Dylan had a waitress bring him another beer. A different waitress brought him a third after he’d slowly nursed the second to an empty bottle.

Women drifted by like bait in front of sharks. He didn’t bite.

Not because he couldn’t, hell no. He could take any one of them home and make her scream without breaking a sweat himself. Later maybe, for now the camaraderie satisfied him.

The blonde with the rack made her move. She came over, leading with her breasts and showing a lot of cleavage. She stopped between Mettes and him, fingers tipped with long red nails settling on their shoulders.

“Dance?” Fuck?

And he had the feeling she was signaling she was good with two on one if they swung that way.

“Love to,” Mettes said, standing and guiding her to a postage-stamp dance floor, there for giving the chemistry a test drive before taking the action elsewhere.

Patterson took a pull of beer then tipped the bottle toward a looker sitting with a couple of friends. “I’m going to make a play for the brunette. Short, curvy, hot blooded. Got a strawberry-blonde at the table with her, close as you’re going to get to redhead tonight.”

“Pass.”

Stine from Burglary laughed. “Might have to give him one of your Viagra pills, Patterson, so he can get some interest going for a strawberry-blonde.”

That’s all it took to get the razzing going all over again. Fuck, not that he cared, even when Rabe, Stine’s partner, said, “Guy probably developed this obsession in adolescence, when he got hold of his first porn magazine.”

“That explain why you like leather and restraints?” Stine asked.

“Hell no, that comes with being a cop.”

Dylan laughed with the rest of them though his balls went tight at imagining Seraphine tethered to the bed. She wouldn’t surrender control for just any man. His gut said she’d probably never given a man that much trust. To be the first, the only—

No! Not going there.

He knew the cure for what ailed him.

He forced himself to mentally undress the strawberry-blonde sitting with the brunette. Before he’d gotten more than the dress off her, sharp pain sliced across his throat.

He coughed, his skin feeling too tight to contain a sudden humming energy, like he was buzzing.

What the hell? He glanced down at the beer in his hand. Had the waitress slipped something into it? Or more likely, been distracted by the blonde so she could, hoping to get luckier when she made her move?

No way could the buzz be explained otherwise. This was a cop bar run by an ex-cop, and he’d paced himself so he’d be good to drive.

Dylan set the bottle down. He took his hand off it.

“Shit.” Blood coated his palm.

The three cops at the table leaned over, looking at the wound across his palm. No fucking way was he going to explain how he got it in the first place—or point out that he’d thought it was totally healed. He sure as hell didn’t want to walk down memory lane and relive the embarrassment of having to stand in front of Skinner, head of CSI, like some rookie cop who’d contaminated the evidence and say, “Better take a sample of my DNA. You’re going to find it on the knife.”

Not just any knife but Lucifer’s Blade, in the possession of the late Senator Harper and his wife, who thought they could call up demons in their secret room. Christ.

A chill swept over him at remembering that first sight of it on the altar, the rubies in its black hilt glittering like wicked temptation. And how he’d blown off Trace’s warning, which had come from Seraphine, that the blade was so sharp it would cut with a mere touch. Not that he believed the rest of it, that a single drop of blood forged a link to the dark realms.

Dylan snorted. Normalcy restored. Nothing wrong with his mental faculties, and the humming had muted. Nothing to do with drugs or drink, just the end result of a long forty-eight hours as they’d worked the Booker homicide.

He grabbed what napkins were on the table and pressed them to his palm. They turned red. Blood soaked into the handkerchief he applied next, though at a slower pace.

By the time the bleeding stopped, his mood for bad music and hustle had deserted him. He rose to his feet, the motion shoving the chair backward. “I’m out of here.”

Patterson shook his head in a way that telegraphed pathetic bastard, half serious and half joking, but then that was the guys in Vice.

And yeah, maybe he was, because he didn’t bother giving the strawberry-blonde a second look. His dick didn’t even twitch in protest when he left the bar and the possibility of getting laid. But it made its demands known the instant he saw Seraphine.

Fuck! He blinked, just in case he was mistaken, even if the damn ring felt like it was going to melt down on his finger.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. What the hell was she doing here? Hooking up with someone?

No way. He refused to believe she could possibly be interested in any of the cops inside, even Mettes, who from time to time forgot how hard it was to make relationships work and hooked up with a woman for a go at serious.

Steps away, her smile went uncertain when he didn’t return it, but fuck, his brain felt scrambled. And then his dick set up a howl for attention when she said, “Hi, Dylan.”

Jesus. Same husky voice, only softer, more intimate, and damn if he didn’t have a hard time looking away from her lips.

