Cooper Isabel - Legend Of The Highland Dragon

He was trying to distract her, Mina realized, and he kept looking back to Stephen while he was talking.

“What is it?” Mina asked, and she couldn’t keep her voice steady this time. “Ward’s dead. Florrie’s all right. What’s wrong?”

With a scraping sound that hurt her ears, Stephen’s claws tightened, digging long furrows in the cement floor. He threw his head back and roared, a world of rage and agony in that sound.

“He can’t change back,” said Colin when the roar died away. There was no humor in him now. His voice was flat, and his eyes were like dull coins.

All the blood ran from Mina’s face as she listened. She could do nothing but listen, and Colin’s words battered against the numbness in her mind even as they made too much sense.

“It was the fighting that did it, probably, the influence of the manes and the wounds he took. He’s kept enough of his mind to govern his own actions—but you recall what I told you. He can’t stay in London like this.”

Some of them go away to live…elsewhere.

As Mina caught her breath, Stephen lowered his head. He’d rid himself of his anger with the roar or had buried it behind a wall of self-control. The huge eyes that met hers were sad but impassive, resigned.

He crouched again, preparing to take to the air.

Mina’s heart tried to beat sideways.

“No,” she said and ran across the floor as quickly as she’d done to tackle Ward.

Stephen didn’t move when she threw herself against his side.

“No,” said Mina again. “Not for me. Not you. Not this. People need you as a man, Lord MacAlasdair. I need you as a man.”

The diary had said that affection for a mortal might be able to reverse the change.

Stephen had never said exactly what he felt for her.

She knew only her own heart. For more than that, she just had to hope.

“If you leave,” she said, and let the tears flow down her cheeks as she spoke, “I’ll come with you—or I’ll find you—unless you tell me you don’t want me. An’ you can’t tell me without being a man, so you’re bloody well stuck with me. But you don’t have to leave. You don’t have to stay like this.”

The shape against her blurred a little, and her heart lifted—but blurring was as far as it went. Stephen bent his head and looked at her, his form still that of a dragon.

The memory of Stephen’s mouth on hers, of his arms tight around her as he told her to come back to him, drove Mina on.

“I love you,” she sobbed, not caring if Colin heard. “I was going to tell you that. And I’ll still love you like this, but oh—” She caught her breath. “I want you to read the paper with me at breakfast and go to museums with me. I want to be in your arms at night. And I can’t do that if you’re a dragon. And you want those things too. I know you do.”

Was he smaller? Standing? Or was that only her wishful thinking? Mina couldn’t tell. There was no hope in his eyes, though, only frustration and despair.

There was one last thing left to try.

Mina drew back her hand and slapped Stephen as hard as she could, palm cracking against the scaled side of his face with a sound like a coachman’s whip. It hurt like hell—probably far worse for her hand than his face—but the pain was just fuel. She raised her voice again and snapped, as sharply and forcefully as she’d ever spoken to anyone.

“You’re not leaving me, you bastard! Change back now!”

Violence was the last of last resorts. If it didn’t break through whatever hindered Stephen, she had lost him forever. And having started, she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to watch any more, either. Mina closed her eyes, still weeping, and drew back her hand again.

Another hand caught her wrist.

Warm.

Skin, not scales.

No talons.

Human.

Mina opened her eyes.

“Cerberus,” Stephen said. His voice was still too deep for a human, and a stripe of glittering red scales ran up the back of his arm, but the chest he pulled her against was a man’s. Bare, too—he must have had a new shirt on when he’d changed. “Cerberus,” he said again, kissing her forehead. “Mina. Lady MacAlasdair.”

At first, she was too relieved to be surprised. Then she lifted her face from his shoulder—the red stripes ran down his chest, she noticed, but were nothing a shirt and gloves wouldn’t remedy in public, and she’d never mind in private—and made a sound with far more surprise in it than either dignity or coherence.

“Aye,” said Stephen, and then paused. “If you wish, of course.”

Laughing, she leaned up to kiss him. “Someone’s hand in marriage is the traditional reward, isn’t it?” she said. “For fighting a dragon?”

There’s a line about taking a village to raise a child that also seems appropriate for books. As always, I’d like to thank the wonderful people at Sourcebooks, including my editor, Leah Hultenschmidt; my publicist, Danielle Jackson; and Cat Clyne, my editorial assistant, for whipping this manuscript into shape and getting it out the door. I’d also like to thank all my friends and family for suggestions, occasional proofreading, and encouragement.

Isabel Cooper lives in Boston, in an apartment with two houseplants, an inordinate number of stairs, a silver sword, and a basket of sequined fruit. By day, she works as a theoretically mild-mannered legal editor; by night, she tries to sleep. She’s only ever broken into one house, and that was in college and for very good reasons. Well, sort of good reasons. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

You can find out more at isabelcooper.org.