Alpha's Fire E-Book

Rose Renee

• Herausgeber: Midnight Romance
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

I’ve waited 1000 years for my mate. If she rejects me, I’ll burn down the world.
She woke the dragon.
Every maiden dreams of being rescued by a handsome prince from a deadly dragon. But I am the prince and the dragon.
Ancient courtship rituals demand I steal my bride away. Imprison her in my high tower. Show her my treasures, my vast lands and armies.
I’ve done all that, and she still refuses me. She says she can’t see herself with a man who still thinks Istanbul is Constantinople.
I must woo her, and I don’t know how. But beneath my beating human heart, a dragon sleeps. And when he wakes, no one can stop him from destroying the world.
No one but  her.

Leseprobe

ALPHA’S FIRE

A DRAGON SHIFTER ROMANCE

RENEE ROSE

LEE SAVINO

Copyright © March 2022 Alpha’s Fire by Renee Rose and Lee Savino

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published in the United States of America

Midnight Romance, LLC

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!

WANT FREE BOOKS?

Go to http://subscribepage.com/alphastemp to sign up for Renee Rose’s newsletter and receive a free books. In addition to the free stories, you will also get special pricing, exclusive previews and news of new releases.

Download a free Lee Savino book from www.leesavino.com

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Want More?

Want FREE books?

Other Titles by Renee Rose

Also by Lee Savino

About Renee Rose

About Lee Savino

PROLOGUE

Tabitha, age 18

The chilly air nips my skin, bared by my tank top. An hour into my hike, I’ve already shed my jacket—I’m a strange combination of cold and sweaty. Weird, but it feels good.

There’s snow on the peaks towering ahead of me. It’s spring here, but snow still lingers in the long shadows of the thickly clustered pines.

This early in the morning, my breath puffs as I trek across a frozen field where a few yellow wildflowers poke their heads up over the matted grass. I’m the only tourist crazy enough to be hiking so early in the season. I haven’t seen anyone on the trail.

The mountains of northern Italy are technically the Alps, but the locals call them IDolomiti. The hike I chose isn’t as challenging as the ones that would carry me up the tallest peak, but my thighs burn from the steady incline. It’s still better than swaying down a catwalk in five-inch heels and a weird poofy dress that left most of my back and butt uncovered. When I was a model, I’d do anything for fashion but no longer. This model has officially quit the circuit.

“I don't understand,” my mother wailed when I called to tell her. “You were doing so well. You were making such great contacts.” In mom-speak, that meant I was meeting men. Rich men who’d love to have a model on their arm. The sort of man my mom hoped would sweep me off my feet and give me a diamond ring and marriage proposal or at least a diamond watch and an extended stay in his private penthouse. Maybe even a car and a few trips to the Riviera or Seychelles.

The type of man my mother always chased after.

I didn’t tell her that it was my date with exactly that kind of man that broke me. I was at another boring after-party on the arm of a short stock broker named Paul. Perfectly nice guy, but just because I'm a model and his head barely clears my shoulder doesn't mean that he has the right to put his hand on my ass.

I’ve stomped across the meadow and up the trail that’s disappearing between the blue-gray pines before I realize I’m muttering under my breath. A bird trills on an evergreen branch above my head, and my rage disappears.

I take a moment to clear my lungs. The air is fresh and better than any expensive cologne. The water flowing from a mountain stream is pure snowmelt and probably tastes like heaven. Tiny purple flowers peek up from the cracks in the gray rocks, and the bird above my head warbles like his sex life depends on it.

I’m far from the fashion circuit in Milan. No more crowded events that overwhelm my senses. No more clashing auras or toxic energies leaving me with a headache, desperate to get away.

No more handsy businessmen who treat me like a cigar–a possession, an indulgence, a prop. No more sharing an apartment with six other half-starved young people whose daily food intake adds up to barely half a sandwich. The first thing I did after I told my agent I quit was eat a giant bowl of cheesy pasta.

Right now, my backpack is full of the best provisions: good cheese, a local red wine, and several packs of biscotti.

