Page 4 of Dark Dragon’s Mate

Freedom.

Enemies devour you from within,

But she will break you, and the Darkwing Dragon will be no more.

said his dragon.

Emon looked down again at the woman on his doorstep. His dragon saw a nightmare. He saw a shining star, a bright beacon.

He didn’t know how both those things could exist in one woman, but he wanted to find out.

…destruction…freedom…

…she will break you, and the Darkwing Dragon will be no more.

Suddenly, he was almost looking forward to it.

Chapter 3

Trish stood at the huge door, the storm raging behind her, the back of her neck prickling. She felt like any second the dragon was going to swoop down and snatch her from the doorstep.

And what? Carry her off to his secret underground lair?

Rip her head off and crunch it like an M&M?

She-Wolf was still poised, waiting. For death? Or for a kindred spirit?

A dark, murdery kindred spirit.

Trish shivered.

Finally she heard footsteps inside, and then the huge castle door began to open. Trish braced herself, waiting for Frankenstein or a vampire or a creepy silent black-suited butler to appear.

What she got was a big, bulky man with a mane of wild blond hair, hazel eyes, and a friendly, quizzical expression. He wore khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he was barefoot. He smelled like a lion.

For a second he stared at her, looking perplexed. Then his face cleared. “Ms. Waverly, right? The healer?”

“That’s me,” she said. “You can call me Trish.”

“Come on in out of the rain.” He held the door open, peering past her shoulder as if he, too, felt something behind her.

She stepped in and he closed the door, shutting out the storm. The sudden hush was almost startling.

“Sorry no one was at the portal to meet you,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were coming today.”

That was weird. “I sent word to Tristan with the last supply shipment,” she said. “And I got a note back from him.”

“It might have slipped his mind. There was—an incident.”

An incident? Like, a medical emergency? Or a dragon eating someone? Surely nothing had happened to Tristan, or he’d say so.

Before she could ask, he added, “I’m sorry. I’m Grange, the prince’s Head Steward. Which in real-people language means I do All The Things, as far as running the castle and making sure everyone has what they need. So if you need anything, I’m your go-to guy.”

Of course. No one went to the Darkwing Dragon for petty day-to-day things. When did royalty ever get their hands dirty? And by all accounts, Prince Emon was not exactly approachable.

Too bad that the things she needed, Grange couldn’t give her. And she was beginning to doubt the dragon could either, if that near-death experience in the courtyard was anything to go by.

Don’t give up hope yet, she told herself, trying to be positive.