Page 10 of The Dragon's Omega

For Vidar.

On his behalf. Brutality in its highest form—for what they did to him.

For once, anger helped me focus, kept me in the moment. I stopped feeling Vidar’s fiery blood every time I reached inside him. No more shaking, no more submitting to the cramps. In my frustration, my rage, it was me and him and this fucking arrow that was coming out, one way or another.

Foot by agonizing foot, the shaft got easier to move, and eventually, wrath gave way to excitement—because there was, for once, a light at the end of the tunnel.

“It’s almost there,” I called, crouched over his wound, using both hands to carefully pull and guide and maneuver this awful thing. It was black metal, something strong enough to withstand the heat of his body. Bar trivia nights with Louis had gifted me a lot of useless knowledge, and, as I eased the arrow along, I vaguely recalled tungsten having the highest melting point of any metal. Maybe that was how it survived in the heart of a dragon.

“Hang on.” My voice cracked. “Almost—there!”

I jerked the arrow free at long last. The momentum knocked me backward, and I went gracelessly, squealing all the way down flat on my ass. This—thing. It looked like a bolt, like something fired from a long-range weapon, a massive crossbow that belonged in a fantasy—fictional—world. All things considered, it really was a thorn compared to the size of its victim; a few inches shorter than me at five-seven, it was thin, fletched with spikes, and crowned with a thin, sharp arrowhead.

If it had gone through his heart, it could have killed him.

Under the moonlight, we had one thing in common: we were covered in Vidar’s blood.

And tonight I learned dragons bled gold. Bright, shiny, glittering gold. My thoughts on ichor and mythological deities—not all that far off. It was said Greek gods bled gold, and as I shoved the arrow aside, exhausted, I wondered if their essence shimmered under the stars too.

Vidar hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound, in almost a full minute. Then, out of nowhere, he groaned and sucked in a long, deep breath. His lungs expanded so much that the bolt went rolling—followed quickly by me. Yelping, I tried to snag a scale on the way down, but this time when I tumbled over the side, he didn’t catch me. No, as I plummeted toward the water, I caught him… stretching.

Curling his claws. Arching his back. Rumbling with such depth that I felt his gruff baritone in my teeth. I fell in slow motion, lost in him—until ice water slapped me with the rudest awakening ever.

Under for only a few seconds, I flailed to my feet. After my first gasping breath came a shitty combination of fatigue and a still very present, very insistent flash heat. Whining, the inferno brewing deep within, I massaged my chest and washed off most of the blood, then trudged to the shore again. My torn dress weighed a ton, heavier by the step, and once I reached the pebbly beach, I sank to my knees. Overwhelmed, highly aware of both my body and his, I folded onto my hands.

His pheromones hit like a freight train, the most intense blast of alpha yet. I bowed my head, keening, and rode out another cramp.

When I lifted my heavy head again, Vidar’s silhouette loomed for two quick blinks—and then he vanished. Trembling, I gulped and glanced to my right, expecting to find him gone.

Sure enough, there was no dragon in sight.

What I found instead… was a man.

CHAPTER 4

Lianna

A naked man.

A naked alpha man.

A naked alpha man built like a fucking mountain.

Heart lodged in my throat, I wasn’t sure which was more intimidating: the dragon or the man. Pushing at least seven feet, Vidar lay half in, half out of the water. The gentle tide lapped at his legs, his thick thighs. Succulent alpha pheromones wafted my way, carried on the breeze, and, dumbstruck, I followed their trail like a moth to a flame.

Crawling along the shoreline, my greedy gaze devoured every inch of him. A warm ivory complexion. Big. Broad. He had the kind of muscularity to his shoulders that I loved, the definition that rippled when men moved or flexed a certain way. Fuck, I had always been a shoulder girl, but his strong arms were equally delicious.

Tattoos covered those arms, that broad chest. They trailed from his shoulders to his fingertips, from the noticeable bulge in his throat down his sides. I licked my lips as I followed the lines from start to murky end; most looked like Celtic knots, intricate and beautiful. Faded, splotchy ink dotted his fingers. I noted the edges of splayed wings curling around his shoulders. Maybe there was a raven or eagle on his back?

Hot.

Fucking hot.

Mouth watering, slick pooling, I knelt near his head and resisted the urge to trace all the curious designs painstakingly inked into his skin. A quick glance south revealed a cut abdomen, muscle shredded down to his thighs.

A thick dick. Fire sparked in my cheeks. A grower and a shower, maybe, that thing was already half erect and seemed like it had inches upon inches to go.

Great. Now it was a tight race between dragon, man, and cock for most intimidating.

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