Page 5 of Dragons' Future

“Have they gone insane?” Quinton inquires. “Do females go insane in pairs?”

“Commonly, yes,” says Hauck. “That’s been my experience at least.”

I throw a snow ball at his crotch.

"I’d be more mindful who you declare war against," Hauck says. Before I can react, a wall of snow rises into the air and smashes into Lee and me, a tidal wave of white powder being helped along with the dragons’ magic. It knocks Lee and me on our backsides before burying us under a sea of white like scattered toys.

Above our new snowy blanket, Hauck laughs.

Tavias shouts to stop messing around.

Just as the chill begins to seep into my bones, strong hands pull me out of the heap. Hauck grins as he holds me up in the air. "Look, I’ve harvested myself a turnip.”

I kick his shin, but my legs are too cold to gather much force behind it. “You know, Lee’s pack calls me queen.”

“That’s because they haven’t seen you ride a horse.” Hauck brushes his thumb over my cheek and temple, clearing away the snow and—incidentally—caressing my scales. One, by one, by one.

Heat flashes between my thighs, my body going taught with sudden need. I suddenly don’t care whether there is a storm or an audience or the end of the world that hovers over us. All I want is him. Now.

Hauck chuckles and steps back. The dark gleam in his eyes says none of that was an accident.

“You are an asshole.” I wince, shifting from foot to foot, this time not from the cold.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Hauck purrs.

“What’s going on?” Lee asks.

Darren speaks quietly and quickly into her ear, gesturing to the scales. From the way Lee’s face colors, her gaze darting between me and my mates, I have a pretty good idea of what he is filling her in on.

Hauck licks his lips and then catches a snowflake on the tip of his tongue.

Heat flashes through me. Asshole.

Before Hauck can reply though, the sound of a distant, eerie rumble pierces air. I don’t know what it is, but there is a wrongness about it. The air seems to shift, the very mountain trembling. My scales flare. Mirth ends. The temperature drops.

“Avalanche!” Darren shouts, his hand still on the mountain rock.

“Everyone, inside now,” Tavias orders.

Hauck herds Lee and me to the safety of the cavernous shelter, the ground already vibrating ominously beneath our feet. Just as we slip inside, the world outside becomes a maelstrom of white fury. Snow and ice pummel the overhang. The sound is deafening, like standing beneath a waterfall. Except this cacophony is that of crashing snow and ice. In moments, daylight dims. My ears pop from the change in pressure.

The cavernous shelter, with its jagged walls and uneven floor, is simultaneously claustrophobic and vast. Shadows dance across the rock, creating eerie shapes that seem to move of their own accord, dancing to the booming beat of falling snow. There is so much of it, that even the stone groans beneath the weight.

I brace for our haven to collapse. Hauck pulls me against him, covering my body with his own. But then Cyril is standing, his arms outstretched, the shield of his magic reinforcing the mountain itself. The stone protests, but holds.

Darren stares at Cyril and mutters a soft oath.

It’s an eternity before the deafening roar of cascading snow finishes its deadly fall. Then there is silence. Heavy and oppressive. Minutes drag, no one daring to move. No one is quite certain whether the mountain has finished with us. The entrance, once clear, is now completely sealed by layers upon layers of snow and ice.

It’s Quinton who finally cuts through the quiet, his voice hard as usual. “We're trapped.”

CHAPTER 3

Quinton

Quinton braced his back against the wall of their snowy prison and watched. He had none of Cyril and Tavias’s power to hold a protective shield, or the affinity for wood and stone that Hauck and Darren were using. Nor did he share Kit and Lee’s desire to make the rock-hewn alcove feel cozy by rearranging fern branches and supplies. What he did have—for the first time in his existence—was a mate to protect. A pack to protect.

His former trainers would have an apoplexy if they knew. A Shadow was supposed to have no attachments except for one: his king. Quinton was Ettienne’s assassin. His spymaster. He had been forged in steel and brutality to be nothing but that.

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