I may have disappointed my mother, but I feel better than I have in a year. Like a weight lifted off my chest.

It’s been almost three months since I quit and started wandering like a vagabond. I spent a little of my fashion week earnings on a pair of hiking boots and a backpack. The rest of my nest egg has gone to reserving the little mountain huts called rifugios and a nice rental near Lake Como where I stayed while waiting for the snow to melt.

The plan is to hike Alta Via 1 and beyond. Spend the summer in the mountains. And after that, who knows? I’m eighteen, and I can do anything. This spring is the start of my new life.

Fifteen minutes of climbing, and my thighs are shaking, but it’s all worth it when I round the corner and come across a magical mountain lake. The water is a brilliant teal, an ethereal color as bright and shocking as a Lilly Pullitzer jumper.

I can’t resist going to the edge and dipping my hand in, but instead of bracing cold, the water is warm as a freshly drawn bath. In the middle of the lake, steam’s rising off the surface.

Is this a hot spring? If so, my guidebook didn’t mention it.

I drop my jacket and my pack. Facing the clear pool, I feel extra grimy. I’m so tempted to strip everything off and jump in.

But I'm not alone.

There's a man in the pool. His dark head is even with a rocky outcropping, which is why I didn't see him before.

Once I see him, I can’t look away. He’s not swimming, but walking in the shallows. Water streams off his sculpted shoulders, lapping lovingly at his massive pectoral muscles.

A few more steps towards the shore, and water flows away from his diamond-hard abs, cut and sculpted with the precision of a jeweler. He’s got the height and frame of a bodybuilder, but something about the hollows under his high cheekbones and the lean sinew of his arms and chest tells me he is thirty to forty pounds underweight.

My God. I've been in Milan around some of the hottest male models in the world, and they look like Play-Doh figurines next to this guy. Dark brows. Long, silky lashes, thick black hair. His wild beard is a little out of control, but I don't mind. How would it feel between my legs?

The man turns, and the sunlight catches his eyes. They’re a stunning amber color. Then they fall on me and heat to molten gold.

“Oh excuse me,” I step back. “I didn't mean to intrude.”

The man stares at me and makes a noise between a grumble and a growl, and the earth moves in an answering rumble. I lurch as the ground shakes.

Are we having an earthquake? Or did the earth move when our eyes met? Goosebumps break out over my body. The man is still staring at me, and I can't look away.

He's coming up out of the pool. Water streams off his perfect body, running in rivulets down his Adonis belt–the cut muscles making a V pointing straight to his groin. If he comes out of the water a little bit further, I'll be able to see his…

Oh yes, there it is. And damn if he's a shower, not a grower.

Except actually... He is a grower. Because the longer I stare at his cock, the bigger it gets.

“Holy hell,” I mutter. This wild man in the wilderness with a beard like John the Baptist is making me hotter and wetter between my legs than I've ever been. Maybe I’m just in a dry spell. In Milan, I was never tempted. The male models were beautiful, but they were also coke-headed man whores. This guy could outshine them all–and he’s lighting my fire in a way that I never expected.

The man opens his mouth and says something in a thick accent my brain tries and fails to decipher.

“Che cosa?” What? I ask in Italian. I frantically try to remember my meager French or Spanish, or any language really. The musical sound is nothing like the Italian I learned in the city. Maybe it’s a local dialect?

The man speaks again, another long string of beautiful syllables rolling from his mouth like poetry. His voice is deep and rich.

Golden light flashes around his head and disappears. I blink. This guy doesn’t have an aura. Usually I see auras like a subtle glow around a person and sometimes even the stuff they own. I pick up on their emotional energy too–at the fashion shows the cacophony of feelings could make me nauseous.

But this stranger’s energy is not intrusive. His aura is clear–or hiding. His emotional presence is a void or so subtle it blends seamlessly with my energy. I’ve never felt anything like it.

It makes him strangely enticing. Too bad everything else about him screams Psycho!

Around him, the lake bubbles, steam rising in a curtain between us.

Is the water boiling around him?

The ground moves and rumbles again. It must be an earthquake.

