Not His Dragon (3 page)

He could scoop Angie in one arm without any effort. How long had it been since he’d smelled an unmated female of his kind? Obviously, too long. Except she claimed she wasn’t his kind. He cleared his throat and glanced around the empty room. “I’ve never met a human who smelled like dragon. I didn’t mean—well, I did mean to scare you, but I thought you were trying to infringe on my territory.” He rubbed his head. It was starting to ache. Apologies tended to give him migraines, which was why he avoided them. “We good?”

Her big, dark eyes grew impossibly wide, softening the hard edges of mistrust in her expression. A male could drown in that kind of gaze. “So I can stay in New Port?” she whispered.

He nodded. “Just stay out of my way.” Turning his back on her, he left her shop. He ignored the werewolves as he strode down the street and shifted to his dragon form, tearing through his clothes. This would make the evening news, but after this shitty morning all he wanted was to be alone in the refuge of his castle.

Chapter Four

Warm updrafts carried Eoin over the city. He spotted a few humans on the rooftops, cameras aimed in his direction. On better days, he’d do a few acrobatics to appease them. It was good PR, but today he wanted to burn things to the ground. He swallowed his flame but let loose a roar that rattled the windows.

A few screams followed. Reminding them he was a black-scaled predator would keep the paparazzi away for a few days. Better for everyone that way. He felt on the edge of biting things in half.

Seeking solitude would ease his temper and a dip in the glacier-fed lake would sooth his eyes. He blinked them clear. The shift to dragon form hadn’t healed him as he’d hoped. Modern technology affected magic this way. He glided toward his mountain home, flapping his wings to gain more altitude. The aerial view of his castle soothed his fury.

Poor review from a critic he couldn’t eat, sales plummeting, then beaten by a little human girl. Viktor would demand he turn in his dragon card. His vampire tattoo artist always had a flare for the dramatic, but he would be right. Eoin enjoyed a good scrap or a hunt like the next dragon but, unlike his kin, he appreciated the challenge of creating something.

Humans had a natural knack for crafting new things and ideas. Most long-lived races didn’t have the capacity to value this gift.

He dipped his left wing and took a leisurely turn around the turrets, only to come to a mid-air stop.

A black Cadillac was parked in the courtyard by the front door. His agent waited by the car, waving his arms at him, as if he couldn’t see the human from the sky. This day couldn’t get much worse.

Eoin dived toward the car and back-winged at the last minute so he could land right next to Roger.

The human covered his head and crouched. “Fuck Eoin, I hate it when you do that.”

He settled on his stomach so he could better view Roger’s face. “I know.” They’d worked together for the last two—three—six years? Time moved differently for dragons, so he had trouble keeping track in human manner. “What drags you out to the mountains on such a lovely day? Good news, I hope.” He’d made Roger a very wealthy man. The agent worked for him exclusively now.

Roger held up a copy of Art World. “Why would you have Lorenzo read this? Are you trying to sabotage all my work?” He rattled the magazine in front of Eoin’s snout. Not many humans would yell at him. Roger had balls made of brass, which made him a great asset and a better agent.

With sharp claws, Eoin scratched his chin. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” In retrospect, he could have done better by ignoring the review. The critic had hit a nerve though. “Do you think people buy my work just because I’m a dragon?”

“Who gives a shit?” Roger tossed the magazine on the ground. “As long as they buy it.”

Eoin shot a small fireball from his nostril and watched the offensive review burn.

Roger retreated and blinked at the flames. “You should have done that to begin with.” He frowned. “Lorenzo wants to postpone the show.”

Shooting to his feet, Eoin spread his wings for balance. “For how long?”

“Indefinitely.”

“I was just there. He never said a word.” Lorenzo had been one of Eoin’s biggest supporters. He’d introduced him to the art community and done a yearly show since his debut.

“I think this latest review combined with your newest work has him doubting your viability as a selling artist. We all have bills to pay, Eoin.”

He dropped his wings to his sides and they hit his flesh with an empty thud. Just like that, his career as an artist ended. Without a gallery to back him it would be almost impossible to contract more tours. He’d left his clan to pursue this lonely path.

Most dragons lived isolated lives high in the mountaintops where only the craziest of creatures would dare tread. He’d been painting for as long as he could remember, but his kind loved things that sparkled like gems and gold. Art held little interest to any of them.

He fisted his clawed hands. “What now?” No matter the consequences, he wouldn’t give up. He’d fought too hard to be recognized for his work.

Roger crossed his arms and stared at his feet. “Try something different. A new medium.”

“You mean stop painting?”

“I mean, create something to wow Lorenzo.”

