Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(17)

What the hell?

He looked down at his attire, presumably following her gaze, and jacked up one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah…it’s…it’s been a long night.”

Jordan shook her head in disbelief and absently raised a hand to her own mouth to point at her teeth. “Your…your…teeth.”

He shut his eyes, and his fangs slowly retracted.

She recoiled, wishing she could step right through the door, out into the hall, and into the next, neighboring country. “What are you?” she whispered, warily.

He didn’t hesitate. “I already told you.”

She furrowed her brow. What? He’d already told her? And then it all came back: I am Zanaikeyros Saphyrius, but my brothers call me Zane. I am the son of a dragon, consecrated to the lair of Sapphire, born to the sacred pantheon; and you are my dragyra, my fated. Mine. And I am doing this because I must. And you must.

She wet her lips and tried to focus. “Zane,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he grumbled.

“You’re a…dragon.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

“No,” he corrected her, that deep, otherworldly legato evoking a fearful quiver. “The son of a dragon, a member of the Dragyr race…I am a dragyri.”

She nodded, feeling all at once light-headed. “Right. And I’m…you think I’m a…dra-gyr-a, like…a daughter of a dragon?” Her tone betrayed her distress.

He chuckled then, the sound emerging from deep in his throat, as if any part of this was funny. Crazy? Yes? Psychotic, delusional, and positively terrifying? Absolutely. But funny? Not so much. “You are not a dragon,” he drawled, way too slowly, reaching up to stroke her jaw with his thumb. “You are human enough.” And then he withdrew his hand and locked his sapphire gaze with hers. “What you are…is mine.”

Jordan wet her lips again. At this point, it was a nervous tic. She opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and closed it. What in the world could she say to that? This man, if he was a man, was clearly insane. Yes, he had set her attacker on fire—that sounded like something a dragon—a son of a dragon—might do. And yes, he seemed to have claws and fangs and supernatural powers, but…but…

The walls were shifting position.

“Jordan?” His deep, melodic cadenced strummed against her thoughts, much like a pair of satin knuckles rapping on a door. Hello? Is anyone home?

“Can I go now?” she asked, feeling like it was the only truly relevant question.

“No, angel.” He shook his head.

“Why not?” She thought it sounded stupid; but really, they were a bit beyond that.

“The police will be here soon. I need to clean the apartment, deal with the humans, and you—you need to be made to understand.”

It wasn’t exactly a threat.

He hadn’t said: You need to die; you need to be made to submit…or obey; or turned into a charcoal briquette. But just the same, it was the last straw: Of course, he needed to clean the apartment, deal with the police, and probably take a shower, considering all the blood and gore. And she needed to…understand…something way beyond her purview.

She nodded. “May I get a glass of water?” Again, another really stupid question, but honestly, at this point, there was a deep, thickening fog surrounding her brain—everything was drifting into the ether, becoming less and less real, more and more hollow. The apartment, his voice, everything that had happened was simply…drifting away…disappearing behind an irrational fog of cerebral self-protection.

Why not ask for a glass of water?

He rotated a powerful shoulder, angling it slightly to the side as if offering her a safe, unobstructed lane from which to make her exit, and she took two hesitant steps toward the kitchen, ducking around his body.

And that’s when she hit the floor.

Jordan Anderson had never passed out before—not once in her twenty-seven years of life—but apparently, there was a first time for everything.





Chapter Eight

Zanaikeyros caught Jordan just before she hit the carpet, grimacing at his horrible—and wonderful—luck. Horrible, because what a way to reacquaint himself with his dragyra, while executing her attacker. And wonderful, because dragon lords protect them all, if he had been just five minutes later, the human excrement would have raped Zane’s woman; and Zane would have been utterly incapable of restraining his beast, the inner spark, the primordial furnace linked to Lord Saphyrius that burned like molten sapphire. He may very well have scorched every living thing within a ten-mile radius, and wouldn’t have that just made the news: Crazed serial killer tosses woman over his shoulder and terrorizes the Skyline Mosaic subdivision, leaving a trail of gorged and bloodied bodies in his wake.

Not to mention, the dragon lords would have shown no mercy had the deviant human killed her, had Zane failed to protect his fated.

They would not have let Zane off the hook.

Now, hefting her up in his arms, he made his way to the light beige sofa, where he gently laid her down, healed her head wound with a cooling exhale of blue fire, and placed her head on a soft, square pillow. He was just about to check her vitals, assess her pulse, and measure her breath when he heard a brisk knock on the door.

“Police! Open up!”

Oh, great.