The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne) (10 page)

She felt strong. Stronger than she had ever felt before, even when her stores were full. This new sensation, from creating rather than stealing…she’d never imagined how incredible it would feel. She’d never imagined it was even possible.

How was it possible? The question tickled at the edge of her consciousness. Perhaps it was just a trick of her mind, swathed in so much pleasure she couldn’t discern where Joarr’s actions left off and hers began.

Beneath her, Joarr moved and the question was quickly forgotten. He was fully inside her now. She pressed her palms into his chest and concentrated on moving her body up and down, on the delicious slide of his sex in and out.

Power sizzled against her palms. She released it as heat…fire. She could see her palms glowing red, but felt no pain, and Joarr didn’t seem to, either. Instead he seemed impassioned. His tempo increased, the blaze in his eyes burning so bright Amma couldn’t look away.

“Let it go,” he murmured. “Don’t hold back.”

Without asking she knew what he meant. He wanted her magic, wanted her to unleash whatever she still held inside.

She shouldn’t; she needed it if she wanted to escape him. She bit her lip, one tiny bit of logic holding out, screaming at her not to give in.

He lifted her, then lowered her again. Her body fully encased his length, and she knew she couldn’t resist, knew her orgasm was upon her. It was now or never. She had to choose. Logic or passion.

With a scream, she chose. She unleashed every bit of magic that had built up inside her. Twin streams, red then blue, poured from her palms into his chest. Her body quivered, her back arched and Joarr’s did the same.

Together they found their release. Joarr poured out his heat while Amma let her magic flow. Pleasure swirled around her, pounded into her, so intense it verged on pain. Then when they both were physically and magically spent, she collapsed on top of him, her heart beating loudly and her magic completely drained.

She closed her eyes and folded her fingers against her palms.

Stupid. So stupid.

Joarr reached up to stroke her hair, then pulled it back from her face. She couldn’t look at him; she was too overwhelmed, didn’t understand what had happened, why she had lost herself, how she had given up her goal so easily.

“You shared your fire,” he murmured. “I didn’t know…” He ran his fingers down her arm. She pressed her face against his chest, wished she could pull her hair back over her face, hide. She’d never felt so exposed. “Thank you,” he finished. Then he leaned up and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Amma froze.
Thank you.
She’d never had anyone thank her for anything before. Maybe because she had never done anything for anyone before. She and her sisters took. They didn’t give or ask. But she realized, not anymore. She’d broken that pattern.

She placed a hand over her mole. Her sisters would never understand this.

Her face pressed against Joarr’s chest, she breathed in his spicy scent. Funny, even though she knew she had just wasted all the magic she had struggled to store, she didn’t feel as if she’d lost anything. This seemed to be becoming a trend when she was around Joarr. One she needed to break.

Joarr wrapped his arm around her, his hand cupping her hip. And she relaxed against him. She stopped her mind from wandering to her sisters and what they would think, stopped her mind from wandering at all. She just enjoyed where she was and the heat that still wrapped around her and Joarr like a cocoon.

* * *

Joarr lay on the stained bedclothes with Amma draped across his body. She had shared her magic. He was shocked. He’d wanted it, but hadn’t expected it. He would never have dreamed this witch, who had only stolen from him and lied to him before, would do such a thing. Magic was precious to a witch—much more precious than a dragon’s heat or cold.

A dragon could produce new fire and ice on a whim, but magic for a witch? Especially a witch in Amma’s position who had been completely drained…

Sharing her magic was a gift. A gift she had chosen to give him. It swirled inside him, stoking his fires to degrees he’d never reached before.

With Amma’s magic pouring into him, he could have melted rock, turned the world around them into molten lava. Or frozen the boiling pits of Muspelheim.

With Amma’s magic pouring into him, he could do anything.

Did she realize that?

He doubted it, but still, the sharing had made the sex into more than just an act. Made it into a true union, a melding of their powers, something only dragons did as far as he knew.

He ran his fingers down her spine. She shivered. Without stopping his movements, he raised the temperature of the fire inside him and warmed her with his body. She sighed and relaxed against him.

He realized then she wasn’t just quiet; she was asleep. For how long? And once she awoke, then what? Would they discuss what had happened? Or pretend it hadn’t?

Did the sharing mean as much to her as it did to a dragon?

He knew she wouldn’t tell him, not unless he asked. And he wouldn’t.

Because he didn’t want to say it out loud, didn’t want the rule of the Ormar hanging over them. Melding was yet another thing regulated by the dragon army. The power it created was too intense and made the dragons involved too strong. Because of that, dragons melded only once and then they separated. Any children that came from the union were divided—boys to the males, girls to the females—and the adults, the lovers, were never allowed to be together again.

He could have kept Amma before. The thought had occurred to him—that he could lock her in his cavern and cherish her like the prize she was, but not now. The Ormar would smell the meld on both of them and Amma would be banished, perhaps Joarr, too, for trying to trick the dragon army.

