From roaring and rageful—to utterly black with wrath.
Because I’m not entirely sure who I am when my inner Bone Magic takes over; and I don’t like it, as Mikkel rises now from his chair, watching me with penetrating dark eyes.
Mikkel’s black eyes spark with a ring of vicious chartreuse green now—the eyes of his dragon—as he feels me dive into my darkest place, a place we both share. Dressed in a black collared shirt and pinstriped slacks with a shiny black belt, he is casual as he kicks off his snakeskin boots and steps down to the main floor.
Then steps to the sand—spiking cold, black fire deep into my heart.
“Your drakes are tired, drakaina.” Mikkel stares me down, deadly teasing as he addresses me like he’s a pirate about to make me walk the plank, a roguish smile on his lips.
A pirate I just want to fuck, and fuck, and fuck.
“They’re fine,” I say as he approaches, hands out at his sides to show me he’s unarmed and not threatening me with any magic.
He’s walking towards me, implacable like a hurricane, however; all around, the Storm Dragons have picked up on our mood. The sky above Chambord’s amphitheater is bruised with purple storm clouds now, though it had been a lovely sunny day. Lighting flickers above; the Storm Dragons can’t hold backtheir eagerness.
As tension roars through me and my drakes, now that Mikkel’s joined us.
“Fuck! Don’t sneak up on a Blood Dragon when our hackles are up, Mik,” Ström laughs, jovial as he shakes his head.
Standing beside me, my Second Drake is always in a good mood, except when he’s not. Even in his current exhaustion from occupying my desire for revenge with Bjorn these past eight hours, Ström still has an upbeat nature.
I can hear fatigue in his voice, however, as he runs a hand through his short, sandy-blond hair, rucking it up into a sweaty mess, then down his short-trimmed, tawny stubble.
Dressed in borrowed Storm Dragon guard gear, he wears a white singlet over his lean, mean muscles. Ström’s nearly my same height and looks all of two hundreds pounds soaking wet, but he’s got strength in that tight, honed body. Perfectly proportioned, with what I know is a truly massive cock hiding beneath his pants, Ström is not a drake anyone would want to tussle with.
Though his emerald green eyes twinkle, his chisel-cheeked, handsome face always puckish with a teasing smile, Ström’s got power. It’s wildcard power—even more than Bjorn’s now, with Mikkel pushing his magic. He sets his hands on his hips, chuckling and grinning at Mikkel’s arrival.
Though his vibrant emerald gaze is watchful.
“Fuck off, Mikkel. We’re busy.” My First Drake, Bjorn, growls now as his vivid gold eyes flash hot at my Third Drake’s arrival, and not in a nice way. His long golden hair pulled up atop his head in a sweaty man bun, Bjorn grunts as he rips the elastic from his wild mess of hair and scratches through it with his fingertips.
As his massive mane falls free, Bjorn’s golden eyes blaze. Shirtless and wearing only lightweight storm-grey tactical pants for our duel, barefoot in the sand, Bjorn is simply the most stunning piece of man-meat I’ve ever met.
Built like a Viking god, he has muscles on top of muscles, ripplingnow as he airs out his hair. His waist is strong but fit, his pecs and arms could crush a Mack truck, and his rock-solid shelf ass and thighs would make anyone swoon—dragon or not.
But it’s his face that has always captured me. As Bjorn snarls at the situation now with the pure gold eyes of his dragon burning out from that strong, almost godlike masculine face, his level gold brows scowl. Beyond handsome, devastating when you match that with his stalwart, protective nature, Bjorn is almost never in a good mood, unless we’re fucking.
Which he and I haven’t been able to do at all these past seven days.
“Mikkel. Did you need something?” I say now, planting my hands on my hips and watching him. I’m statuesque today in my dark grey tactical leggings, a white tank top with a sports bra beneath, and all my long, Swedish-blonde hair done half-back in braids and pulled into a ponytail so I can fight.
Built like a Scandinavian brick house, I’m no slouch when it comes to muscles; I’ve been a career warrior all my life. I see Mikkel’s dark eyes glide up and down my body now as I sweat, flushed from kicking ass for eight hours straight. He’s appreciative—beyond appreciative—as he takes me in.
The subtlest dark and sexy smile on his face.
“I just came because I sensed you three needed a bit more firepower to keep going,” Mikkel says, as he stares at me with his dark gaze and cat-got-the-cream smile. “Or am I wrong that your drakes are wrung out from everything you’ve put them through since sunrise?”
I’m about to protest that we don’t need Mikkel’s added energy boost to keep going when Ström speaks up.
“I hate to say it… but Mikkel’s right, Rikyava. Bjorn and I are done. For now, at least.” Ström gives a wry laugh beside me.
I haul my eyes away from Mikkel, who has stopped fifteen paces shy of us. It gives me a moment to assess my drakes with a clear head.
Ström’s showing signs of fatigue, though he’s doing better than Bjorn,after our entire morning of fighting. Like Mikkel, Ström’s a Bone Mage; since Mikkel joined our Bloodbond, Ström’s power has gotten exponentially stronger, too, not just mine.
All of it is outweighing Bjorn, however. As my biggest, most badass drake growls now that Ström spoke for him, I look at Bjorn. Flipping his mass of wavy hair to one side, he rubs a crazy amount of sweat from his short golden beard. Sweat is everywhere, even soaked through his pants, as I watch the fabric cling to all his burly muscles and his frankly massive cock beneath.
But that cock is far from hard, as Bjorn heaves deep breaths. As his snarling golden gaze meets mine, I can feel how tired he is.
