Idallia circles, wary of my slow steps. Her mind might be trying to concentrate on sparring, but her body is exactly where mine is—utterly aware of the person in front of her. Her usual scents of sunshine and ice fade under something warmer and muskier. Heat floods my groin. My nostrils flare on a long inhalation, drawing the perfume of her arousal deep inside.
Confusion darts across her face, and she swallows. Does she know her body is throwing off mating scents that drive me wild?
“What’s working so hard in that mind of yours?” I ask softly. Shadows seep from me, my dragon reaching for her. I let the darkness surround me and nearly touch her.
She shivers, her gaze snagging on the manifestation of my dragon. “Your shadows always look like they should be empty and cold, but they’re not. They’re hot and alive.”
And I want her to walk right into them. “I thought you’d be planning your strategy.”
She steadies her breathing, her focus returning to my face. “I am. Just trying to decide the best way to put you at a disadvantage.”
I think she meant to toss that at me, taunting. She purrs it instead, and heat sinks through me like molten lead, turning my limbs heavy.
My voice a deepening rasp, I say, “I think you’ve already done that.” My gaze flicks over her. She’s small compared to dragon shifters. Her body is strong and lithe, making her curves almost a surprise and impossible to ignore. Her features are delicate but well defined, and her golden eyes are highly unusual and pure starlight, but maybe only I see that because I know what to look for. The truth is, Idallia is as starborn as I am.
She seems almost shaken by my answer and watches me warily. I watch her back with intensity, absorbing every detail of the woman who should be ruling her own kingdom right now. Her pale skin contrasts with jet-black hair, lashes, and brows, and she has the reddest lips in all Ellonrift, as if her body knows they should be stained red with the blood she’d be drinking if I hadn’t stolen her from Rannigan and thrust her into the sun.
Those blood-red lips part on a shallow inhalation that stirs a lustful hunger deep within me. “How so?” she asks huskily.
“Your hair is so shiny it blinds me. Shiny and black and smooth.”
“Dragons like shiny things,” she murmurs, more sweet-scented warmth billowing off her.
“Exactly.” I hear the roughness in my voice, my dragon deepening it as fire climbs up my throat. I don’t usually have trouble keeping the two parts of me separate, but right now I barely feel in control. “When I pounce on you, I’m going to grab hold of that shiny hair, and I might not let go.”
She forgets to circle, letting me get close enough to smell her deepening musk so strongly my cock twitches in my pants.
She clears her throat, remembering to move again. “Hair pulling is for school children.”
My mouth lifts in a predatory smile. “Then I guess I’m about to school you.”
I lunge so fast that she barely has time to bring up both knives and stop my downward strike. She stumbles back from the ringing blow, and I follow up so quickly that I get in a hit with the flat of my blade.
Her eyes narrow as she backs out of my reach. But my reach can be longer than an arm, and I let my dragon out little by little until there’s a full shadow dragon looming over her.
She watches, her golden eyes riveted. “You never said it was two against one.”
“I never said it wasn’t.” I lash out with my shadow tail, firming it up at the last second, and sweep her off her feet.
She lands with a grunt. “I guess that’s solid.”
So is something else. I refrain from the comment and attack while I pull my dragon back in. The man needs to be in control of the beast, and if that’s too hard, I need to leave.
Idallia holds me off without making any progress. She finally sees an opening and kicks out, but she projects the move too far ahead of time. I grab her foot in the air, lift, and twist, launching her toward a grassier spot than where we’re sparring.
She drops her knives and gets her hands under her, breaking her fall. The look she throws me over her shoulder promises the combat I’m looking for.
Excitement hums in my veins. She comes at me, and we engage in a flurry of hard, fast moves, but then she ends up on the ground again. I swoop in, the tip of my blade at her throat. “And you’re dead.”
Fury ignites on her face. “I’m getting sick of hearing that.”
“Then do better.” For the first time, those words are teasing, my tone light. I back off, but just as she starts to sit up, I instinctively leap for her again, grab a small lock of her loose hair, and sheer it off.
Her hand flies to the now chin-length piece, her eyes flaring in shock. “What the fuck, Bale?”
“Trophy for the victor.” I spring up, tucking her hair into my pocket. My heart punches my ribs. What the fuck? is right. That’s not just dragon hoarding behavior. That’s courtship.
She pops up and lunges at me. Her punch is hard—almost too hard to block. I catch her fist at the last second and narrowly avoid the uppercut she throws with her other hand. I shove her away from me.