“Just like that.” Eoin snapped his fingers.

“I know you have piles of paintings in that castle.” Roger pointed at Eoin’s home. “Let me see them. Maybe you have something amazing hidden in there.”

Eoin shook his head. “It’s trash.” He didn’t like strangers in his home. It was part of being a dragon. He’d come down off the mountains, but that didn’t mean he was social. “Give me a few days to think things over and I’ll get back to you.” He moved toward his front door.

“Eoin!” Roger shouted. “Come on, buddy. Don’t give up.”

“I’m not giving up. Not yet.”

“Sort through your work. I’ll bring Lorenzo in a couple days to look at what you have. Together, we’ll change his mind.”

Eoin hesitated by the entrance. “Did you want me in dragon form so I can coerce him?” It wouldn’t be difficult. Lorenzo feared him in human form. He couldn’t imagine the art dealer’s reaction to him in his beast form.

“No.” Roger met his glare. Another reason why he liked his agent. “We do this based on your work.”

“Very well.” He left the sunlight by entering his castle. The doorway barely accommodated his size. Most of his home did, though. That was the point of living in such a huge building by himself. Just the bedrooms and bathrooms were too small. He rarely used either. He swam in the lake to bathe and slept under the stars on the rooftop.

Taking the curved staircase, he climbed the tower to his workshop and glared at the stacks of unframed paintings piled against the wall. Monet, Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, even that fart Picasso had surpassed him with their work. What did they possess that he lacked besides their humanity?

One by one, he flicked through the stacks, stabbing his paintings with his claws and tossing them over his shoulder into a huge pile. Sceneries, portraits, abstracts—crap, crap, crap. Others had described his work as flat, emotionless, and one-dimensional. Of course it was one dimensional and flat. He painted on a smooth surface. How did one inspire emotion when inside he felt dead?

Heat rolled within his chest. He spun and blew fire over the pile of trash. Now, this was art. He sat by the window and watched the last century of his work turn to ash. When his agent brought Lorenzo in a few days, Eoin would have nothing to show him. Maybe he should return to his clan. They didn’t understand him—no one did—but at least he would be among his own kind.

He reached behind him and scratched his lower back. The flames licked over the surfaces of the canvas as if tasting the dried paint. They reached high above, almost touching the ceiling. The castle was made of stone. Fire would scorch the wall and maybe burn the roof. All could be repaired if he cared to.

The heat grew until his scales sizzled. In the corner of the room a mound of empty paint and soda cans sagged, melting in the presence of the intense heat. He snaked over and smashed the heap with his fist.

Fuck them.

Fuck the critic, fuck Lorenzo, fuck Roger. He spun around, whipping his tail to slap-shot the accumulation of melted scrap out the window. He breathed heavy and watched the flames lick over his scales. The red and orange contrasted nicely over his black hide. So much color in just this room.

Eoin shifted to human form and dressed in a pair of stained jeans he kept here for this reason. Grabbing a brush and pallet, he picked a blank canvas. The light from his fire flickered over the flat surface. The differences in the shadows gave it depth. He watched the shades of light change until they blurred. With a little confidence, he traced this new inspiration.

The shadows moved from dark to light so quickly it took his shifter reflexes to follow. He paused to observe once more. The violent nature reminded him of his not-quite a she-dragon who liked to scratch backs. A smile almost tugged at his lips.

Pepper spray. That’s what he’d call this painting.

Chapter Five

Eoin grew more aware of his surroundings as he woke. The hard stone floor bit into his soft skin. He hated when he slept in his human form. It left him vulnerable. Where had he been last night? He cracked open an eyelid. A pile of ashes filled the center of the room except for his latest painting drying on the easel.

He rose onto his elbows and wiped the drool from the corner of his lip. He’d been so exhausted that he’d fallen asleep next to his easel. He stretched and worked on the knots in his shoulders and legs.

Reaching around, he scratched his lower back but his blunt nails didn’t ease the itch this time. Withdrawing his hand, he glimpsed blood on his fingertips. What the fuck? He glanced over his shoulder and could see a bloody smear where he’d itched, but not the source of the injury.

Eoin left the room and moved down the hall. The cold stone made him step quickly since he was still barefoot. He slammed the bathroom door open and a flock of pigeons flew out the open window. Stunned, he watched them take flight before seeing the mess of bird shit everywhere. The birds must have been living in here. When had he opened this window? It must have been years since he’d used this bathroom.

The birds didn’t matter. The wound on his back did. He twisted to look in the full-length mirror. “Fuck.” He must have a bad case of scale rot for it to have manifested to his human form as a scabby rash. Real sexy.

