Valkyrie's Conquest (7 page)

There were demon traces—death, stink and an aura of lingering evil. Perhaps the Allfather was beating back organized assaults, but there was a more subtle war happening block by city block. The hellspawn had adopted sneakier tactics, and where they passed they left utter destruction.

There was nothing in the alley, demons or otherwise. With another oath, Bron turned, flapping hard to gain altitude again. His path took him under a bridge, then winding up through the cables to soar above the river. There was nothing he could do to save that tiny piece of the city tonight. The coming dawn was turning the sky to the color of gray pearls, and it was time large red dragons were safely out of sight.

Shifting in front of the coffee shop had been bad enough. Although the public knew his kind existed, dragons were still so rare that any who went public were instant celebrities. Bron refused to fall into that trap. A pack of camera-wielding news media was the last thing he needed while hunting the enemy.

And he had something far better waiting for him. He circled the cathedral roof with its gargoyles and copper spire, joy washing the night's tension from his veins. Everything had changed since he'd taken Tyra in that meadow. He had a mate.

He landed, claws digging in until he was settled, and then with a rush of power, he changed back into a man. Cold rushed against his bare skin, sucking out his breath. Without the protection of fire and scales, he realized that at some point it had started to rain. Hard.

Tyra jogged toward him, sure-footed despite the slope in the roof. She held a cloak and thrust it at him. “Here. We'd best get inside.”

Bron tossed on the cloak. Tyra's golden hair was plastered to her cheeks, and rain droplets ran down the metal of her breastplate. “You could have waited inside.”

“I tried,” she said simply, catching a double fistful of the cloak and pulling him close for a kiss. “I grew impatient.”

Her mouth was warm and sweet, her breath a light mist in the cool air. Despite the rain, the sky had begun to blush, giving everything a pale, watercolor cast. Bron damned the weather and took the kiss deeper, hungering for her in ways that had no words.

Eventually, they stepped through a broken window into the tiny room in the spire that was Bron's home. There was little more than a pallet of blankets, his fighting gear, and a scattering of human clothes. He had possessed nothing when he left the mountains and had acquired little along the way—until now. Now he had everything.

“I need to find someplace better for us to meet,” he said. “Maybe one of those condominiums across the way.”

“Why?” She said it with genuine curiosity. “What would we want with that?”

“Providing a home is what dragons do for their mates. They surround them with beauty and comfort.” He took a piece of her hair, running it through his fingers. Part of the strand was warm and silky, the rest cold and wet where the rain had soaked it.

She began fiddling with the buckles of her breastplate. “I am what I am. Simplicity is enough for me.” She shed the armor. She looked smaller without it, almost girlish.

“You're free to choose what you find beautiful. That is your right.”

Uncertainty shadowed her face. “Sometimes I can. I like pretty shoes.”

“I don't think a dragon will fit inside a shoe.”

She closed her eyes. “I am serious. I do not always know what I want. There is something missing inside me.”

Bron kissed the damp lock of golden hair. “That's not true. No one knows what they want all the time.”

She ducked her head. “Perhaps, but the Allfather said we were made without souls.”

“He said he repressed yours. That doesn't mean it's absent. That means it was squashed.” He heard the thread of anger in his voice, and cleared his throat.

She looked up then, giving him the full force of her sky blue eyes. It hit him like an updraft, sending everything spinning. “You unsquash me.”

“Is that a Valkyrie's declaration of affection?”

She smiled a little sadly, but at least it was a smile. “I'm not going to be easy for you. But know that you have more of me than anyone else. Do what dragons need to make their homes. Every hour that I can spare, I will be with you. You are my real home.”

“Then leave Asgard, and come live with me.”

“I am still a Valkyrie.” She ducked her head. “I will do my duty as I have always done, but you have everything else I have to give.”

Bron shed the cloak. His temper was warming him enough despite the cold air streaming through the broken window. He wanted to argue, but there was little point—words wouldn't win the battle, but other tactics might. He put his arms around Tyra, capturing her from behind. He felt her gasp, and a rush of pride heated his blood yet more. Whatever her mood, Tyra always responded to his touch.

