Rurik Page 5

  Dimitri Drakor stood by the black SUV outside Rurik Barinov’s apartment building.

  “Found yourself a new toy, eh Rurik?” he murmured as he watched the dragon shifter pull a female onto the back of his motorcycle. The woman glanced at him, and for a moment Dimitri had the unnerving feeling that she could see right through him. But he merely inclined his head as she turned from him and gripped Rurik’s waist. He was far enough away that she couldn’t get a good look at him anyway.

  “Far plainer than the last one,” he muttered, thinking of the previous woman Rurik had taken under his protection, for all the good that had done her.

  Dimitri pulled out a cigarette as he watched the taillights of the motorcycle vanish into the night, trying to keep the memories at bay. But he could never forget the night that had changed everything: the night his son had killed Rurik’s possible mate and Rurik had murdered him for it. He had been proud of Ruslan for making a bold move like that, but he hadn’t done it in the right way.

  Killing a dragon’s mate took away a dragon’s will to live. None could survive that. But they hadn’t yet mated, and instead of glory, Ruslan had forced his own father into battle with the Barinovs—and that had ended far worse than Dimitri could have ever predicted. Now his entire family was dead, slaughtered before his eyes.

  But he was still alive, and the need for vengeance burned inside him.

  I will not make the same mistake again.

  Rurik was the Barinov battle dragon, the fiercest and most dangerous of the family. The other two Barinovs would not go to war, not now that they were mated. If it came down to it, they would flee with their mates to protect them.

  But Rurik was still here, the last obstacle that kept Dimitri from taking control of Russia. His family had once controlled the east before the Barinovs had killed all but him. He deserved to rule all of the country. He was stronger and older. A better dragon than the softhearted Barinovs.

  He watched and made sure Rurik was long gone before he pulled out his cell phone.

  A man with a Brazilian accent answered. “Hello?”

  “Luis, he is headed your way. His motorcycle is marked with a GPS. I will send you the coordinates when he stops.”

  “My men will take him out,” was the curt reply.

  “Our deal doesn’t come into effect until he is dead.”

  The other dragon hissed. “We will kill him. And then the Moscow drug trade is ours alone.”

  “Of course.” It was an easy concession to make. Dimitri had no interest in the drug trade. Luis was a Brazilian Starback shifter, and his little overseas empire was welcome to do what they wanted once the Barinovs were eliminated or neutralized.

  His only concern was that the hotheaded Starbacks might draw the attention of the Brotherhood if they weren’t careful. He’d faced the Brotherhood before, many centuries ago. He’d witnessed them slay dragons in Europe with cunning traps and deadly weapons. Even though they’d possessed the talents and intelligence of cavemen, the Middle Ages had somehow given these human mortals an unfair advantage. But today the Brotherhood was limited in their ability to fight the preternatural unless it was absolutely necessary. They were more concerned with preventing humankind from knowing that monsters did exist. But times changed, and if the Brotherhood should turn their eye toward his kind again, he wanted to be ready for them.

  Dimitri would not let another slaughter of dragons occur, not again. Once he was in control and had a strong alliance with the Starbacks, he would extend his connections to the Chinese serpents next. When the dragons stood united, they could defeat the Brotherhood and truly take over. They would put the humans in their place, beneath the clawed feet of their betters.

  But in order for that to happen, Rurik had to die.

  4

  Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid of anything. Whatever you have been, you are mine now. I can hold you. ―Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

  Tonight was a fucking disaster.

  Rurik’s dragon growled in agreement inside his head. He revved his engine as he drove through the streets of Moscow, trying not to think about how good it felt to have Charlotte’s legs wrapped around his hips. He was supposed to have been busy handling the account books tonight, not getting distracted by a shapely blonde in a killer red dress.

  He’d seen her being bothered by those fools, and he knew he had to intervene. But there was more to it than that. There was something about her that he and his dragon couldn’t resist. She’d almost seemed to glow when he’d first seen her in his club. And her scent…God, he could have inhaled it for days and never gotten tired of it. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn she was a dragoness. But that wasn’t possible. She lacked any of the telltale signs of being a shifter.

  When she’d been threatened, his dragon had almost lost control. One thing he didn’t allow in his club was women being harassed, especially those he was attracted to. His dragon had wanted to rip those bastards limb from limb when he’d caught the scent of the woman’s fear in the air. That was one of the reasons he knew she could not be a dragoness. Yet the moment he drew near her, he realized his intervention had been dangerous. Her mouthwatering scent was somehow addictive, like a drug pumping through his veins, and there was something more about her…

  A virgin. In his club. A curvy, untouched female of childbearing age. He’d only been around one of those once before, when he’d met his brother Grigori’s future mate, Madelyn. The scent then had been unmistakable, almost irresistible. But this woman? It had been impossible to walk away from her. He finally understood what Grigori had told him about the temptations of virgins. Rurik hadn’t wanted to believe his brother’s warnings, but there was no denying it now.

  This new obsession couldn’t have come at a worse time. He couldn’t afford such distractions, not when his family was so fragile. The Barinovs once had great allies, but over the years the noble dragon families had begun to diminish, until all that were left were the power-hungry lines like the Drakors.