“Hi, yourself.”

He felt like Alice falling down the fucking rabbit hole.

Jesus. Just give into it.

He leaned in, his body hijacking his mind. A whiff of her elusive scent and there was no avoiding full body contact.

His arms went around her, pulling her into a hug. His cock did a victory cheer. Yes! Yes! Yes! Finally!

She melted against him, molding soft curves to hard need, eyes meeting his, lips parted.

This is a mistake, the part of him that knew better warned.

It didn’t stop him from closing the distance, tasting, exploring, tongues getting acquainted in a hot, slow rub.

Her hands settled at the base of his spine to send jagged streaks of lust through his cock and testicles with the touch of her fingernails. He backed her up against the nearest car as if somehow doing it would allow him to grind the clothing that separated them away.

More. Deeper.

He did with his tongue what he couldn’t do with his cock. Need taking him, obliterating everything else.

Christ he had to have her. This was how it’d been the day they met. All he wanted was to peel her clothes off and get inside her. He’d tried to keep her out of his head for weeks and now…

The first kiss only whetted his appetite for another, and another. It opened the floodgates to fantasy after fantasy, images he’d suppressed at every turn because of where they would ultimately lead—to being in bed with a witch.

A witch.

Not again. Never again.

He’d sworn he’d jerk off in the shower before getting involved with someone like her.

Breathing hard, he managed to stop touching Seraphine, stop kissing her.

Breaking contact was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Or so he thought, until he said, “Look, this can’t work between us,” and walked away from her.

“We’re too late,” Nisien said, speeding up as Jubal cursed the Fates for making things so difficult. A few moments sooner…

A growl vibrated in his chest, though it was sheer madness to torment himself with images of any other male having touched his mate. He understood now why the ancients had always preferred virgin sacrifices when it came to the females offered to them by villagers who hoped to avoid having their homes and barns razed to the ground by dragon fire.

The door opened and Summer disappeared into the club. A moment later Nisien screeched to a halt with enough force to rock the rare automobile it had taken Jubal over a year to acquire.

He didn’t care. No treasure could compare to that of a mate. Nothing in his vast hoard would ever hold his interest as thoroughly as Summer.

He exited the car, her name pulsing through him, not flash fire but a continuous wave of molten desire and heated determination. He’d claim her this night. Mate with her so she’d never doubt who she belonged to.

The door to the club was opened for him. Need slammed into Jubal at being only strides away from her, at encountering lingering traces of her scent. She smelled like moonlight and—

His lips pulled back on a barely suppressed growl of unadulterated rage. She wore another man’s clothes, the fine material saturated with another’s scent.

Red edged his vision. Fury pounded in his head and chest like a primitive drumbeat.

It took the entirety of his will not to order her to strip, though had he done so, he doubted she could comply before he reached out and ripped the offending garment off. He choked back dragon flame, breathed deeply lest smoke escape flared nostrils.

She knew the woman working behind the counter as well. It was there in the casual way she leaned against the beautifully crafted wooden barrier.

“Normally I’d let you in, Summer,” the woman said. “In a heartbeat. But tonight’s a semi-private event. No guest memberships, even for unclaimed subs. Word came down that there were already enough of them on the floor. My advice, hang out here in the lobby. Some master who’s a member will snap you up and take you in.”

“That master will be me,” Jubal said, satisfaction blazing through him at seeing his intended tremble in reaction to his claim, at scenting the way she’d become aroused at the sound of his voice.

She turned, and he was the one who nearly went down on his knees in a gesture of supplication.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Pierce mentally counted down the seconds to victory, and the addition of treasure to his own hoard.

Two.

Tielo emerged from his office just in the nick of time and Pierce smiled at winning the bet with Henri, though that victory paled in comparison to the larger one.

Heat blazed across the room as Tielo’s gaze landed on Lyra. So visceral and intense, he might as well have opened his mouth and sent fire to surround her.

That heat was answered by a quick inhalation of breath and a sharp tremor. She leaned forward as though she’d become sinuous flame, drawn to join the more powerful amalgamation of it that was dragon. Tielo. Albeit, true to form, his partner was fighting the inevitable, keeping his distance rather than hurrying over to meet his future.

“Wow,” Lyra whispered, a blush crawling up her neck and into her face, though thankfully hidden by the color of her skin. Her mouth was dry but her labia was instantly slick.

The picture hadn’t done him justice. In person he was…

Devastating.

Dark brown hair stopped at his shoulders, making him appear a maverick among the other dragons with their longer tresses. But she could easily imagine spearing her fingers through it as she lost herself in deep dark eyes.