I step back and lick my lips so I can speak. “I probably should be going…”

The man stalks forward. He's speaking the same phrase over and over again.

I back away. Not because I'm getting full-on psychopath vibes, not because he looks like he’s going to murder me and leave my body on the side of the mountain, but because he's looking at me like he's a dying man, and I'm his savior.

He holds out a large, bronzed hand. Even from a distance, I sense the heat coming off his palm as if he has hot coals under his skin.

But that’s crazy.

The earth shakes, and I almost lose my balance. My pack and jacket are a few feet away, but I’ve already backed up to the tree line. Overhead, the trunks and branches creak.

On the peak above the lake, the limestone cracks. Rocks the size of my backpack tumble down in dusty streams. Some sort of avalanche is happening, and I should be running for my life.

Instead, I stare back at the gorgeous bronze god stepping out of the pool. His tone has changed, his voice becoming less musical and more guttural. A growl that echoes around the lake and seems to trigger more falling rocks.

A tree branch whips my face and breaks our eye contact, and it’s like weights have fallen off my feet. I turn and scramble down the trail.

A primordial roar shakes the trees and almost knocks me off my feet. I fly down the trail, my legs pumping and my arms flailing, my body half falling and out of control. My heart careens around my chest, bursting with painful adrenaline. I can’t get the man’s eyes out of my head. It feels like he’s right behind me, about to catch up.

A great blast of wind gusts over me and sends me careening into a brace of mugo pine. I grab the trunks and hold on. Rocks bounce over the dirt. The earth is shaking like gravity’s about to throw me off.

The taller trees’ branches thrash the air like a great hurricane has blown up. A giant wind, an earthquake and a tornado all rolled into one. The air high above ripples, and another roar blasts the trees and sends more rocks crashing down from their heights.

I hug the earth and crawl until I make it to a thick cluster of Norway pines. The earthquake has stopped, but great gusts of wind roll through the forest, tearing at the trees and flattening the flowers and long grasses in the meadows. A great shadow appears, gliding over me, blocking out the sun and disappearing as fast as it came.

I don’t know how I make it down the mountain. When I get to the village, I’m still shaking. I’ve lost my backpack and my jacket. When I try to explain in broken Italian what happened, the locals look at me like I’m crazy. No one else experienced an earthquake or a hurricane.

I don’t mention the man to anyone. His presence remains my secret.

I give up on my plans to hike the Dolomites, and head south to Tuscany instead. After two weeks of looking over my shoulder, I’ve convinced myself the event never happened. It was a dream. Some sort of vision, my psychic powers going berserk. I stepped on a funny mushroom, inhaled some psychedelic spores, and bam! Hallucinated a crazy sexy man and a weird weather event.

But, over the years, some nights I wake with a start, my chest flushed and my core throbbing from the recurring dream. He comes to me in my sleep, the man I’ve tried to forget. Wild hair, amber eyes, speaking a beautiful cascade of poetry in a language only my heart understands.

And every time, I wake with the strangest sense that he’s the only thing that's real, and the rest of my life is the dream.

1

Ten years later…

Gabriel

I stare down at the sleeping angel in my castle. Her caramel-colored hair fans out from her head on the soft goose-down pillow I had covered in a scarlet linen for her. She’s not in my bed–not yet.

I had a room of her own made up for her, so she’d feel more comfortable in her new surroundings. Her new home. She’ll move into my tower bedroom with me once she’s used to me. But I thought it was important that she have her own space during our courtship.

She stirs, and every cell in my body electrifies. Smoke billows from my nostrils, my dragon celebrating her presence as much as I do.

She’s really here. After searching for ten years, I’ve found her.

The one female on the planet who belongs to me. The one who will make me whole again. My mate.

She’s not a dragon in this lifetime. She wasn’t in the last one, either.

No, fate gifted me with a delicate human flower. A cruel twist that nearly destroyed me last time. Drove me underground to slumber for hundreds of years.

But my sweet Tabitha woke me from my sleep, and I scoured the edges of the Earth to find her. Now I have her here, in my lair.

