Chapter 4 - A Thief in the Dark

MARCUS CAMERON WATCHED the dragon-shifter stagger to a hedge of blackthorns and relieve himself.

Much to his chagrin, it had taken him nearly six months to track down the bastard; the weasel far slipperier than he'd first believed. After countless leads and dead ends, he finally tracked the male to the pub just outside of Northumbria, in a small village along the border of Newcastle. The male had arrived an hour earlier with a group of drakes, the rowdy bunch wreaking marvelous havoc upon the pub and its patrons. Many of the group left, staggering to their vehicles; only a couple remained.

Marcus recoiled, his stomach rebelling at the overpowering stench of spirits clinging to the male like a second skin. It was late summer, the night heavy with humidity. A breeze from the south ruffled his hair, carrying with it the promise of rain, a reprise of the earlier storms.

His eyes never leaving his quarry, he reached into this coat and removed the revolver. It fit perfectly into his palm. For a moment, he shifted it in his hand, testing the weight of it before checking the cartridge; the iridescent blue of the tranqs shimmered up at him, casting the harsh planes of his face in shadow.

Below, the drunk began a mumbled ditty about a lass named Bessy.

Under the veil of night, Marcus leapt silently from his perch among the surrounding oaks and crept upon his unwitting prey.

"'O, me lovely lass named Bessy—whose breasts were large an' 'eavy. Her hair was black, her eyes a-blue, her down as soft as honeydew—'" The male jerked at the force of the shot. His brows furrowed, a confused, almost childlike glaze to his eyes, before he tipped over, unconscious.

Marcus stepped out from the shadows, his eyes aglow with his inner drake. Smoke swirled up from the nozzle, the second tranq in the chamber. Slowly, he raked his gaze over his surroundings. The night remained tranquil despite the rowdy crowd in the pub. He sniffed at the air, looking for the subtle scent of ash that was so common with his kind.

Nothing.

With a sigh, he returned his revolver to the holster on his hip and turned back to the male. Grasping the shifter's foot, he dragged him to his SUV on the outer edges of the parking lot and tossed him inside.

Wordlessly, he climbed in and started the engine. Seated in the passenger seat, his second-in-command Ciaran glanced to the unconscious male, his brow cocked, before he returned his emerald gaze back to Marcus. "Are you certain he's the one?"

His beast growled its reply in its head, flexing its claws at the retribution to come. He half-turned to the drunk upon the backseat, drool dripping from his mouth onto the leather.

For a moment, Marcus was transported to six months earlier. As the newly adorned leader of Clan Skyeloch, it had been his duty to create allies and strengthen bonds between the neighboring clans. At the time in which he had arrived at Clan Blackstone, the clan's leader, Graham Gillibrand, was attempting to woo his human mate. Marcus knew, as well as the Blackstone leader, that a dragon's mate—a true mate—was a gift not so easily come upon, a treasure to be cherished. However, as great as the treasure was, mates were also to be protected above all others, for they were a dragon's greatest weakness. Mates were the missing link, the very essence of a dragon's soul. Without their mates, dragons would wither into themselves until only a hollow shell remained.

That had been the rogues' intent when they had stolen away into the Blackstone Clan. Unfortunately, Graham's mate had a sister. Like thieves in the night, they had taken her and five others—three dragons and two other humans—to an underground facility once run by a group of Slayers.

Marcus' dragon stirred inside him, the great beast pacing. His eyes flashed to slits, his nails extending to claws. Gripping the steering wheel in a vice-like hold, he calmed his beast.

Six people the rogues had captured, four males and two females, all of various ages; the youngest they had taken had been eight. On the night of the rescue, two of the five rogues had been slain, one by Marcus' hand. To his sorrow, only five of the captives had survived; the only casualty, a female dragon-shifter, had succumbed to the blood loss. The human female—the sister of Graham's mate—would have died too had it not been for the immediate medical attention she'd received back at Blackstone.

Marcus remembered all too clearly how she had drifted in and out of consciousness, coming close twice to death's door. (He would never forget how terrified he'd been, strange as it was, how his beast had paced like a caged animal, clawing at the invisible barriers in an attempt to break free and help her.) She'd been so pale, so drawn, her arms bruised from where the rogues had attached the tubes for their mad transfusions. It had come to his great relief that none of the victims had been molested, that the rogues' intent had purely to do with experimentation.

"Marcus?" Ciaran asked, his brows furrowed. "Are you certain he's the one?"

The unconscious male groaned. His voice cold and dripping with venom, he said, "I'm certain," before pulling out of the parking lot.

* * *

"SO, WHAT KIND of music do you like?"

Pulled from her reverie, Aubrey turned to her escort and blinked. "Huh?"

Hugh flashed her a teasing grin before he returned his attention to the radio. "Let me guess, you're a country gal."

She snorted. "I may live in the country, but I hate country music."

"Really? And here I pegged you for a Taylor Swift fan."

Aubrey wrinkled her nose, causing Hugh to burst out laughing. He shook the bag of airplane peanuts Aubrey had acquired but couldn't find the desire to eat and sprinkled them into his mouth, munching loudly. "I'll have you know, I have higher standards than that."

"Oh, yes? And what might those be?"

"Queen. The Police. Bon Jovi."

"Ahh... so you're a rocker."

She shrugged. "Something like that."

The rain started up again after a brief respite; the pitter-patter a balm on her frazzled nerves. In the distance, sparks lit up the sky before the clouds grumbled their reply. Propping her head against the side window, she closed her eyes and listened.

It had rained the night of her rescue—one of the few things she remembered during her brief, yet seemingly endless, time with the rogues. In that dreamlike fog, her eyes unseeing, she remembered the storm, the furious rumble of the thunder.

Or had it been a roar?

Then, through the haze, a pair of eyes peered down at her. Those eyes seemed to glow with silver fire, the pupils flashing to slits. Beastly eyes. Beautiful eyes.

Eyes that have haunted her every dream and waking moment.

'Mine.'

A murmur, a declaration, a claim. Possession seeped down to her bones, her stomach coiling with anticipation. For once not fighting the voice.

She had seen those eyes before, in the days leading up to her abduction and after. Yet as familiar as those gray orbs were, she couldn't put a face to the man—she'd always assumed they belonged to a man.

'Mine,' the voice whispered contentedly.

Warm from the heater, her eyes heavy, Aubrey settled back into the seat.

'Mine,' she agreed.