Hope joined to the curl of heat in her chest, stripping away denial. A part of her did want to meet a man. Mr. Right, her mother would say, having experienced Mr. Wrong.

A nudge from Pierce broke Tielo’s mesmerizing pull and altered their course so he was behind them. She became aware of her surroundings again, the sound of gambling now amplified.

Her stomach knotted. What if Tielo was an out-of-control gambler, like her biological father had been?

That fear was countered by the hope. What if he was a member here because he enjoyed the role-playing and the company of other dragons?

A smile unwound the knot. And then the man they approached made her blush again at his obvious appreciation of her appearance and the eagerness at which he stepped forward when Pierce said, “Lyra, this is Roque.”

Rogue might have been a better name, with his fierce looks. Long black hair stopped mid-back while a red earring glittered in one lobe and a soul-patch accented a bottom lip that begged a woman to capture and suck it.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he said, taking her hand and carrying it to his mouth, his gaze a demand. Choose me.

Despite the burn of Tielo’s gaze on her back—or maybe because of it—her labia heated, growing more flushed, her nipples beading with longing. Wow. Dragon pheromones were potent.

The ease with which she’d slipped into their role-playing made her laugh softly, and that sound served as an invitation for Roque to crowd into her personal space, a wicked tongue stealing a taste as it darted out to touch the back of her hand.

By the Great Shared Ancestor! Tielo silently snarled at seeing Roque’s lips on the first of the prospective mates. He wanted to cross the club and snatch her hand back, to growl at her for allowing the male to touch her then apply his own teeth to the tender skin where neck met shoulder. He’d bite and mark her, punishment and warning and announcement delivered with others present to witness. By the—

He broke rant and fantasy with a snort, consciously ignoring the flames that erupted from his nostrils. He forced himself to turn from the sight of the human female with Roque.

The amusement he’d caught in Pierce’s expression was all he needed to understand this game the tricky fey had set into play. The introduction to Roque served merely as unnecessary confirmation.

Tielo made his way to the maître d’ station, suppressing a snarl when he saw Henri’s quickly suppressed smile. “Name the silver-and-gold dragons present.” He could see some of them already.

“Cael, Soren, Jubal, Takeo, Zephyr, Odion and Roque.”

Smoke escaped Tielo’s nostrils. Four of the seven came only infrequently to the club, and one, Odion, left the dragon realm once every century if that!

“The half— Aislinn,” he corrected himself, Pierce’s earlier warning heeded. He had no desire to ever offend his cousin’s mate Sophie and bring Severn’s wrath down upon himself. “Somehow Aislinn knows who might be a potential match.” It was easy enough to believe given the existence of heartstones.

“I don’t know,” Henri said, lifting the invitation, the movement enough to create the faintest breeze and carry the potential mate’s scent to Tielo.

His cock spasmed in reaction, leaking arousal onto the tip. Desire alone was nearly enough to drive his shaft through the front of his pants like a steel spear.

Only tremendous self-control kept need from his voice, though the hint of a growl escaped. “Her name?”

“Lyra.”

Lyra. It sang through him, dragon nature grasping, clutching it to his heart like rare, priceless treasure.

A beat. A second. It became impossible to keep his back to her.

He turned to find Soren standing far too close to her, the other male’s heat brushing against the front of her body, surrounding her as Roque’s had. And like Roque, he too carried her hand to his lips in stolen touch and scent and taste.

Tielo took an involuntary step forward. His hand closed into a fist against the imagined feel of first delivering a spank to Lyra’s naked buttocks for allowing Roque and Soren to have any part of her, and then smoothing over dark, creamy flesh in a gesture of adoration.

Dragon hearing allowed him to catch the soft sound of her voice as she asked Soren if he wanted to join her at the poker table. Tielo’s lips pulled back in a snarl, hearing a purr in her voice though he couldn’t be sure whether it was real or imagined.

“I hope to join you in many more ways,” Soren said, brushing his lips across her hand for a second time.

Tielo saw red. No! Everything inside him screamed. Mine! Mine! Mine!

He shook his head, clearing away the fiery color that painted the room with potential violence. No! He repeated. Only this time the denial held different meaning. This time it was a reminder that he didn’t want a mate. That he wouldn’t fall prey to his own scheme. He enjoyed his unmated status.

Locks and trust and alliance were sufficient to keep the valuables he hoarded in both the dragon and human realms safe. Even Drake’s Lair could easily exist without his attention for months on end.

At the first rumor of treasure he could leave. He could disappear into jungle or isolating terrain, could troll the bottom of the sea looking for artifacts or gold or gems.

