Page 3 of Dark Dragon’s Wolf

Emon said, “Tristan, I don’t suppose you know about electric—”

“No,” Tristan snarled. Other than messing with people’s brains—for good or evil—his life skills were pretty much limited to weapons, survival, evading pursuit, and death.

Not much of a basis for a fulfilling life path.

He also wasn’t in a helpful mood. He was angry and frustrated and getting a splitting headache, which was basically his permanent state the last couple of weeks.

Emon raised his eyebrows. “Okay then,” he said, with uncharacteristic mildness. “Don’t blame me if we lose Netflix.”

They were all walking on eggshells around Tristan. Because he was damaged. Because when the castle was invaded a few weeks ago and he’d been without weapons, he’d fought with his mind.

Literally ripped into people’s flesh with his mental powers. He’d never done that before—hadn’t even known he could. He’d only seen it done once, by another white wolf. An insane one.

Now he knew why. It felt like he’d blown out half his brain neurons.

But when he’d seen Mayah almost kidnapped by those Gen-X fuckers who wanted to experiment on her, something snapped inside him. He’d seen too many shifters captured and tortured. And Mayah had already been through so much.

He just couldn’t let that happen to her, even if it short-circuited his entire brain. And now he had headaches, and nosebleeds, and that famous vault where all his bad memories and homicidal urges were hidden had busted open, and he couldn’t get it shut again.

He told himself he’d have done it for anyone, but who the fuck was he trying to kid? It was for her. He wanted to do everything for her—love her, protect her, spend time with her, talk to her. Listen to all her hopes and dreams. Make them come true.

He wanted to show her Earth, do all the ordinary things she’d never done. Go to a movie theater. A restaurant. A city. A biker bar.

And the supreme irony was, by trying to save her, he’d fucked himself up so much he could never have her. She wouldn’t be safe with him, now that he could no longer even fake normal.

Want, his wolf said. Ours.

Yeah, no, Tristan said back.

The princess of Al-Maddeiri definitely wasn’t theirs. She deserved way, way better than him.

Chapter 2

Mayah, Draken princess of Al-Maddeiri, was caught in a nightmare.

The same nightmare she’d had over and over: dozens of ghosts calling to her, their voices pitiful and relentless.

Reaching out their hands, grabbing at her, begging for help.

Set us free. Save us. You’re our only hope.

Even her dream-self could see the irony in that—that anyone, even a ghost, would think Mayah could bring them salvation and freedom. Someone who’d been a prisoner all her life. Whose dragon had been trapped inside her for over two years.

How could she save anyone?

Now, in the dream, she was walking down a hallway—one where she’d been many times before. It seemed to be made entirely of white tile—the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Everything was white.

Including the ghosts.

They were huddled in glass-fronted white-tile rooms that lined the corridor. Sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups. Men, women, children—ghosts behind glass, like exhibits in some kind of otherworldly zoo.

They’d look up as she walked past, staring at her, arms outstretched, begging her to help them. Then suddenly there would be more of them—the same people, but older or younger. Ghosts of everything they had been and would be, crowding the rooms, pressing against the glass, all calling her until their cries ran together in a low, desperate moan.

Help us. You have to help us.

“I can’t!” she cried out in frustration. She couldn’t open the cages; she couldn’t reach through the glass. There was nothing she could do. “I can’t save you. I don’t know how.” You’re already dead.

She tried to close her eyes, will herself out of the dream, but her eyes wouldn’t close and the scene just blurred into fog, the ghosts shrinking down to long white clouds of mist with glowing yellow eyes.