His fingers tangled in Amma’s hair. He held them up and admired the golden threads that clung to his knuckles.

No, this treasure wasn’t his to keep. He needed to remember that.

Chapter 9

F
afnir leaned back in the velvet recliner he kept in his office. It was a little after midnight. He’d had his drink and for once his brother had agreed to watch the door. A rare night off.

He ran his tongue over his lips. The taste of dragon blood still clung to them. He pulled his lower lip into his mouth and dragged his front teeth across it, scraping off any remaining molecules.

Dragon blood was thick with a metallic hue. The first dragon he’d bled had spilled coppery liquid into his cup; the second and third had offered more of a steely shade. But as the blood aged, the punch lessened. It was disappointing at best. He tapped his fingers on his chair’s arm.

How many shades, varieties and tastes of dragon blood were there to choose from? He longed to learn.

Saliva filled his mouth at the idea.

The chalice had limits—only one sip a day. He needed more than that, needed to drink his fill. A dragon’s worth.

And he could, he realized, if not from the chalice, then from another cup or flask. The blood he had was old, anyway—why limit himself as he had been?

Fafnir placed his hands together, as if he were praying, and tapped his finger pads against each other. He hadn’t been back to the building since he’d locked the last dragon’s corpse there. He hadn’t wanted to risk his father or brother following him. But the blood he’d brought to the bar was running out. He needed more, if not from a live dragon then blood from the dead one he had stored would have to do.

He frowned. Across the room, the mirror reflected his image back at him. Same stout dwarf that he’d always been, with shaggy brows forming a V in the center of his forehead. He lowered them more, concentrated on looking his most ferocious. Intimidating to some perhaps, but not at first pass, not to humans at least.

He was tired of dealing with the drones that occupied this world. They assumed because of his size he was no threat. He had taught many of them differently, but he was tired of that game, too. He wanted to see the fear and awe he deserved when they first lay eyes on him.

Fear, respect—that was what he deserved and humans were too stupid to see it.

His hand dropped to his ax. The wood was worn, but the edge was still sharp. Even after slicing into the necks of three dragons, the metal held.

He picked it up and let the light from the candle he’d lit play along the blade. Then he stared at the flame. Lost in its flickering beauty, a new idea occurred to him. Until now he’d filled his cup and released the dragons. He’d drugged each before slicing into their neck. Some herb the dark elf who’d educated him on the cup had sold him. It was like catnip for dragons. They spaced out on the stuff until they lost all sense of what was going on around them.

He did his job and moved on. Their wounds healed quickly, more quickly than any being he’d known. So, when they awoke they had no idea they’d been harmed. They left—all except the last one—nice, tidy and easy.

Maybe too easy. Took some of the fun out of the act.

But now that he was so close to getting full dragon powers, he didn’t need to be so cautious. He could trap a dragon and keep him. Drink his blood, as much as he liked, every day until the supply in the chalice was gone. Then he could refill a different cup and keep drinking—a never-ending supply of fresh, power-filled blood.

And he wouldn’t have to hide what he was doing from the dragon—because he would never escape, never be a threat.

It was perfect…a dream.

He sat back against his chair and imagined a dragon, the mightiest of all beings, staring down at Fafnir, his face hollow with defeat.

He leaned forward and jerked his cell phone out of his desk drawer. It took five rings for his agent to answer.

“Did one come?”

The dwarf he’d sent to the portal nearest the Ormar landholdings hemmed and hawed, saying he’d found the dragon and done as Fafnir had asked.

“When? If you’d done your job he’d be here. Why don’t I have my blood?”

At the agent’s claim that the dragon had a female with him and might have had help in the attack, Fafnir’s interest flared. “A female dragon?” He’d never seen a female dragon. Dragon females did not stay with the males; they didn’t raise their young, either, at least not the male children. And as rare as it was to see a male dragon out in the nine worlds, spotting a female was unheard of. Fafnir didn’t even know where they lived or if they lived together as the males did.

Two dragons, a male and a female. The thought of such bounty was mind-boggling.

“…not a dragon…” his agent muttered.

“What? But that’s what I sent you to find.” Fafnir slammed his ax into the four-foot-wide piece of log he kept beside his desk. The blade slipped through the ancient wood like a heated knife through butter. He picked it up and studied the edge. Still perfect.

“No, the male is a dragon. The female is not.”

“Hmm.” Fafnir placed the ax head on the floor and leaned on the handle. “What is she, then?”

When the agent stuttered for an answer, Fafnir cut him off. “Doesn’t matter. My plans have changed. I need the dragon, the whole dragon, alive. Get him to the bar. Tell him about the treasure. Tell him I’m willing to give it to him in exchange for…” Fafnir searched for something a dragon might be willing to part with. “The female.”