My beautiful bride.

I have this second chance, and I won’t let any harm come to her this time. That’s why I lured her away from the wolves she runs with. I couldn’t chance any interference. I needed to get her to my castle where I can keep her safe. Protect her with my soldiers, not my dragon.

But, of course, he came out the moment I caught her scent in the wind. The pure joy of being near her again created chaos within me. I changed form, and when Tabitha saw my fiery side, she fainted.

I need to take care with her. Keep my reptilian eyes covered with sunglasses and the dragon in the cave until she’s ready. Let her get used to me first, to fall in love and feel secure before I show her the beast.

I plan to court her properly. Show her my treasures. The armies under my command. The beautiful castle where she will reside. I have had a millennia to amass everything it takes to dazzle and woo her.

I lean over to fill my nostrils with her scent. Honeysuckle and spring. Morning dew. I lightly trace the outline of her rosebud lips. So perfect. It’s no wonder she was paid to show off designers’ garments in her youth. Countries go to war over women like her.

Now no man will lay his eyes on her unless I allow it. If I wish, I will lock her in my tower and keep her as one of my treasures.

I’m tempted to do it now… but no. I am committed to winning Tabitha’s affections. Her love. Although I’d prefer to lock her in a cage, allowing her out only when I wish to breed her…

A delicate clearing of the throat calls my attention to the door, where Buttons, my butler stands, impeccably dressed, as always, in his coat tails and cumberbund.

“Forgive the intrusion, sir, but Mr. Hess says you have a meeting scheduled with him.”

I don’t wish to tear my gaze from my sleeping bride, but Buttons is right. My head of security awaits to be briefed on how I plan to keep Tabitha safe. It’s important.

“Thank you, Buttons. I will be right there.”

I allow myself one more touch of my treasure’s silky hair and leave.

Tabitha

My face is pressed to a silken cloud. Did my bed become extra comfortable last night? Even the sheets feel softer. The mattress embraces me like it’s molded to my form.

I crack my eyes and try to move. I feel like I slept for a couple of years.

The room around me is dark, but automatically, I know it's not home. I’m not in my cute converted train car where I live in Taos, New Mexico.

Where am I? My brain is slow to come online. Why can’t I remember how I got here?

The bed is huge. My bed back home is way smaller, and it’s not surrounded by a thick brocade curtain that cocoons the king-sized bed in shadow. The drapes hang from a four-poster frame and even cover the top. It’s a rich red and gold tapestry the likes of which I've seen in antique auctions that I frequent.

Is that gold thread? I sit up to examine it and pull open the curtain to peek out. I’m in a massive stone room with more red and gold Turkish rugs. The thirty-foot-high ceiling has thick wooden rafters like some sort of medieval great hall.

Did I hit my head? Am I in some sort of hotel, and I don't remember checking in?

I was on a road trip headed to a jewelry show. I had a few antique auctions to stop at along the way.

My head is muzzy like I took a sleeping pill. I rub my face. There's something I was supposed to do...

I reach for my phone, but it’s gone. I’m wearing my peasant skirt and a loose white blouse, but my well-worn Birkenstocks are missing.

My hair is down and in a smooth sheet. Not in my usual braid, but it’s unsnarled for once. I must have slept solidly, with no dreams or thrashing around.

My heart starts to pick up speed when I can’t figure out how I got here. I mean, sometimes when I travel it takes me a minute to remember where I am, but this time it’s just not coming back.

What happened to me?

The last thing I remember, I was headed to a special estate sale in my pink VW bus. The directions took me to the middle of nowhere.

The rest is all muzzy.

I pull back the curtains in preparation to swing out of bed. My legs are wobbly and weak, so I give myself a second.

On the far left wall is a bank of ancient-looking windows. I can’t see anything more than sky–the glass is old and warped and looks bounded by lead. Between me and the windows is a space that would fit my whole Taos home. Instead of bean bag chairs and lava lamps, there are antique chairs upholstered in red velvet and a massive stone fireplace decorated with snarling gargoyles.

