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The moment he pressed against her, her senses jumped into overdrive, waiting in anticipation. Despite the progressively cooler water, his skin was feverish. She could feel the pounding of his heartbeat through their naked flesh. He pushed away tendrils of her hair and then nuzzled behind her ear. She trembled.

“Oh,” she moaned. He sucked her earlobe and that made her knees even weaker.

He licked her and pushed her thighs apart. His cock nudged at the halves of her ass. He lowered himself, positioning on her opening. It was slick and hard and …

Her breath ripped from her throat. His cock speared her open, forcing her to accept his maleness. Whole. The penetration made her brain scramble. She might have forgotten her own name for a second. All she could think about was him. The part of him that entered her. Became one. One soul. He’d become a part of her she couldn’t live without.

Rovik let out a low growl of satisfaction. “God, baby. You don’t know how good you make me feel. I love having you like this. You’re just so fucking perfect.”

She swooned.

He tugged and pushed until he was finally able to sheath himself to his hilt.

She creamed around his rock-hard shaft. His cock throbbed in her pussy. It was a sinful pleasure of burrowing heat and she couldn’t get enough. They had been fucking like crazed rabbits since they returned to New York and she still felt ravenous. Rovik had made her addicted to carnal ecstasy.

Him and him only.

Rovik nibbled at the shell of her ear, growling low. “Can you move?”

“Yes.” A husk of a whisper.

“Fuck my cock. Slowly.”

Oh my!
Biting her lip, she rocked her hips back and forth. There was not much room as he had trapped her against the tiles, but the effect was astoundingly sinful. She gripped his shaft with the muscles of her sex, choked the neck of his cock before sliding forward to the tip and slammed back again.

She dropped her head and pressed her cheek against the wet tiles. She could feel every ridge and pulsing vein of his cock. She marveled at the texture. His length. And his amazing girth.

Rovik let out a whimper on her shoulder. He bit her skin. She didn’t mind, though. The little pain was a little spice to the bubbling cauldron of pleasure.

Feeling cheeky, she inquired, “Good?”

A shaky laugh. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”

That’s good. It delighted her to pleasure him. He had been so generous to give her sexual release since they had started becoming intimate.

She tightened her sex muscle again.

He swore. A good kind of swear. “Baby, if you do that one more time, I’m not going to last long.”

She giggled. And, naturally, she did it again.

Rovik growled. “Now you’re being naughty. There’s a consequence for being a naughty girl.”

He pressed his hips so she couldn’t move at all.

“Rovik…”

He let her go, only for a moment to slip his hand below her belly. He found her clit and tugged it playfully. “Stay still,” he commanded.

She breathed through her teeth.

He played with the hardened nub while he started moving in and out. He pulled his cock almost all the way out and just before the crown of his cock left her opening, he thrust back in as if he wanted to relive the initial penetration.

Blasted. It was so fucking good it should be a sin.

She trained the muscle of her sex to clench around his granite-hard shaft, but he was too slick and too wet. Before she met Rovik, she wouldn’t believe it if someone told her sex could be this good.

And the way he stimulated her body.

He’d burned her from the inside out. He knew her body better than she did.

Her train of thought became jumbled when he picked up his pace. Thrust and pulled. Faster. Harder.

The combination of his thrust and the way he played with her clit quickly sent her onto the precipice of an orgasm. Every branding stroke and fast pull, caused the friction to deliver jolts of ecstasy to her nerve endings. Before long she was dragged into the ultimate rapture.

She didn’t trust herself not to shout, so she bit Rovik’s thumb.

A violent climax tore through her.

Her body quaked from head to toes.

Rovik didn’t stop.

With a feral grunt, he kept pounding and slamming, battering her pussy until the next orgasm exploded within her.

She floated into the cloud.

When she landed back in reality, she noticed her pussy quivered around his juddering shaft. He had come a heartbeat after her.

Rovik panted into her ear. “Baby, that was amazing.”

It was more than amazing. But she couldn’t find the words.

He disengaged from her. She turned and kissed him. God, she loved this man. She didn’t think she could live without him. Sometimes she wondered how easy it was to give her heart to him after she guarded hers tightly over the years. She’d sworn that she wouldn’t let anybody in.

Until Rovik came into her life.

And her heart.

