Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
My female gasps and runs toward me, and I open my arms for her with pleasure.
Of course. This is what she has been waiting for. I stab at her thoughts with mine, willing them to open…but there is still nothing.
And I let out another growl of frustration.
15
RACHEL
I’m getting nowhere with my dragon suitor.
I don’t know what to do with him. I’ve tried talking, but that gets me nowhere. I’ve patted my chest and said my name so many times, and he just looked at me and tried to lick my bandages.
I worry he’s not very…bright.
So I try another trick. I grab hubcaps from nearby cars after I see a discarded red ball, and then try a version of the shell game. I hide the ball under one of the hubcaps and shift them all around, wincing inwardly at the scrape of metal on asphalt, and then look to the dragon. I gesture at the hubcaps. “Which one has the ball?”
He blinks those swirling golden eyes at me and nudges at my hand, indicating I should stroke his nose again.
Grr. So frustrating.
“Come on,” I say, thumping my chest with my hand again. “Ray-chel. Ray-chel. Talk to me already, won’t you? Azar says you’re a person, but I’m starting to think he’s crazy.” I pat my chest again. “Ray-chel.”
The dragon gets a distant look on his face—either that or Azar’s not the only crazy one—as if he’s hearing something from far away. I pause, waiting, and then the dragon backs up a few feet, his shoulders hunching, his wings tucked tight against his back. I frown, studying him. If he was a cat, I’d say he was about to throw up a hairball, but—
Then the dragon isn’t there. He disappears entirely.
I gasp.
A much smaller, equally golden form uncurls from the asphalt a short distance away, arms stretching out and displaying spikes along the backside. One of the spikes looks broken, and I note that idly before realizing that there’s a guy here.
And this guy looks like Azar.
No, I realize a split second later. This guy looks nothing like Azar at all.
This…this has to be the dragon. It’s the only possible explanation. He’s not a dragon. He has a dragon form, Azar’s irritable memory reminds me. It makes sense now. He’s not a dragon completely. He’s a dragon shifter.
Which is weird, but at this point, I’m no longer tossing weird out the window.
The man—the dragon—finishes stretching and scratches idly at his abdomen, and then his gaze focuses on me.
I stare in surprise. The swirling eyes are the same, but oh god, so much else is different. Thick golden hair, as coarse and bountiful as a lion’s mane, sprouts from his head and cascades down his shoulders and across his back. He’s gold all over, actually, his skin and hair practically the same shade of warm gold. At the edge of his brow, he’s got a frill of short, spiky horns and more spikes on the backs of his arms and legs. He’s tall—taller than Azar and his shoulders are broad, his body a lithe inverted triangular shape that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and the slimness of his tight hips. I stare at those broad shoulders for a moment, then let my gaze creep down, past the tight, flat belly and all the way down to the large, semi-hard cock that hangs between his muscular thighs.
I blink at that, then force myself to look at his face. Face. Face. Must look at face.
The eyes that watch me out of the strange man’s face are the dragon’s, even if it seems impossible to associate the enormous creature with the man standing in front of me. He looks…young. Maybe my age, maybe slightly younger. His face is square, his chin blunt and equally squared off with wide cheekbones and a mouth that’s so full and almost pouty that the entire combination makes him look stubborn. He’s got sharp, high cheekbones and his intense eyes are framed by heavy brows that give him a look of fierce concentration.
He’s staring at me, too.
I lick my lips, uncertain, as he strides toward me. As he walks, I notice that his hands—and his feet—are clawed, as if Mother Nature decided to give him thick, scary thorns instead of nails. His full lips part, and I catch a glimpse of sharp fangs, and realize that he might have two legs, but this man is still a dragon.
I take a step back.
His eyes flare and he pauses. Then, a cautious look on his face, he takes another step forward, pauses, and watches me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m just nervous.” I gesture that he can approach, hoping that he takes the hint despite the communication barrier.
Those strange eyes flare bright gold, and he marches toward me, hands curled into fists at his side, his shoulders tall and straight as any soldier. It’s a proud, cocky walk, one full of authority and confidence, and one that makes his junk swing between his legs in a way that drags my gaze there even when I know it’s best to keep eye contact.