Page 19 of Gemini Kings
Snarling, I part my massive jaws and rumble. A column of fire rolls up my throat and pours from my mouth to engulf the chopper like kerosene from a firehose.
Because I myself am a firedrake. Classic dragon, yes? I am the Russian equivalent of the Black Dread from the American epicGame of Thrones. I am a modern-day Balerion.
But no man commands me.
I complete my spiral and turn my back to the inferno. I plant the bulwark of my body between my precious sovereign and any hint of danger. Even though she is now thrashing and screaming in rebellion of my summary handling of her royal body—and perhaps my summary execution of those hapless men.
She is tender-hearted, this mate of mine. I saw that much on the roof when she spared those men her wrath.
Well, no matter. I am killer enough for us both.
By the time the chopper explodes, I am winging hard away. Hard enough that I barely feel the flush of heat from the conflagration warming my flanks and back. Beating my wings steadily to gain speed and altitude, I head for the open desert, lashing my tail and trumpeting a deafening warning to the night.
My limbs are wrapped tight around my mate.
Blessed Saint Sergius be my witness, I would like nothing better than to take wing with her now for Siberia. I will not rest until I have my priceless queen safely tucked away in my remote Arctic lair. Until I have vanquished every one of my rivals who wallow in sin and scandal in her warlock harem. Until I have bitten her and mounted her and bred her in the pale glow of the white nights, flooding her fertile womb again and again with my potent dragon seed.
Until she is spent and sated and mated and her beautiful belly is round and full with my clutch.
But my queen does not yet seem to share my mating instinct.
She is agitated and writhing in my grip, growling in the back of her throat, her ominous vocalizations laced with the rumble of thunder. And even my beast (who is far from discerning, God knows, especially this close to rut) realizes my mate is not exactly in the mood for a mating flight just yet. In truth, she is far from it.
My mate wantsdown.
And she wants it now.
Well, in this, surely, I can oblige her.
And when my rivals for her bed track her to ground, they will yield their place to me, their superior.
Or I will slaughter them all without mercy.
Chapter Five
Zara
The second this flying Godzilla lands his big ass in the desert night, well beyond Vegas or any sign of civilization, and blessedly lowers me to the ground, the shift sweeps over me.
My edges blur, my tummy twists, and a wicked surge of disorientation wrenches my balance out of whack and drops me to my hands and knees—because I have those again. Actual hands, I mean. My entire body tingles like I just shoved a fork in a socket. My mouth is hangover-dry like I’ve just come off a three-day bender (not that I’d ever be so irresponsible, etc.) and my heart is sledgehammering.
But, fuck, I’m exhilarated.
I just freakingshifted.I shifted into a freakingdragon. A dragon that breatheslightning(though that specific part is kinda scary, given my mixed feelings about my witchcraft). How freaking cool is that? Even if I still can’t fly, I can figure out that whole flying aspect of my dragon superpowers later.
Right now, the first thing I have to figure out is clothes.
Because, of course, I’m naked.
“Another catsuit ruined,” I mutter, getting used to the concept of human speech again. Grateful as fuck for it, actually. It was frustrating as hell not being able to communicate with that big galoot behind me—except through squirms and growls and a few pointed nips to get his attention—while we were in the air.
I lift my head and shake back the teal chaos of my hair, so I can see. That green dye was temporary, a one-wash wonder, looks like it vanished when I shifted. I’m actually intrigued (and relieved) to see that my silver nipple rings survived the shift.
And I’m really intrigued to get a proper eyeful of that dragon.
He’s still looming behind me. I can hear the thing’s deep rumbly breaths. He oughta be huffing and puffing, but he isn’t. How is he not even winded, for Chrissake, after flying his big ass and mine like twenty miles or something into the Nevada desert?
With me complaining and fidgeting the whole way.