He smiled. Perfect. If the dragon and the female had already done what Fafnir suspected, the dragon would have no further need for her. He would expect her to leave him, anyway. Why not trade her for treasure? “Tell him I will trade my father’s hoard for the female.”

Thrilled with his new plan, Fafnir punched the end button and tossed his phone back into the drawer.

Now to make good use of his time off and visit the dragon he did have. He went to gather some flasks.

* * *

An hour had passed since Amma had awakened. She’d found herself draped across Joarr’s body. He’d been awake and watching her. She peeled her body off his and rolled over onto the mattress. Something flittered in her stomach—nerves.

She couldn’t believe what she had done.

Sex, fine. But what had happened between her and Joarr had gone past that. She had felt something, something beyond the physical. But then, was that bad? Was it wrong to feel something for the dragon? She stared at the ceiling and tried to puzzle through the thoughts pinging around her brain.

“What are you thinking?” Joarr asked. His question was casual, but it sent a frisson of alarm through Amma.

She plucked at the rumpled cover beside her. “Nothing. You?”

He ran a finger down her shoulder, sending tingles over the rest of her.

She was weakening, warming to the idea that maybe feeling something for this dragon wouldn’t be bad…might even be good.

She cleared her throat. “Back at your house, that other dragon, he mentioned you were an orphan.”

Joarr placed a light kiss against her shoulder. “My father died when I was little more than a hatchling.”

“And your mother? What about her?”

Joarr’s lips stilled. He pulled back and stared at the far wall. “I never knew her.”

“She is dead?” Amma’s heart thumped. She’d heard tales about dragons—that the males raised the males, kept the babies from their mothers. She hadn’t questioned it before, hadn’t cared before because she’d had no intention of telling Joarr about their child, but now…maybe she’d been wrong…

He shook his head. “No, she’s alive, at least as far as I know.”

Amma’s skin turned cold. “But then you aren’t an orphan.”

He looked at her then, surprise in his eyes. “Of course I am. My father died. In the dragon world that makes me an orphan. Since I was male, my mother had no claim on me.” His gaze went distant again. “Not that she would have wanted one.”

Amma couldn’t listen to any more. She had to get off this bed and away from Joarr. She’d almost… She’d wanted… She jumped up, naked, and with her eyes carefully averted from his, she walked to the bathroom.

He didn’t say a word as she trekked toward the bathroom, but she felt his eyes on her back like stones. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew why she was asking the questions, knew her secret and was already planning on how he’d take her child away from her.

With the door closed behind her, she turned on the shower and then leaned against the wall, her eyes shut, wondering what in hell was happening to her.

She had considered telling Joarr about her baby, staying with Joarr. She had come dangerously close to losing all she had. When she was so close to gaining everything she had wanted.

She couldn’t let herself be taken in. He was the dragon. She was supposed to outwit him, not fall for him like some bubbleheaded princess who was too stupid to see she was dinner.

She stared at the cracked vinyl and let the room fill up with steam. The humid air activated Joarr’s scent that clung to her skin. Angry with herself and him, she jerked open the shower curtain and stepped inside.

With the water pounding on her face, she closed her eyes and placed her hand on her stomach. She forced herself to think logically. She’d come close to screwing up, but she hadn’t—not irreparably. She’d had sex with him, but she hadn’t said anything stupid. She hadn’t made any kind of declaration. He was a male; odds were to him what had passed between them had been nothing more than an especially sweet orgasm. And she had not in any way let him know she was pregnant.

There was no reason for him to realize she had felt more, given that she never had before. So, for all practical purposes it hadn’t happened. If she was the only one to realize the significance of what she had done, she had shown no weakness.

She slicked her hands over her face and stared at the pink tile. She just had to let him know that handing out magic was meaningless to her, common even. She rolled her eyes at the thought.

She grabbed the white packet of soap and ripped off its paper wrapping. As she lathered up, as she washed off Joarr’s scent, sanity returned. She had to do what she had done before—let Joarr think she was taken in by him, had fallen for him. With his guard lowered, stealing the chalice for herself and her child would be easy—just as easy as it was the first time.

She slid the curtain open and stepped onto the vinyl, water puddling around her feet.

This dragon tale would have a whole new ending—with no prince to save her, the princess would save herself and take the treasure.

Calm again, she rubbed her legs with the rough towel she’d found hanging from the towel bar. A light rap sounded from the hall outside their room. She moved to the bathroom door and pressed her ear against the crack where the flimsy barrier didn’t quite meet the jamb.

“Are you alone?” The voice was rough with an accent Amma recognized instantly—dwarf. Gunngar, where she had spent the past one hundred years, had been lousy with dwarves. She had no issue with dwarves, but she didn’t trust them, either, especially after being attacked twice.

Joarr didn’t reply, but he must have moved aside for the dwarf to enter their room because the next time Amma heard the accented voice it was louder, closer.