“You may be Valkyrie, but you are also my mate,” he murmured, bending down so that his lips feathered against her ear. “I know you are cautious of disappointing your father.”

She shivered. “He is not merciful.”

“What can he do?”

“I've seen him turn men into goats.”

Bron cocked an eyebrow. “I'm a dragon. I'd roast him first.”

Her blue eyes went wide. Humor and Valkyries didn't always go together.

“Of course,” Bron went on, “with the fire-breathing and all, I might just turn into roast lamb. Or souvlaki. How would you like me with yogurt sauce?”

“You are mad,” she concluded.

“But powerful and dashing.”

“You are strong,” she conceded. “I like that. Few can match me with a sword.”

“I am a warrior,” he said slyly. “I'm good with quite a few weapons.”

“Let me test that.” She reached up, as if to stroke his face, and a moment later Bron found himself falling to the nest of blankets. Surprise hit him almost as hard as the floor.

Tyra landed on top of him, straddling his body. “I'm stronger than I look.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Not many dragons could do that, much less a female.”

Wildness lit her expression. “I had the advantage of surprise.”

Two could play at that. He flipped her, using his bulk to pin her beneath him. Then he lowered his mouth to the delicate arch of her throat, nipping gently. Dragons were beasts like wolves or cats, and that part of his nature craved submission. The man in him simply reveled in the fragrant, pale skin that showed at the edges of her garments. Her flesh glowed in the dawn light, looking every bit as unearthly as it was—snow and gold in the derelict ruin of the tower.

Her eyes grew dark with anticipation. Without the need for words, he helped her shed her tunic. She wore nothing beneath, not even a scar from her wound. He cupped her breasts, feeling the nipples harden at his touch. As he kissed her, she seemed to unfurl, as if something tightly held was being revealed. Her arms wound around his neck, her muscles suddenly supple beneath his hands.

The tension left him as well. He rolled so that she was on top, letting her settle into a position that gave him full view of her exquisite form. The low angle of the light caressed her with an artist's sensitivity, showing the leanness of her flanks and the gentle curve of her breasts. She bowed over him, cloaking them both in the curtain of her hair, and slowly sheathed herself over him. His senses were engulfed with the hot, wet feel of her. He could feel reason shutting down, as if the lights in his brain were being flicked off one by one. Only the primal dragon remained, and it knew what it wanted.

With slow deliberation, she rocked forward. Bron thought he would combust right there. Then she tightened, putting her muscular form to work, and he was certain he would die. For someone long denied the mysteries of the bedchamber, Tyra was a quick study.

He joined her in the next move, thrusting to meet her. She made a throaty noise that stoked the fire inside him. The need to give his mate pleasure trumped all else. He grasped her waist, feeling muscle and satin skin, and went deeper and deeper until she screamed her satisfaction.

* * *

After they had both spent their pleasure and lay slicked with sweat and panting, Bron drifted on a cushion of exhausted delight. Tyra slept in his arms, the cloud of her hair the shade of sunlight. It was like holding light itself in his arms. He lowered his lips to her throat once more, kissing softly.

Blinking sleepily, Tyra turned in his arms. “Were there no she-dragons to dominate, back in your mountains?”

It was not Bron's favorite subject. “There was a queen, and she was not a good one. Many of us left.”

“And that is all you will say?”

He traced her cheek with his thumb. “I prefer to make new memories. Good ones.”

A crease formed between Tyra's pale brows. “How was your queen bad? I can't imagine anyone letting you slip away.”

Memories flashed by. Imprisonment inside the mountain. Isolation. Punishment. Until the rebellion, most of the dragons had never had the chance to fly, have a family or call their will their own. He understood Tyra's situation far better than she knew. “We were worth nothing to her.”

Tyra grasped his hand. It was gentle, but he could feel the strength in her fingers. “You are everything to me. Make new memories with me.”

“We are. Right now.”

“Every day. Promise me that.”

Bron smiled at her urgency. The more Tyra embraced her feelings, the more impatient she became. “Always.”

“Always,” she whispered, nestling her head against his shoulder. “You asked what I need in a home. This is it. Everything else is just curtains.”