A mate changed everything. A mate couldn’t be trusted to the care of another. A mate was a constant worry. True, there were compensating pleasures, but freedom was far more valuable.

He forced amusement to take the place of fierce possessiveness. He turned mine into visions of treasure, the winnings that would accrue to him because of the bet initiated by Pierce.

Tielo found a true smile at Pierce’s cleverness, his trickery at having so diabolically set this particular trap in the hopes of not only gaining wealth, but witnessing his partner’s fall. He chuckled. Not happening.

Cathal’s gut told him he was looking at Etaín and his dick told him he wanted her like he hadn’t wanted a woman in a long, long time, maybe ever. He should have swung by Sean McAlister’s boat and set the cop-turned-private investigator onto finding the leverage necessary to gain Etaín’s cooperation. Because despite his father saying this could be simple, he didn’t think it was going to be, though taking her to bed as a way of persuading her had moved to the top of his list. Having her beneath him, his cock buried to the hilt in wet heat, would drown out the voice of conscience. He’d worry about the consequences later.

He opened the door and walked into the shop. There was no point in bullshitting about getting a tattoo. He didn’t want one. Never had, never would.

He wondered if she was heavily tattooed beneath the long-sleeved shirt and the jeans that hugged her ass and legs, and whether it would matter when he stripped her out of them, if seeing ink-decorated skin would make him lose interest. By the time he got to the counter he knew the answer was no.

Up close, the full impact sent a lightning bolt straight through his chest and down to his dick. Dark, dark eyes reminded him of a wild, untamed forest and made his heart race in a primal beat having everything to do with conquest and nothing to do with fear.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Cathal Dunne.”

He offered his hand, wanting the touch as much as he needed to get her someplace where he could begin his campaign.

There was a slight hesitation before she reached across the counter, confirming something for him with the first sight of ink. The stylized eye on her palm didn’t turn him off. It sent a wave of heat along the surface of his skin as he imagined her hand touching his chest, sliding downward over his belly as if she could see what he needed, what he wanted, and intended to give it to him.

“Etaín,” she said and he noted the lack of a last name.

He captured her hand instead of shaking and releasing it. She didn’t pull away, didn’t try to hide her reaction to the chemistry between them. It was there in her expression, in eyes that seemed even darker than they had moments earlier. In wetted lips parted just enough to invite a kiss and fuel more carnal fantasies.

Inescapable summoning pulled her from the abyss, and in the moment of her mortal birth, pride gripped her. She refused to stand-in for another, to glimpse her image in the mirror and know it was a copy of the original, a fantasy made flesh and based on a woman known as Storm.

She created herself in an image of her own making, choosing facial features more feminine than masculine, but only slightly so, minimizing the energy that would be required in order to shift between her two physical aspects. She did the same with her height, the knowledge gained the instant the familiar-bond snapped into place allowing her to match her body to Miguel’s, so that when they lay entwined, male to male, or female to male, their eyes and lips would meet and their genitals would touch in perfect alignment.

Miguel Julio Torres. She tasted his name, felt the hum of it through her veins, the beat of it in her heart as her cunt throbbed, her clit already erect, a tiny version of the penis she possessed in her male aspect.

She gave herself generous breasts, for her pleasure as well as his, though it galled her that the unknown Storm was also lushly endowed. Her eyes she left the dark sapphire blue she’d chosen when first called and forced to serve as a soul-sighted bloodhound wearing only the illusion of humanity.

She made her skin tone similar to Miguel’s and her hair the same black as his, though vanity sent it cascading down her back in thick waves. It would cost her energy to shorten it when she shifted forms, but perhaps Miguel wouldn’t require it.

Red lips pursed together in a frown. Scattered among the impressions gained with the forming of the familiar-bond were numerous images containing women who’d come to Miguel’s bed. Blondes, some natural and some dyed, their bodies a variety of shapes and sizes. There were no male lovers.

It confused more than concerned her. She’d watched the mage carefully as he’d woven the secondary spell into the medallion, the incantations that would allow her a mortal existence. Only a male witch capable of feeding both of her aspects sexually could trigger the summoning.

Shrugging off thoughts of Miguel’s past lovers, she glanced down at her naked body, its form shimmering at the edge of true existence, not yet real enough to touch and be touched though it hungered for both. Moisture glistened on her inner thighs, a wet invitation for a man’s fingers and mouth and cock. For Miguel’s. She could feed from others but to do so would only be a continuation of the existence she’d sought to escape. The longing to be human encompassed more than possessing flesh and blood.