He stroked her face adoringly. With his left hand, he shut off the water. He cleared the water from her face and kissed her again. His gaze bore straight to her soul.

“I love you, Emily,” he whispered hoarsely.

“You mean it?”

“I do.”

She smiled. “Take good care of me, Rovik Stromheim.” She pecked a gentle kiss on his lips and tiptoed to wrap her arms around his neck.

He kissed her cheek and wrapped her body in a tight embrace. “I will, Emily.”

She closed her eyes.

She felt at home.

Accepted. Cherished.

At last.

Chapter Eight

They arrived in Bangor International Airport thirty-minutes ago and picked up their rental car immediately. Rovik was twitchy, jumpy and agitated. Being in the line of sight with his dad with no prospect to step out for air drove him crazy, making the flight torturous. The only thing that made everything bearable was Emily. She noticed his irritation and calmed him with her touch and smiles, distracting him from his nagging violent instinct to fight off his dad.

His dad wanted to be dropped off when they reached the outskirts of the city, saying that he'd fly and follow them from above in his dragon form. It wasn't just him who couldn't stand the other. His dad felt the same.

With Emily riding shotgun, he drove in the direction his dad had provided. It turned out, Walsingham really lived in bum-fuck-middle-of-nowhere. It took them nearly five hours to finally reach their destination.

His father arrived at Walsingham's place first, probably hours ahead. The two of them waited at the front gate of the farm in an old beat up truck. Rovik rolled his window down.

"Welcome, welcome," said a gaunt looking man with wild white hair. "Did you have trouble finding this place?"

"Not at all. I just wasn't expecting it to be so... rural." Rovik craned his neck out the window.

The old man chuckled. "They always say that, but welcome again. Follow me to my humble home, if you please."

The old truck coughed alive and crept inside the farm. Rovik tailed behind.

The farm stood among acres upon acres of flatland where alfalfa, corn, and barley grew lushly in the New England weather. Three huge barns stood near a man-made lake where Rovik could hear the cacophonous clucking of thousands of chickens. Walsingham himself resided in an old farmhouse behind the barn. It was three-stories high and looked as if it had been there since the creation of time.

However, the facade proved to be deceptive. Inside the farm house was spacious and surprisingly clean. Rovik felt as if he had accidentally stepped into a bygone era. Stone walls, ancient oak hardwood floors that still gleamed. Antique furniture looking pristine and expensive. And books. Rovik saw books everywhere as if the house was overrun by heavy, gilded, leather-bound tomes.

The house boasted subterranean floors where it accommodated thousands of books in heavy mahogany shelves. Rovik felt as if he had stepped into the ancient royal Library of Alexandria.

It was nearly four o'clock and Walsingham delightedly announced it was tea time.

They all sat on brown leather sofas in front of a fireplace. Walsingham bustled in the kitchen and came out with a tray of proper English tea accessories. It appeared he lived alone on his farm.

Walsingham sat the tray on a large ottoman which did double duty as a coffee table. Four demitasse porcelain cups. A pot of steaming tea. A pitcher of milk and a matching bowl for sugar cubes.

"How do you take your tea, young Schwarzen?" Walsingham asked Rovik.

"Plain." He wasn't a fan of tea.

"Very nice. And how about you, young miss?"

"One sugar, please. No milk."

"Very good, very good."

Walsingham looked at Rovik's father expectantly.

"No tea for me."

"How utterly tragic, my dear friend. It has been a while since we both had tea. Would you not indulge this old man a pleasure of simple tea with your company?"

His dad lifted both hands, and surrendered. He looked uncomfortable in his borrowed clothes. Overly starched white shirt. Black suede breeches. Leather mules. Rovik would guess they belonged to Sir Walsingham. "All right. Two sugars and a dash of milk if you please."

"Excellent. Very excellent choice." Walsingham seemed happy playing host.

Rovik wondered if Walsingham was really a titled lord. For one, he seemed to have a lack of servants. They settled in and traded polite small talk about the weather and current news. Walsingham served them Battenberg cake to go along with the tea, and two cups later, they finally dove in into the crux of the matter. Rovik explained to their host the purpose of their visit.

Walsingham listened carefully. He directed his attention toward Emily, studying her with renewed interest. “I had a feeling you’re not an ordinary chit, young lady, and I was right. Ah, this is delightful. I have never had the pleasure of hosting three Schwarzen under my roof. May I inquire what was your mother’s first name?”