This hotel’s really going with the medieval gothic theme. All that's missing is a suit of armor in the corner.

Everything is clean at least. And warm–there’s an actual fire in the fireplace. A bluish flame dances along modern-looking sculpture, but faint black scorch marks on the stone tell me this was used as a fireplace long before it was updated to a gas-fed fire.

To the right of the bed is what looks to be a bathroom. I stumble into it on shaky legs. The bathroom is just as cavernous, and they kept the medieval castle theme with the exception of modern plumbing. The pool-sized bathtub is set into the stone floor. Even more tempting is the steam shower, a wonder of technology with so many buttons and nozzles I might need an engineering degree just to figure out how to turn it on.

I settle for splashing water on my face. The towels are a dream, white and plushy. Four out of five stars. Minus one for the weird castle vibe.

There’s a door off the bathroom. Soft overhead lights go on, revealing dresses, blouses, skirts, and jeans hanging in neat rows between floor-to-ceiling shelves holding pairs and pairs of gorgeous shoes. Whose?

I finger the closest item, a knee-length silken caftan in teal, the color of Lake Como. There are no weird women’s business suits with shoulder pads or sensible black skirts. Or worse, tight club wear, the sort my mom thinks I should wear to land a hedge fund billionaire boyfriend. Everything in here is designer, but something I’d wear. It’s like a genie cataloged everything I’ve ever loved to wear and created the closet of my dreams.

I grab a pair of Gucci jeans and hold them against my front. Yep, my size. So are the pairs of Sophia Webster and Valentino heels, and Frye and Zadig & Voltaire boots, all displayed in their own backlit cubbies, like they’re in a Milan storefront. I don’t wear high heels often, but for the whimsical butterfly design or rockstar studded leather, I’d make an exception.

I clutch a red leather riding boot to my chest. I should put it back in its cubby, but I’m barefoot in a strange place. Maybe I can borrow some footwear. I don’t know whose room I ended up in, but she does have great taste.

I find a pair of thin socks and tug on the boots. They fit perfectly.

In a daze, I step out of the closet and stop short. The massive wooden and leather studded bedroom door is still closed, but I’m no longer alone.

A tall man stands by the fireplace, his head bowed as he regards the fire. He turns as if sensing my presence. He's in a dark suit--Brioni by the look of it–and there's something familiar about him. The close-cropped beard lining the strong line of his jaw, the dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses that hide the middle half of his face. The lenses are totally black.

“You are awake, my treasure,” he says in accented English.

My treasure? Uh…do I know you?

His accent rolls around in my head. Where have I heard it before? I take a step forward. “Where am I? Who are you? What is happening?”

He waits until I fall silent. “Patience, Tabitha. In time, I will answer every question you have.”

The unease I’d been trying to keep at bay filters into my bloodstream. This is getting weirder by the second. “You know my name.”

“I know everything about you.”

Goosebumps race down my arms. That’s not creepy at all. I should run for the door, but something keeps my feet rooted to the spot. The man seems relaxed and in charge. There’s nothing menacing about him, and for some reason, I’m fascinated by him rather than frightened. “Are you the hotel manager?”

The corner of his perfect lips twitches. “No.”

“What is this place?”

“You're in my home.”

His home.

What?

“And how did I get here?” I wrack my brain for memories of the night before, but I still don’t remember anything beyond driving in the middle of nowhere in my VW bus.

“I had you brought here after you passed out.”

“I passed out?” My yelp echoes off the stone walls.

“I had a doctor examine you. He found you perfectly healthy, other than some minor fatigue and dehydration.”

I press a hand over my heart. I’ve never passed out, even when living off green smoothies and a handful of raw almonds on the modeling circuit. “No. I don’t pass out. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Be at ease, Tabitha,” he says in that deep rolling voice of his. It’s strangely soothing. I’m sensitive to people’s bad vibes, but I’m at ease with him. Memory tugs at me. Do I recognize him from somewhere?

A tiny fork of lightning appears around his head, thin as spider web. Like a floating golden thread. It disappears instantly, leaving nothing where the man’s aura should be.