  I’m the only one strong enough to protect my family, because I’m not foolish enough to fall in love.

  The uneasy peace Grigori had made with Dimitri Drakor after their battle three months ago did not fool Rurik. Nothing would hold Drakor to his word now. He had nothing to lose, and Drakor would do anything to destroy the Barinovs. That made Rurik’s dragon pace restlessly inside his head. Danger was always on the horizon. It had already cost him dearly.

  Nikita. The Frenchwoman who’d worked in his bar for two years, a possible mate.

  Her lifeless eyes flashed across his mind, and he gripped the handlebars of his motorcycle tighter. Don’t think of her. Don’t relive that pain.

  Rurik hadn’t allowed himself to claim her as his mate, but his heart and his dragon recognized the loss of what could’ve been. He had no intention of dying young from the loss of a true mate.

  And I have no intention of letting Charlotte test my control.

  He had to take Charlotte home and walk away from her, no matter how irresistible she was. There was something too tempting about her, and it wasn’t just her body that called him. During dinner he’d become addicted to her laughter and her shy smiles, but when she’d danced for him in the cage, he’d almost come undone. She was different from all the other women, even Nikita. He’d come so close to losing control again and again with Charlotte. She made him feel like an untried youth courting his first female. He hadn’t been that reckless or desperate with lust in centuries.

  It continued to rain as they rode to her hotel near Red Square. Charlotte clung to him from behind, and he could feel the shivers racking her body. She had to be soaked to the bone. He parked near the hotel entrance and waited for a crowd of people on the sidewalk to clear. Then he helped Charlotte off his bike and set the helmet on his seat. A valet appeared and took the bike away.

  “You’re coming inside?” Charlotte asked. The lower half of her hair was drenched and hung in dark gold strands. For a moment, he was
lost imagining curling that liquid gold around his fingers. With a shake, he pulled himself away from the daydream and the dangerous path it could lead.

  “I’m taking you right to your door. I told you the city isn’t safe, even in a nice hotel like this.”

  He checked the street, out of habit rather than actual suspicion, and saw a black sedan coming from the same direction they had come. Could be nothing; black sedans were ubiquitous in Russia. It pulled up close to the valet booth. Rurik guided Charlotte away from the street in case it splashed water onto her. The window of the car rolled down, perhaps to hand the key to the valet.

  Instead, the lights of the hotel glinted off the barrel of a silencer.

  Rurik’s instincts, honed by centuries of combat, subterfuge, and betrayal, came roaring back to life. He grabbed Charlotte and threw her to the ground, covering her body with his. The hotel’s lobby window exploded behind them. He grunted as a bullet tore into his back, another hit his shoulder, and a third hit his thigh.

  All around them, glass tinkled to the ground in diamond-like shards, the light from the chandeliers inside reflected in dazzling sparkles over the broken field of glass. Sounds rushed around him, the jumble too chaotic for him to process. He focused on breathing, his blood pounding in his ears. A dragon, once engaged, focused on sight and movement, not sound.

  He gasped at the sharp stab of pain from the bullets, but he stayed down. All around him people were screaming and trying to hide. He looked over his shoulder, squinting as he tried to see the black sedan, but it was too late. Tires squealed as he watched the car speed off into the night. He was in no shape to pursue.

  The bullets had to be iron—he could tell from the way they burned inside him. And the fact that the silenced bullets had been subsonic meant they were also lodged in him, instead of passing through. His body fought to seal the wounds, trying to keep his blood from spilling out, but the iron made that difficult, and if they were left inside him too long, it could poison him.

  For a long moment, he lay on top of Charlotte, sucking air into his lungs in great gulps as his body tried to adjust to the adrenaline. His dragon was clawing at his insides, wanting to come out and defend itself, but he had to stay calm, keep his other half locked down. If he transformed now, not only would it make the news, but it would draw the Brotherhood down on his family’s head. And the iron bullets would only cause more damage to him as he changed from one form to another.

  Iron bullets—that was no coincidence. Most bullets were made of lead. This was deliberate. The list of possible suspects dropped to just a few names, and one of them was right at the top.

  “Rurik! Are you okay?” Charlotte gasped as she sat up, holding on to him, keeping him up rather than dragging him down.

  “I’m fine,” he hissed. “Need to get inside… Can’t be seen.” He tried to stand. She curled an arm around his waist and slung her purse around her free shoulder.

  “Come on. I’ll take you to my room.”

  “Hurry.” They hobbled into the lobby, which was a scene of chaos. People were shouting on their phones and rushing outside to see if anyone else was injured. Several security guards bellowed into their walkie-talkies and gathered uninjured guests together in small groups. There didn’t seem to be any other casualties, for which Rurik was thankful.

  He had to get out of sight. If his face showed up on the news, that would risk exposure.

  Grigori was the master at changing his hair color every ten years to show signs of aging, before eventually transferring the family’s company to a “son” who looked just like him. But Rurik refused to do that. Instead, he sold his club after five or ten years and opened a new one elsewhere, rotating between his favorite locations. Clubs were fickle things, and the routine fit naturally with their natural life cycles.