A dark triangle of pubic hair pointed to her clit and opening. She made herself bare then thought better of it, saw in her mind’s eye her male aspect and settled on a small patch of down, something that wouldn’t interfere with the pleasure of having Miguel’s mouth on her.

Satisfied, she clothed herself in miniscule shorts and a shirt tied beneath her breasts. Sandals followed, and a thin, folded collection of paper money, though unlike her physical body, the money and the things she wore were similar to faerie glamour. They would last only three days in the human realm. And once she stepped from the glimmering edge of the abyss, the place where creation was possible, she would be limited to a human form.

The spell crafted by the mage would pull her essence fully into the human realm. It would allow her to change her appearance and gender, to become a human shapeshifter, though the magic feeding the spell, and tied to her demon nature, would need to be replenished.

With a final assessment she took that plunge into mortal existence, leaving the void of dark potential to merge first with a narrow tree shadow and then to emerge from it. Her lungs filled with the sweet scent of flowers and she lifted her face to glorious sun, closing her eyes as she felt its heated caress on her skin.

The sound of music reached her, touching places inside her, drawing her forward as surely as the familiar-bond allowing her to find Miguel did. She went willingly, forcing herself to move slowly, not for the sake of pride but so she could savor the sensation of being truly mortal. Of having a heart that beat not because she had to maintain the pretense of being human—as she had when she came to this world as a demon lord’s tool—but because she needed it to live.

That heart skipped into a rapid beat as she stopped in front of the house. Voices and music beckoned from the backyard. She glanced downward, resisting the urge to smooth her hands over her breasts, to rub her palms against hardened nipples before moving lower, across her abdomen, to slip beneath the waistband of her shorts.

Her channel clenched hungrily, her entire body shivered with the need for carnal touch and physical joining. Anticipation burned in her belly like fire, hot and eager, spreading upward to fill her breasts.

She chose to go directly into the backyard rather than pass through the house, each step heightening her need, pressing her clit to the soft material of her shorts. A smile curved her lips at the decadent feel of it, the knowledge she was bare beneath her clothing where others wore undergarments. At the gate she paused again, this time to gather her control and try to tamp down the natural allure that came with her nature. There was only one man here she wished to seduce, and be seduced by.

Opening the gate, she stepped into the backyard. A dozen pairs of eyes were immediately drawn to her, half of them darkening with lust, but only one pair mattered. Miguel’s. Her body tightened in need and appreciation. Fantasy assailed her, where always before she’d been the creator of it.

Hunger and craving became inseparable, an indistinguishable part of the familiar-bond that stretched between them as their eyes met across the distance. The confidence of her kind becoming like surf against a sandy beach, claiming ground then giving it up.

Pride assailed her again, demanding he choose her of his own free will. She cast a tentative smile, breath coming again only when he took the first step toward her.

Dios, everything about her called to him. Whoever she was, he hoped she wasn’t with a date. He could no more stop himself from crossing to her than he could prevent himself from chasing a running criminal.

It felt like his cock was on a leash and she was drawing him forward. And his eyes…it required a supreme effort of will to keep them lifted to her face when the hard press of nipples against her shirt kept trying to jerk them downward.

Reaching her, he held out his hand. “I’m Miguel. Are you looking for someone?”

Heat spread across his cheeks at how that had come out, a proposition backed up by a willingness to make good on it. He was half afraid he’d drop to his knees and press kisses to her belly, even with an audience full of cops.

“I think I’ve found him.”

Jesus. He was grateful for the cold beer in one hand and hers in the other. Otherwise he might have reached for his cock like a kid just figuring out the pleasure to be found in masturbating.

“I wasn’t officially invited to the party,” she said. “I heard the music and… Do you think it’s okay I’m here?”

Miguel squeezed her hand, wanting to carry it to his lips, his chest, his dick. “Consider yourself my date.”

“Are these the guys you’ve been running from?” Conner asked.

The fierce protectiveness in his voice was like the lap of a hot, hot tongue between Khemirra’s thighs and she savored the sensation, squeezing her legs together in awareness of just how swollen she’d become at his mere presence.

“I don’t know who they are.”

She ate him up with her eyes because making a carnal meal of him at this particular moment wouldn’t be a good move. She would have laughed at how much she was channeling the wolf, except she’d been thinking about Conner off and on all night, and now here he was, his scent obliterating the stink of beer and unwashed bodies wafting off the men lying on the asphalt between them.

“They’re opportunistic rapists, I’d say.” She glanced at the truck, its engine throbbing and the doors open for what was probably supposed to be a quick grab followed by a hasty exit onto the freeway. “Texas plates.”

“If you don’t have a cell phone, come over here and get mine. Call 9-1-1.”

