Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(61)
Jordan exhaled, like half of her was fighting it, while the other half was being drawn into the glow.
“That’s it, angel,” he rasped, releasing her hand so he could stroke her side, massage her shoulders, and then her neck. “Relax, baby. I’m right here.”
He smelled—or sensed—more than he saw, the single tear welling out of her eye and trailing down her cheek, and his heart surged with compassion. What must this be like for her? To feel the truth in his words? To know the connection in her soul? To get, on a level that was far from conscious, the fact that her life was tethered to his—that he was, in fact, the other half of her soul—her greatest need? Yet to have her mind reject it, to have her body rebel…to be torn in such opposite directions?
“Let go, dragyra of mine.” He spoke the words in Dragonese, allowing the lyrical, ancient language to wash over her like a cooling wave. “Give yourself up to the truth in your heart. Free your mind from your human restraints. Come home. Be home. Know that you are home.”
He knew she didn’t understand a word he was saying, at least not with her ears, but she was listening acutely, and something else was happening: Her body temperature was rising, and her heartbeat was slowing. Whether she understood it or not, it was the beginning of an offering: her human body offering its essence and heat to Zane’s dragon, preparing itself to connect through the intimate act of feeding.
His fangs began to throb in his mouth, and he consciously overrode the impulse—buried the desire deep inside. Now was not the time, or the place—she didn’t even know what she was doing—but his soul took solace in the physical reaction, and his inner dragon stirred, even as his amulet began to softly glow.
“That’s it, dragyra mea—dragyra of mine,” he continued to soothe her in Dragonese. “You are safe within my care.”
As the dragon moon shone through the sparkling windows of the Sapphire Lair, casting a brilliant shadow over Zane—and Jordan’s—bed, and the cool night air swept through the room on a gentle breeze, Zanaikeyros Saphyrius continued to speak to Jordan in his native, primordial tongue: He told her about his childhood; he told her about his precarious life; and he told her how long he had waited…for her.
Until at last, the woman in his arms, who was listening so raptly, fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-four
Tuesday ~ 9:45 AM
Dan Summers clutched the unopened letter in his hand so tightly that his knuckles turned white as he exited through the back door of Judge Stanley’s chambers, division B-9, and headed down the hall toward the courtroom plaza’s elevators.
It took every ounce of self-control he had ever possessed—and a host of reserve he did not—to restrain the impulse to turn in the opposite direction, head down the hall to the main courtroom door, and march straight to the prosecutor’s table: to walk straight up to Jordan and confront her.
What in the name of heaven was going on!
First, Jordan had sent him an email, late Friday night, telling him about some creepy perpetrator who had confronted her in the Two Forks Mall garage, letting him know that she had given the freak Dan’s address. Fine, it hadn’t amounted to anything—at least not with Jordan—but a two-bit gangster had been murdered in that same garage, on that same night, under some very questionable—and gruesome—circumstances.
Still, Dan had kept his distance.
He had not contacted Jordan…
Not even when his friend at dispatch had told him Saturday morning about another late-night call that had come in on Friday night: a possible domestic disturbance at Jordan’s freakin’ address!
Once again, the incident was cancelled, and he’d let it go.
But then, she had sent him the most cryptic, disturbing text he had ever received on Monday, telling him about this even more bizarre letter: I need your help…go to Judge Stanley’s office and pick up a letter from his clerk. Do not try to contact me…etc., etc.
What. The. Devil. Was. Going. On.
Just what kind of trouble had Jordan gotten into?
This was Jordan Anderson: stubborn, brave, one hundred percent independent, Jordan Anderson, the woman who had told him she never wanted to see him again, and no, they could not be friends. Other than when their paths crossed at work—which was seldom, as he worked on a different floor, primarily litigating appeals—he was supposed to look the other way, pass any necessary messages through clerks, and deal directly with one of her team members on the rare occasion that they were working a related case.
He had done all of that.
Even when it was inconvenient…
Now, as Dan stepped into the elevator and tapped the button to Level One—pressing it way too hard, at least three or four times—he was still surprised that Jordan had reached out to him…and in such a mysterious way. He stared at the standard white envelope still clutched in his hand, and appraised the cursive characters in his name, Jordan’s familiar handwriting: Were the letters different, did they betray distress, had she written it under duress? “Screw it,” he bit out beneath his breath as he tore the envelope open. He wasn’t a blasted handwriting expert. And he couldn’t wait to find out.
He yanked the letter out of the envelope and summarily began to read…
Dear Dan…
His eyes moved from line to line with a fury, sometimes backtracking to retrace the last word or to reread the last sentence. His heart began to slam in his chest, and his palms began to sweat as he continued to fly through the disturbing paragraphs.