  Charlotte took him to the elevators and punched in her floor. They waited, panting together until an elevator opened up. Thankfully, it was empty. Once inside, she tried to get a better look at his wounds, but he shied away.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” she said. “I need to see how bad they are.”

  He growled. “I’m not a baby. I was shot—of course they’re bad.” He finished this last in a childish mutter, but then when he saw her face turn ashen he sighed.

  “They can’t be that bad, or you’d be bleeding all over the floor.”

  “My jacket is lined with ballistic nylon” Rurik said, which was true, but that was meant for bike accidents, not bullets. “Still, it hurts like hell, and I don’t want you touching them.” He also didn’t want her to worry or have any reason to doubt his strength.

  “We’ll still have to get a look at them once we’re in my room.”

  When they stopped at her floor, she offered to help him to her door, but he shrugged off her arm and stumbled there on his own while she found her keycard. The damn bullets were making his skin burn—definitely iron. His dragon wanted out of his skin so he could heal faster, but he couldn’t transform in the city. And he couldn’t transform with the iron still inside him, because that would only make things worse.

  Her room was small and had only one bed. He started toward it, but she caught his arm and steered him to the bathroom.

  “Strip,” she ordered.

  “Didn’t know all it took was being shot to make you want me naked.” His pained chuckle did not earn him a smile. He peeled off his jacket and then his shirt. He glanced over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror and winced at the sight of three bullet holes, one in his lower back, one on his left shoulder blade, and a third in the back of his thigh. Blood still trickled down, but very little, all things considered. He was lucky. He would have to get the bullets out before the wounds could heal with them inside. That could be fatal.

  “Fuck,” he muttered again. He unzipped his jeans and dropped them to the floor.

  “What—” Charlotte began until he angled his leg and showed her the wound in the back of his thigh.

  “It’s… I thought it would be worse. But still, we should get you to a hospital.” She held a first-aid kit in her hands, her face pale as alabaster.

  “Trust me. I will be fine as long as you can be brave and dig the bullets out.”

  Charlotte gulped audibly. “Dig them out?”

  With a few hobbling steps toward her, he took the first-aid kit from her and tossed it onto the sink counter. From his jacket he pulled out a Leatherman multitool that unfolded into a set of pliers, which also held various knives, screwdrivers, and even a small ratchet. Useful for most bikers, but not exactly meant for surgery. It would have to do.

  “The bullets didn’t go deep. Here.” He handed her the Leatherman and braced himself against the sink, head lowered.

  Charlotte shook as she came up behind him. She rubbed alcohol swabs on the wounds on his back, and he uttered a string of Russian curses that would have made his father box his ears had the old dragon been alive to hear it.

  “Sorry!” She dabbed at the wound on his lower back. “Okay, here goes.” He felt the pliers dig into him as she searched for the bullet. His vision tunneled, and he rested his head on his forearms and closed his eyes.

  “You’re right, I feel it! Just below the surface. Hang on!” The pressure of the pliers burned as she pulled the first bullet out. She dropped it into the porcelain sink next to him with a little clink. Then she applied more alcohol to the wound. The dragon inside him roared at the sudden flair of fresh pain, but he didn’t let a sound escape his lips.

  “You want me to bandage it?” she asked.

  “No, it will heal fast,” he assured her. It was true. With the iron out, the wound was already clotting and knitting back together. A human would have required more serious medical attention. Thankfully, Charlotte was not a doctor; otherwise, she would have had some uncomfortable questions.

  She moved on to the bullet lodged in his shoulder. It must have lodged in his bone, because he could feel the pliers scrape as she found it. He bit his lip as she removed that
bullet. It joined the first in the sink. Then she knelt behind him and dug into his thigh. That hurt more than his back, because the muscles had more sinew. Hot blood trickled down his leg onto the floor.

  “Got it!” She stood and dropped the third bullet next to the other two. Rurik lifted his head and met her gaze in the bathroom mirror. She looked so young and vulnerable, her hair still soaked, her dress damp and makeup smeared. Her trembling hands held the bloody multitool.

  God, he was a damned fool. She was human, and she’d been shot at. His little rose was delicate, after all. She wasn’t a fierce dragoness used to wounds and bloodshed, yet she was being damned brave right now, and his chest filled with a swell of pride. Her lashes fluttered as she stared up at him.

  “Wow… I really thought there’d be more blood. Guess none of them hit any major arteries. Lucky you. Are you going to be okay?” she asked, biting her bottom lip.

  He managed a nod. “I’ll be fine. It’s not the first time I’ve been…hurt.” He reached up instinctively to trace the scar that marred his cheek and forehead, a gift from a battle long ago. It had been a serious wound—it would have to be to leave such a mark—and he had been fortunate to survive it.

  “You need to get out of that wet dress.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “You’ll freeze, little rose.” He turned her around so that her back was to him and without asking unzipped her dress. She peered over her shoulder at him, so incredibly shy, clearly torn between objecting to and encouraging his behavior. The sexy minx from earlier tonight was gone. Now he was facing a fragile creature who needed his protection, even if she didn’t realize it.