Her amusement died. Calling the police would generate a report with her name on it, maybe even get trapped in an information filter and passed on, confirming time and whereabouts. Not something she was anxious to do. But freeing these guys and having another woman take her place for their idea of fun and games wasn’t an option either, which left her with only one obvious alternative.

She skirted around Beefy and Scrawny, going to Conner’s side. Keeping her voice low she said, “What about if you call it in? Say you were an eyewitness to an attack but while you were maintaining control of these assholes the woman fled the scene. It’d be my word against theirs anyway, with your testimony being the one to lock them up.”

She didn’t need the change in his scent to tell her how much he didn’t like the suggestion. He fairly bristled at hearing it. But he was also cop enough to understand her reasons without her having to argue them.

“Fuck! I’ll keep you out of this if I can, on one condition. You stick around and we talk.”

Talk wasn’t the four-letter word she was primarily interested in, but his showing up wasn’t an accident, and agreeing to stay didn’t necessarily mean revealing the worst of her secrets. Though, from his point of view, she wasn’t sure which he’d hate hearing more—that she’d killed a man, or that she was a werewolf.

“I’ll stick.”

“Good. There are some plasticuffs in the console between the seats. Grab a couple of them.”

He ordered the men onto their stomachs as she retrieved the cuffs. “You know how to use a gun?”

“Range practice every week as part of my schooling. Hunting deer, rabbits and ducks for the family dinner table as quality bonding time.”

“Then keeping these two covered while I cuff them shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

She nearly purred at the approval coming off him, and that was a testament to his effect on her. A wolf was not a cat. “Nope, not a problem. This close, placing my shots isn’t much of a challenge.”

“Don’t get trigger-happy.”

Conner exchanged the gun in his hand for the plasticuffs in hers before making quick work of securing the men and pulling ID off them. Christ, he knew he was thinking with his dick, but right now its voice outshouted the one of reason.

He took the 9mm back, a flash of sexual heat shooting through him with the casual touch of her skin to his in the transfer. He couldn’t believe he’d given her his gun, could barely accept how much effort he was about to expend to keep her name out of this, but until he knew who she was running from and what kind of influence they had, he didn’t see a choice he liked better.

Instead of dialing 9-1-1, he called his CSI buddy. “You at work?”

“Yeah, so is my supervisor.”

“This is official business.”

“You abandon the search? Or catch up with her?”

“Caught up with her just as she was putting a couple would-be rapists down.”

“I’m beginning to see why you’re hot for her.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I need you to run the names for me. They’re driving a Ford-250 with Texas plates and I’m thinking chances are good there are some outstanding warrants on these two.”

He read off the information, hearing it being typed in. The wait for a hit took even less time.

“Good call. Jumped bail on charges of aggravated assault in the commission of a felony. The good State of Texas definitely wants them back.”

“That’s music to my ears. Thanks.”

He called 9-1-1, identifying himself and the situation before directing the local police to their location.

“If you want to stay uninvolved, you should get in the car.”

“I appreciate this, Conner.”

She walked away. And goddamn, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. It felt like there was a leash attached to his dick and she was holding the other end of it, pulling it tighter and tighter with each swing of her hips.

Talk. He’d be lucky if he managed more than two words with her. Let’s fuck.

Sajia thanked the clerk and turned away from the counter just as a man entered the shop. At the sight of him her heart flip-flopped in her chest, seeming to stop and then race forward in wild abandon, torn between fear and desire.

He was mesmerizing. The face of a god—

Or a fallen angel like those painted on canvas, created in the imaginations of artists who’d lived well before mankind developed the technology to destroy the world.

Black hair and equally black irises. Carved perfection and carnal sin.

She wet her lips without being aware of it until his gaze dropped to them, hungry and fierce and commanding.

“Sajia,” he said, her name turned into a caress, into images of naked bodies stretched out on silky sheets, lips and hands exploring without inhibition, mesmerizing her until she forced the erotic pictures from her mind.

How he knew her name, she didn’t know. But unless he’d been sent by The Master to assist her, she had no time for him.

He blocked her exit, leaving her no choice other than to approach him. Sajia stepped forward, fear and desire both trying to cloud her thoughts and narrow her reality until it contained only him.

The rush of emotion nearly drove Addai to his knees. Thousands of years hadn’t prepared him for the reality of this moment.

Sajia. It was as though she’d stepped out of the past, her form and face exactly as he remembered them, her soul calling to his in haunting song and the promise of ecstasy.

How the Djinn had managed it, he didn’t know and didn’t care. All that mattered was that she’d been returned to him.