I was young when I realized not everyone could see colors around people the way I could. I was in the park and kept pointing to peoples’ heads, babbling to my mom about the blue, yellow, or red colors around them. She smacked my hand and told me to be quiet.

Now I don’t talk about my visions with anyone, ever. Not even my friends. I learned early on that they make people uncomfortable. So I keep silent and use my gifts to navigate the world.

This guy has no aura. I can’t sense him psychically. It’s relaxing. Like putting on noise-canceling headphones during a Schoenberg concert. Blissfully quiet.

And something about him seems so familiar…

The stranger speaks again. “If you like, I can summon the doctor again.”

“No, that’s okay. I feel fine now.” I don’t like that a doctor examined me, and I didn’t even wake up. Something is off here. Way off.

“I had the room designed for you.” The man blatantly changes the subject.

“For me?” I narrow my eyes. “How do you know me, exactly?”

For a moment, I wonder if this is some kind of blind date my mom cooked up, and he’s some uber-rich guy she’s sold on marrying me.

But that still doesn’t add up. She’d be here, too.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he offers a question of his own. “Do you not like it?”

I shrug. “It would make an interesting Airbnb. A little gothic for my tastes.”

“My castle has stood for seven hundred years. I've fully modernized it.” He tilts his head to the gargoyles mounted around the fireplace. “But my favorite fixtures remain.”

Now that I look closer, the gargoyles look like dragon heads. “Those guys? Do they have names?” I’m being cheeky but this conversation is too surreal.

I don’t expect him to answer seriously, but he does, pronouncing two words in a rich, rolling language I don’t understand. “Tragesh and Tradell. Roughly translates to Fire Breath and Fire Tongue.”

“What language is that?” I ask, fascinated despite myself. “I don't recognize it, but I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

He tilts his dark head. “Don't you remember, Tabitha? I spoke it to you when we first met.”

So I have met this guy. That explains the deja vu, but not why I don’t remember him. I would remember being this attracted to someone. “When was that?” I take a few more steps into the room towards him. “Was it in a past life? Because I’m getting a really intense vibe here.” I point my finger back and forth between us. My mom would say it’s rude to point. She’d also despair about me bringing up any mention of my psychic gifts to a handsome man in a ten thousand dollar suit.

“Perhaps.” He doesn’t look weirded out. He seems to be considering my question carefully. “Do you believe in past lives?”

I shrug. I don’t want to get into my mystical beliefs right now.

“Regardless, the meeting of which I speak happened some years ago,” he says. “Ten years ago to be exact.”

Ten years ago, I was a model getting ready for fashion week. He’s probably some douchebag dude-bro I met at a party, either a model or a designer, or one of the wealthy patrons.

So much for a magical connection. This isn’t fate. It’s probably kidnapping. This guy is a wannabe James Bond villain and has pulled me into his crazy fantasies.

I need to see his face, his full face. “Do you wear your sunglasses at night?” I ask in a snide tone and regret it when he says, “They are a precaution. But I will remove them when the time is right.”

Gah, I should’ve thought before I spoke. He might have eye issues or photosensitivity. “That was rude. It’s none of my business.”

“You’re wrong, Tabitha. Everything about me is your business. As you are mine.”

And now we’re right back to creepy stalker territory.

I’ve walked fully into the bedroom. The door to the hall is a few feet to my right. As much as I want to figure this guy out, my best bet is to get out of here. Get to safety. Run in the red boots and leave the rest of the gorgeous clothes in the closet behind.

To cover up my fluster and my decision, I keep up with the small talk. I point to the bed. “Where did you get that tapestry? I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Is it vintage or a remake?”

His head turns. Before he starts talking, I scramble out the door.

A long stone hall greets me. There’s a suit of armor. “There goes your four-star rating,” I mutter, racing past it. I tug on its arm as I pass. It would be great if it could fall into the middle of the hall and block the way, but it’s secured somehow. I can’t bring myself to rip down the tapestries lining the rest of the hall. If they are original, they have to be over a hundred years old.