* * *

She could feel her words touch Bron as surely as if they had been drops of rain, or the stroking of her fingers. He made a deep grunt of pleasure, curling himself around her to nuzzle in the curve of her shoulder. His body was a furnace in the chill air of the room, the muscles of his arms and chest tensing as he propped himself on one arm to get a better angle. The sight ignited a response deep in her body. They shared a warrior's awareness of sinew and bone, and she had learned his form instinctively, enjoying his every move for its simple, perfect strength.

And he was tireless. The hard ridge of his erection pressed into her belly, signaling that he was ready for more. Tyra allowed herself a catlike stretch, teasing him with the display, undulating beneath him so that his hard sex felt the brush of her skin. He caught his breath and arched over her, the pads of his chest bunching as he lowered himself close, but not quite touching. Tyra went still.

Everything about Bron was distracting, but the look in his amber eyes transfixed her. At moments like this, he was unfamiliar, as if someone—something—ancient and predatory met her gaze. It burned with a hunger older than humans and as mysterious as the caverns deep beneath the wild mountains. An electric shiver passed through her—anticipation laced with a touch of fear. Bron was kind and funny and wise, but he
was
a dragon. And just as a hearth fire could warm, it could also destroy.

Tyra was ready for that risk, was hot and wet for it. She pulled him to her, her kiss loosening his knotted muscles until he subsided, heavy and needy against her. This ability to draw him to her was a new kind of power. She was just discovering it, and learning how it also meshed her in its web. His response fed hers until their bodies fit together with powerful familiarity. She worked beneath him, feeling his desire grow and harden even more.

How Tyra wanted him! Bron had broken her father's spell, given her back to herself in an explosion of raw emotion. There was no room for secrets with the man who had awakened her soul. She was naked before him, but this was exactly where she wanted to be. He knew her—not just the warrior or the daughter or the woman, but all three and more. Whatever she was, he wanted her with greed such as only dragons possessed. And she wanted to crawl into his strength, clothe herself in his essence, dragon and man.

Bron's mouth found her breast, circling, sucking and flicking his tongue. Thoughts crumbled, leaving only sensation amid the ruin of her focus. Instinct alone guided her hands as she grabbed his thick shaft, stroking him until the tip wept warm against her palm.

His head came up, leaving her nipple wet and aching. His gaze went dark, the lines of his face rigid with intent. “Be careful how thoroughly you rouse the beast.” His voice came from deep inside him, as if an earthquake spoke.

But Tyra felt herself smile. Yes, a dragon was a daunting thing, but she was Valkyrie. “A sleepy beast is of no use to me.”

Bron's eyes flared with amber fire. He reared up, lifting her as easily as he might a toy, and turned her so that she landed on hands and knees. The speed with which he did it stole her breath. Her head spun and her hands clutched at the blankets beneath her to regain her balance.

But she barely had an instant to think. Bron pushed into her from behind, the thick head of his shaft entering her with all the hard strength of a warrior's spear. A cry tore from her throat, ending on a moan of surrender. Almost of its own accord, her body shifted to take more of him in, but every movement only increased her restless feeling of fullness. His huge hands gripped her waist to hold her still as his hips thrust, plunging his sex impossibly deeper. His heat filled her, taking over every vein, every nerve.

Tyra's consciousness shrank until there was nothing but Bron and her body's response to his conquest. She squeezed her eyes shut, leaving only sound and scent and touch. He withdrew and plunged again, the slide of flesh on flesh the only sound besides their ragged breathing and the rain. Tyra writhed against the slick, stretching, shivering sensation of him. She bit her lip, tasting hot blood as she braced for another thrust. Her hands slipped against the blankets, crushing the wool. Her breasts were on fire, as if red-hot rivers of need scorched upward from her belly.

“Please,” she begged. “Please.”

Bron did not reply, but one hand moved to the nape of her neck, holding tight as the rhythm of his hips quickened. The rivers of heat flaming through her swelled to a flood, drowning her in mindless desire. Tyra began to gasp with each thrust as if she could never catch her breath, and then the sounds bled together in one long wail of wanting. She felt her reason begin to fracture as she wavered on the edge of dissolution.