Despite his fantasies of their first meeting, he felt no disappointment at the quick pass of fear from her eyes. The desire he saw in her expression, and sensed like a heated stroke along the length of his body, more than satisfied him.

His thoughts flashed ahead, mentally enfolding her in arms and wings and willing them to the mountain home he’d prepared for her. He reached out, expecting her to take his hand. “Come.”

Denial flashed through her eyes, exciting him until fantasy and reality collided with a single question. “Did The Master send you?”

A blink. A full opening of his senses and Addai recoiled in horror. She was human. Worse if the purposeful scarring of her arm read true. A servant bound to vampires.

Kaeden’s cock was rock hard and had been since the moment the oasis had come into view. Thoughts of the joining vision and the possibility of adding a female were responsible for the state of his arousal, but only in part.

He always anticipated those moments when responsibility fell away and he and Zyan could make love. And it was love, a fierce claiming of heart and soul and body.

Kaeden rubbed the place over his heart. Though he wanted a woman, wanted children of a shared mate, he worried at how it would change things between Zyan and him.

Despite Zyan’s confidence, there was no guarantee a woman would be shown to them in their vision. And even if one was, they couldn’t be certain of convincing her to return with them.

Kidnapping was an option. There were no laws requiring a woman be willing when it came to bringing her back to Adjara. But change didn’t come easily to him, and the thought of forcing an unwanted one on a woman didn’t sit well, even though he couldn’t think of a single female who wasn’t happy with the men who shared her, or with the life she’d found with them on this world.

“You worry too much,” Zyan said, his face only inches away and still hidden except for his eyes and a narrow swath of skin.

He’d moved closer while Kaeden was distracted by his thoughts. And now Zyan’s nearness guaranteed there would be no return to them—not for a while.

Kaeden’s cock pulsed and his testicles felt heavy and full. His nipples were hard points in anticipation of having Zyan’s mouth on them. It wasn’t part of the bet, but Zyan never went directly to his knees, not when it came to delivering on a promise of oral sex.

“Time to pay up,” Kaeden said, voice husky.

Zyan laughed. “Like this? With all this material between us?” His fingers zeroed in on Kaeden’s tight nipples. “It’s your choice, I guess. You’ll soon be the one on his hands and knees.”

Kaeden moaned with the first squeeze. Pain and pleasure, desire and need comingling as fire streaked downward to his cock.

The muscles of his abdomen went taut and his breath grew as short as the mare’s had been. “I can wait a few minutes before you make good on the bet.”

“I thought you might.” Amusement shone in Zyan’s eyes.
Wordlessly they crossed to where the saddles lay on the sand, bedrolls still tied to their cantles. With quick movements they created a soft place to linger in comfort beneath the shade of the date palm.

Robes fell away at the edge of the bedding, revealing tanned skin and hardened bodies. And like all the men on Adjara, arms marked with tribal tattoos, the tracing of lineage along with words and symbols denoting personal accomplishments.

Though he’d seen Zyan naked at dawn, before they’d dressed and sought out the mystic, Kaeden still paused to look at his lover, to appreciate his sheer masculine beauty.

Zyan’s hair flowed down his back in rich shades of brown. His muscles were a sleek, smooth flow uninterrupted except for the tuft of pubic hair, and beneath it, a rigid cock.

Zyan’s hand dropped to his organ and he began masturbating. Fist moving up and down on his shaft. “Put your mouth on me. Suck me.”

The demon caught Rebekka in the forest, turning day into night and nature into a seething weapon. He arrived in a tornado swirl of fury, encircling her in a wind of dirt and shattered trees and rocks from which there was no escape. Trapping her there until her heart threatened to burst and only terror filled her. And then he relented—allowing what was left of the trail she’d been running on to fall back to earth in a twisted, horrifying demonstration of his power—and that was worse.

In the unnatural calm following the violence, he took form. A creature of nightmare. A dark-skinned thing heralding damnation.

Leathery batlike wings spread out to block the sight of anything but him. Fingers ended in wicked talons and yellow eyes danced with sinister glee. His forked tongue flicked out to taste her fear while a barbed tail coiled around his thigh like a living thing.

His smile held a wealth of cruelty. His gaze held her immobile, trembling in the face of her own death.

Lightning-fast his hand wrapped around her throat, a razor-sharp claw digging into her flesh, slicing through it with ease. But instead of delivering torment and death, he released her, drawing his hand back to lap at blood-covered fingers.

“So there are other players in this game than the one I so recently encountered,” he said. “Your father’s involvement is a surprise. He had no love for humans when I was last among my kind.”