He grimaced at the mess. Once the rot got this bad it would take some real elbow grease to pick it out. He ran his hand over the short buzz on his head and snarled. If he ignored it, his scales would fall off and wouldn’t grow back, leaving a big weakness in his best defense.

Scale rot. The trouble with being so big was the inability to care for his own hide. If he’d mated, his female could do it and likewise he’d return the favor.

In the old days, he’d train a human squire for his scale care and other needs. His last squire died recently at the ripe old age of ninety-eight. Eoin hadn’t been prepared. He’d been in denial of his friend’s mortality. Training someone new, so soon after Jasper, his squire, had died, seemed like a betrayal.

He rubbed at the dull ache in his chest. Where would he look for a new squire? The modern authorities would bomb his home if he swooped upon a playground and chose one of the many urchins running around. Things had changed quickly over the last century. Maybe he could buy one on eBay? No, he’d never seen that category while browsing.

Absentmindedly, he scratched his lower back and paused. The pretty little not-dragon girl who scratched backs for a living. He wouldn’t have to keep her or feed her. He’d just have to pay her on an as-needed basis, and he’d better do it soon. Hurrying to his sleeping chambers in the next tower, he paused in the center of the room. Where had he left his cell phone? The fucking thing needed a bell or an app that would beep when he clapped. He barely used the bed and kept this space to store his clothes and gadgets. Tearing his drawers open, he dumped the contents until something shattered on the stone floor. He blinked at the cracked screen. Fuck, he swiped it on but it refused to respond. He hadn’t plugged it in for days. Stupid technology. These things were worse than babies. As soon as he turned his back they died.

He searched through a pile of clothes on the floor, sniffing at them until he found something that wouldn’t knock out a shifter from the stench. When he returned home, he would order more clothes online. Much easier than going to a Laundromat. Whenever he went to one of those there was always so much screaming.

Angie eyed the box of muffins a regular customer had dropped off on his way to the office. Her stomach growled. She’d skipped breakfast.

“Wow.” Beth bit into one. “These are fantastic. I think he added pineapple chunks with the blueberries.” She pushed the box closer toward Angie. “You have to taste this.”

Shaking her head, she retreated a few steps, the hunger plaguing her suddenly replaced by nausea. “I’m watching my diet.”

Beth frowned. “Don’t be silly. You’re perfect.”

“Not diet, as in weight loss, but what I put in my body. Eating healthy.” Yeah, that sounded sane. Better than the truth. What would Beth think if she found out Angie couldn’t eat anything cooked by a man? Ever since her parents had died, she couldn’t stomach food touched by male hands. Didn’t matter what race. That had gone over well with the foster homes when she was growing up.

“Okay, more for me.” Beth hugged the box to her chest. Werewolf metabolisms were incredible. Her best friend could out-eat a high school football team and still remain a size five. Part of Angie hated her for it.

The electrician waved good-bye through the storefront window.

She held his recent bill in her hand for a new light fixture, the second one in a month. At this rate, she should keep him on retainer. The inspector she’d hired to check out the building before signing the contract had given her the thumbs-up. The landlord must have paid him off. Otherwise, she was the unluckiest businesswoman in New Port.

The shop door chimed as it opened. Her first appointment was a little early. That was a good omen. It would help the day go by faster if she could keep to her schedule. She twisted around and stumbled against Beth, who had jumped to her feet.

Her receptionist curtsied. “Mr.—Mr. Dragon, nice to see you again.” The scent of Beth’s fear almost choked Angie. “Would you like a muffin?” She squeaked out the last word.

Angie moved around the desk between the dragon and the omega werewolf. Without Ryota here, she would have to play protector. She fingered her pepper spray. If she had to use it again, she doubted her survival. “Eoin, what can I do for you?” His eyes appeared less bloodshot than yesterday and the blisters had healed.

He glanced at Beth. “Go away.”

The chair clattered to the floor and was followed by Beth’s retreating footsteps as she hurried to the back of the shop. Hopefully, she’d think to call her alpha for help.

“That was rude.” Angie fisted the sprayer.

“It was necessary.” He stared at her for a moment and a crushing silence filled the room. “You scratch backs for a living?”

She held up her chin. “Yes.”

“Do you know scale care?”

“Uh…” She released her hidden weapon and scratched her head. “No.”

“That’s not a problem. I can teach you. The process would usually take a few hours but I have a bit of an issue that might take a couple of days to fix. Clear your calendar.”

“Just like that.” Angie snapped her fingers. She’d thought Ryota had an ego issue. Eoin put him to shame.

