eyes dimmed. “I saved you. The alley? Do you remember?”

A shuddering wave swept over her body, raising her small hairs in goosebumps. She remembered. But she had been dreaming, right? Surely a man had not landed in the alley on golden wings and knocked out her attacker. She had not actually flown over the mountains, carried by an angel. But the view out the windows drew her gaze like a sharp rebuke to her doubts. And her grip on reality. What kidnapper owns a penthouse apartment in the mountains? And where was she? Seattle was nowhere to be seen.

“What is this place?” she asked. “I saw… I remember, from the alley…” Then she really remembered. She had been shot. A quick look down showed her shirt to be covered with blood. She lifted it, but there was no wound, no pain, just a small, white scar that hadn’t been there before.

“You were attacked by a demon,” the man said. His arms had fallen to his sides, and he watched her, intensely, but didn’t move a muscle.

“A what?”

“I healed you. With my own blood.”

She took a step back from him, eyes wide. Then another. She remembered him touching her… the pain fading… She swallowed. “What are you?”

His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, but she felt the weight of the disappointment that dragged them down. “A monster,” he said.

Her heart kicked up a notch again. “What are you saying?”

Instead of answering he transformed. Into an enormous golden dragon. She stumbled backward, legs banging against the couch, then she grasped onto it and stared at the beast in horror. There was an honest-to-God dragon standing before her. He reached halfway to the two-story ceiling with golden wings that stretched the span of the great room. His scales glinted in the morning sun and cast a hazy glow around the room. He had four legs that were tipped in golden talons, and a long neck that ended in an elongated face with razor-sharp white teeth. His eyes had turned to gold like the rest of him.

She scuttled backward and hid behind the couch. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed them, praying that she was hallucinating. But when she forced them open again, the dragon was still there, head cocked, staring intently at her. His great chest moved like articulated brass. His long tail flicked back and forth, fanning slightly with the small wings at the tip. His great wings were still outstretched. As she watched, they furled in, like massive golden sails folding. As soon as they were tucked to his back, the dragon transformed back into a man. For a brief instant, he was naked, and the full glory of his body was laid bare to her. But then clothes appeared and covered him—black boots half way up his muscular calves, loose black pants that cinched tight at the waist, and a long-sleeved hoodie that looked like something out of the Middle Ages. It was black and billowed around his face. He pushed it back and dropped his hands to his sides again.

“What the hell was that?” Her voice shook, but she slowly stood up from behind the couch.

“You should know what I am. And who I am.” His voice was smooth and controlled, resonating with power. She could almost imagine it was how a dragon would sound—if dragons existed. And spoke.

She was losing her mind. “And who is that?”

“I am Lucian Smoke, Dragon Prince of the House of Smoke.”

“Okay.” The evidence was before her eyes, and she liked to think she was a logical person, but this just didn’t make sense. Of course, she knew shifters existed—it was all over the news. In the darker corners of downtown where she worked, she knew the shifter gangs were a real thing. She’d heard rumors of witches as well. But never so much as a hint of dragons. And with all the shifter drama in the news, how could no one know? It wasn’t like no one would notice. But she’d only ever heard of wolf shifters. No dragons.