He laughed, a sharp-edged sound sending shards of ice sliding into Rebekka’s spine. And then as quickly as he appeared, the demon dissolved into nothing, leaving her shaking as she surrendered to terror and sank to her knees at the center of the destruction he’d wrought.

Rebekka pressed trembling fingers to the wound at her throat, stopped the flow of blood despite the wild pounding of her pulse beneath her fingertips. Nausea swelled in the aftermath of surviving the encounter.

The sweat from her run became a cold clamminess on her skin. Shudder after shudder racked her frame as the demon’s words played over and over in her mind.

Her features were those of her mother, as were the deep brown of her hair and the blue of her eyes. There was nothing in her looks to identify who her father had been, and she’d never asked. What child of a prostitute wanted to hear her mother admit she had no idea which man left more than his money behind?

Rebekka’s thoughts went to the place above her pubic mound where an ugly black circle with a scarlet red P in its center had been forcibly tattooed onto her skin. A terrifying memory from that day skirted at the edge of her consciousness. She reached for it but it eluded her as it always did, and she let it go, ashamed at the gratitude she felt for not having to confront whatever truth lay repressed by her mind.

A different horror had her standing, frantically looking around for the Weres who’d been somewhere on the trail ahead of her when the demon arrived. Relief came with the absence of twisted, broken bodies. It swept through her and brought with it sweet denial and a refuge in purpose. Her ability to heal using her hands and will alone was proof there was no stain on her soul, no taint of it in her blood despite the demon’s words.

Rebekka began running, scrambling and jumping over the demon-created debris. She caught up to the Weres a short time later. Of those waiting, only Levi appeared fully human, his lion form lost forever unless her gift deepened, strengthened.

The six Weres she and Levi and Tir had freed from the maze less than an hour ago were grotesque mixtures of human and animal, made that way by a man using witch-charmed silver and torture to twist them into an abomination of form.

Levi’s eyes flicked to the wound on her neck and his nostrils flared, his senses Were despite no longer having a lion form. “I smell the demon Abijah. What happened?”

“He caught up to me then left. I’m okay.”

She didn’t want to reveal what the demon said. In truth, she didn’t want to think about it at all or lose the shield of denial she’d managed to erect.

Lion-gold eyes met hers for a long moment, as if Levi sensed an evasion. He let it go, and she turned her attention to the waiting Weres.

There were five of them. Two Wolves, a Leopard, a Tiger, and Cyrin, Levi’s brother.

Pity and anger and sadness churned together inside her. Horror for what they’d endured and for what they’d lost.

“I’ve told them what their choices are and what to expect,” Levi said. “They all want you to heal them.”

She looked at the gathered Weres and asked, “Who’s first?”

The sting of the arrowhead was barely noticeable to the blue dragon. It plunged into his side, little more than a pinprick, as he raced to get home before the full force of winter arrived.

It was only when the magic began to spread, when he dipped precariously low and nearly caught himself on a tree stripped of its leaves, that he realized something was wrong. By then it was too late.

The claws that could sunder a human into pieces or haul a seta-beast’s carcass to his lair for a feast were numb, useless against the arrow. His wings would soon follow.

Beneath him was familiar territory, a neutral valley that served as a flight-way for all dragons. In front of him and to the right were the imposing cliffs marking the outer boundary of the land the blue dragons laid claim to. In front and to the left was territory claimed by scarlet dragons.

Though it would cost a great chunk of his hoard to get help from the scarlet dragons, he knew there was little choice. The distance to the lair-city he called home was too great and he was rapidly losing the ability to fly.

The dragon lifted his head and stretched out his neck, intending to trumpet his request for assistance. But his vocal cords were frozen, rendered as useless as his sharp talons.

A treetop scraped his belly. Fear skittered through him though he refused to let it form an icy knot in his belly.

His knowledge was vast. It was his true hoard, the thing he valued far more than the gold and gems lining the floor of his private lair. And unlike the majority of his kind, whose interests tended to be limited to the dragon world and the pursuit of treasure, he was a being who thrived on studying everything of the world around him—including elves and humans.

Whether it was a human sorcerer or an elf, whoever had sent the spell arrow into his side would have a tracking spell attached to it and would soon arrive to claim their prize. He would use his knowledge to evade their snare.

The dragon silently grunted as the needles of a pine tree rained down on his wing after striking the branch. He made the decision to land and barely reached a small clearing before he lost all ability to fly.

Cold seeped into him immediately. With the last of his will and strength, the dragon whose most private, self-given fifth name was Aizik, forced the change, gave up the dragon’s form for a human one.