Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(58)
She shivered, and in that instant, Zane knew that his words had struck a chord. She was hearing him now—listening—turning the meaning of his declarations over in her head. She was seeing him as the warrior he was, and gods be merciful, just perhaps, she was seeing him as a male.
His gaze dropped down to her mouth, to the soft, full lips that were still shivering, ever so slightly, with angst; and he knew he had to seize this moment.
The timing was wrong, the impulse was wild and erratic, and Jordan was anything but…ready. Yet and still, she was standing there, so close to his heart, so vulnerable, exposed, and raw. His dragon could do no less than try to comfort her. Try to show her. Reach to slowly…carefully…claim her.
He bent his head, so slowly that it almost seemed like an illusion, and then he breathed her name as his lips found hers and met them with a seal: soft, pliant, gentle as a lamb. He slowly drew her in, coaxing with tenderness, entreating with kindness, inviting with a wisp of smoke and fire.
She froze, refusing to kiss him back, but declining to push him away, and that’s when he deepened the kiss, taunting her mouth with his tongue…then his teeth: just a gentle nudge, a casual swipe, a barely discernable nip.
Her mouth opened, and she kissed him back: not thinking, not resisting, not fighting for position. Just being in the moment with him.
Zane led her beyond the waterfall, beyond her fear, beyond her fragile caution, deep into the pleasure of a dragyri’s passion—letting her taste the fire on his tongue—and then he pulled back, slowly—oh, so carefully—allowing the moment to linger.
There were times when words were inadequate, and this was one of those moments.
There was no need to think it, turn it over in their heads, analyze some far-reaching meaning. There was only the lingering sensation of their sweet exchange and the beginnings of a deeper connection.
Thank you, my dragyra, he spoke inside her mind, and then he rested his forehead against hers, and the two of them embraced the inner stillness, inside the underbelly of the churning falls, together.
f
Salem Thorne backed deeper into the crevice of the damp, cavernous ledge as Zane and Jordan kissed. Well, he thought, with more than just a little disgust, that was not how he would have handled it.
Helpless maiden…
Captured, and alone…
There was nothing she could do, and nowhere she could go…
Shit, she’d be on her back, lying in the dirt, and her thighs would be wrapped around his hips, whether she wanted them there or not—to hell with whether she ever came around or got over it.
He thought about the stupid, dramatic scene that had preceded the short episode of intimacy, and he snickered. The dumb wench had actually thrown herself over the falls, ready to take a long, dangerous plunge to her death, and Zane had come to her rescue, like some sort of reptilian, comic-book superhero.
Wasn’t that just quaint.
It had taken every ounce of self-control that Salem possessed not to shift into demon form and ambush them both when they returned to the ledge. He most certainly would have had the advantage of surprise.
But—and this was a point he would do well not to forget—he was traveling in the elusive Dragons Domain now, and Zane was one telepathic shout, one clairvoyant broadcast, away from seven formidable lairs inhabited by dozens of savage Dragyr. Salem could not elude them, outlast them, or best them in a battle, not in their own terrain.
Not as one against so many.
No, he had to play it smart.
Choose his enemy—choose his war—and strike when the iron was hot.
So far, he had made no mistakes: He had crawled out of Jordan’s purse the moment they’d arrived through the portal, hidden behind a nearby rock, and waited to watch…and follow.
At a very intelligent—and safe—distance.
He had not made any noise, and he had not caused a commotion. He had no intentions of being stupid, or suicidal. And as he’d ticked off his options, one by one—how to make the most of this fortuitous situation—a few things had become immediately clear: No matter how long he hid, in waiting, in the back of a sacred lair, he would not be able to take a dragyri out—he would not get a clean shot at a Genesis Son.
He would not get his demonic claws on Zane.
Everything in this cursed realm was so obviously interconnected: The sounds were interwoven with the sights—waves of visible energy danced through a braided tapestry, all matter waltzing as one—and even the oxygen dovetailed with the geography, everything pulsing in sync.
In perfect harmony.
Hells glorious minions, even the silence was a symphony of sorts—a dozen particles of electromagnetic energy all projecting their intrinsic, quantum thoughts, like a community of ESP: One dark, disharmonious vibration from him, and the entire Garden of Eden might ignite.
It was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen.
And without knowing how he knew, he was absolutely certain that everything—absolutely all of it—emanated from the Temple of Seven. So yeah, that was the last thing he intended to do: broadcast his presence to seven dragon gods who could take him out with a wink and a nod.
If Salem Thorne hoped to remain undetected, he had to watch his P’s and Q’s very, very carefully. His immediate efforts would be better spent recording his various impressions, taking some mental images, and broadcasting all of it back to the Pagan Underworld, sharing it with Lord Drakkar.