“Is this a problem?” He leaned toward her and inhaled.

“Are you smelling me?”
That
wasn’t creepy. She moved behind the desk.

A blush tinged his cheeks and highlighted his sharp cheekbones. “No.” He broke eye contact and stared at his worn boots. “I can compensate you for your inconvenience.”

“It’s not good business for me to cancel appointments. Your needs aren’t greater than anyone else’s. I could possibly fit you in on the weekends until we’re done.” That would suck away all her free time, but she would like to stay off the dragon’s menu.

He shook his head. “That won’t work. It has to be done soon.” Shoving his hands deep in his jean pockets, he dropped his chin to avoid her stare and muttered something.

“What?”

“I’ve got scale rot.”

She took an involuntary step away. “Is it contagious?”

He shot her a hard look. “No.” The word snapped with contempt. “There are many steps to curing it and they can’t be skipped or done far apart.”

“I can maybe take care of this issue in patches?”

“I’m not a car asking to be waxed. This is my skin.” He twisted around and lifted his t-shirt. His back was completely inked. At first glance it appeared like some hipster tribal tattoo thing she’d seen on Pinterest a hundred times, but on closer inspection she noticed they were words in a different language intricately woven into a pattern.

“Nice tat.” She moved around the desk to get a better look. “What does it say?”

He followed her gaze. “Rash.”

“What? Why?”

He pointed to the red sore spread across his lower back. It looked infected. “Rash.”

“Oh.” Fine, let him be that way. “Can’t I care for you in this form? It would take less time.” She’d never actually seen a dragon up close. She half hoped he’d say no. Television reporters did their best to catch them in flight but dragons were a very private race, and a very violent one as well.

“I wish it were that simple.” He settled his t-shirt back.

“How did you normally have it done?”

A pained expression flashed across his face, so quick she wasn’t sure if she’d truly seen it. “Someone from my clan would have helped, but since I’ve moved away from them I usually have a squire.” He moved within her personal space. “They’re in short supply nowadays.”

She tried to move away but her traitorous legs wouldn’t respond. The oxygen seemed to have vanished from the room as Eoin’s heat enveloped her.

He touched her hair, running his fingertips through the short strands.

A wave of dizziness crashed over Angie. Danger! Danger! Her proximity alarm rang in her head.

He pulled something from her hair and set it on the floor. It crawled away.

“I had a spider in my hair?” Her voice rose to an octave close to breaking glass. She sat on the desk and pulled her knees to her chest. “Oh my God.”

He smirked. “It’s smaller than you are. I think you’ll live.”

“That’s not the point.” She shook out her hair to make sure it hadn’t laid eggs or made a nest. “I’m going to have to shave my head like yours.”

His laugh sounded rusty and unused. The way he tilted his head gave her a better view of his eyes with their corners crinkling in mirth.

Her stupid heart beat a little faster.

“That would be a shame, Angie.” The way he said her name, as if he savored it, sent a shiver along her spine.

She wanted to slap herself. How many times had she witnessed broken hearts when shifters found their true mates and dumped their human lovers like yesterday’s trash? This was the real reason for her leaving Ryota. Dump him before he dumped her.

“I’ll triple your fee if you take care of my scale problem this week.”

Angie slid back onto her feet, eight-legged invaders forgotten. “Triple?” That would give her a nice cushion. Business had been good, but what if the novelty of back-scratching faded? She needed some savings if she ever wanted to move out of her crappy apartment. “I’ll do it in the evenings after my appointments are done. Will that do?”

He nodded. “Do you know how to reach my castle?”

“Wait, what?” The isolated, desolate stone building way outside the city where no one could hear her scream? Luckily, she’d remembered to wear her brain-to-mouth filter today. “All—all my equipment is here.”

The smile he’d worn not seconds ago vanished, replaced with a sterner version of a frown. He crossed his arms. “You can’t possibly think I’ll fit in here.” He leaned in so close his lips brushed her ear as he spoke softly. “I’m much bigger in dragon form.”

She needed air. And a cold shower. “How big are you?” Apparently, her filter still let stupid questions slip out.

A spark of mischief glinted in Eoin’s gaze even though his expression never changed. “Very.”

The tips of her ears ached from blushing so hard. She wanted to cover them with her hands. How had she let Beth convince her to go for a pixie cut? Her short hair left her ears vulnerable for all to see her embarrassment. “I don’t have a car.”

“I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?”

The last thing she wanted was for Eoin to see her rat-infested apartment building. “I’ll get a ride. What time should I be there?”

“Seven.”

“Should I bring anything?”

“I have all the tools and oils. I just need a pair of reliable hands.”