“Clarissa.”

The old dragon steepled his fingers together, thinking hard. “I’m afraid I have not known a Schwarzen female with that name. Could it be possible that your mother had used an alias?”

Emily shook her head delicately. “I don’t think so. Clarissa Anderson was my mother’s name on my birth certificate.”

“Maybe Emily’s mom isn’t in the registry?” Rovik asked Walsingham. “You can’t possibly know every dragon in the history. Or can you?”

“No, of course. We only record the main branch of family registry because of their undiluted powers—“

“Undiluted powers?” Emily asked.

“Pure blood dragons,” Walsingham clarified. “Once a full-blood takes a human spouse, their offspring only inherits a fraction of their parent’s power, such as incomplete transformation or shorter life-span.” Walsingham took a delicate sip of his tea and placed the cup down gently. “However, decades ago, I did hear a rumor pertinent to the younger brother of the Stonehearth chief.” He wagged his finger conspiratorially. “Samhrain, that’s this fellow’s name.”

“Who?” asked Rovik.

“Norman McGuire,” said Rovik Senior. “Walsingham recognized him after I told him the story. The sheriff was called Samhrain the Berserker a long time ago. Unpleasant old chap. Nasty temper, I’ve heard.”

“Indeed.” Walsingham affirmed with vigorous nods. “That nasty temper of his ensnared him in a troublesome situation. When he was young, he couldn’t control his temperament. Every little thing would set him off. He didn’t even hesitate before using his fists when he was dealing with the weaker sex.

“Then one day, he manhandled the ward of the Blutrot chief quite viciously. A young chit, at that, and not even twenty moons of age. Word had it the chit bled to death from her injuries. There was an uproar afterward, mainly because of the chit’s family. They rumored to have linked with Grainheider, the Soothsayer.

“Their clan dabbled in the black arts. Anyway, the Grainheider matriarch demanded restitution for the chit’s death. Somehow, Samhrain cheated out of Grainheider’s due and the matriarch put a curse on Samhrain. Any bride of Samhrain would meet her death as soon as she gave birth to his heir…”

Emily snatched Rovik’s arm and shook it hard. She looked breathless. “It’s true, then. Norman’s wives Erin and Roxanne died shortly after they gave birth to Dwayne and Kenny. And not just that, Norman’s first cousin Jack is the same. His wife Kelly died shortly after delivering her son.”

Rovik frowned. The puzzle started coming together. “What about female descendants? Any of them survive the curse?”

Emily shook her head. “No. There’s no female in Norman’s family. His relatives always had boys.”

Rovik turned to Walsingham. “So this Grinder put a curse—”

“Grainheider,” corrected Walsingham.

“Whatever. So this witch cursed Norman so his wives kept dying. What has this to do with Emily?”

“Ah, here’s where the plot thickens.” Walsingham clearly enjoyed telling his tale. “Have you ever heard that one of the virtues of a Schwarzen’s mate is a gift to cancel bad omen?”

“No, I’ve never heard that,” said Rovik.

Senior gave a loud snort. “I’ve always thought my wife is incredibly patient with all my shortcomings.”

“I don’t get it,” said Emily. “You’re saying I have the ability to banish misfortune? Is that why Sheriff Norman raised me to marry his son?”

“Dear child, you are gravely mistaken.” Walsingham gave her a sad look. “Samhrain didn’t raise you just to marry his son. He raised you for a sacrificial purpose.”

“What?” Rovik was downright scandalized.

“If my theory is right, the dead chit is about your age when she passed away. There’s an old ritual in Tiamat grimoire that if one sacrificed a Schwarzen mate at the anniversary of the incident, the curse would be annulled.”

Rovik felt cold all of a sudden. “And how exactly will they sacrifice Emily?”

“I assume in the same manner Samhrain killed that chit.”

Rovik felt sick.
Fuck.
If he hadn’t met Emily that day, she would be murdered by her foster dad. Beaten to death. That kind of cruelty jarred him to the core. How could someone raise a child as his own, only to be sacrificed in an absurd ritual? He looked at Emily, gauging her reaction. Only Emily didn’t seem too shocked at the revelation.