Page 51 of Dark Dragon’s Mate

His Draken gave a snort, smoke puffing out of his nose.

They are not my pack. The woman keeps me caged.

She is afraid. She is weak. She is ashamed. I am a warrior. She is not.

She heals. I kill. She does not want me. She tries to keep me inside her skin, but she cannot. I am stronger. I come out, and I kill. Perhaps I will kill you.

The wolf cocked her head, as if deciding how Emon and his dragon should die.

His dragon gave another fiery snort.

Layla was obviously unimpressed. I would chew my way out of your belly, and you would die.

This was one ballsy she-wolf. Delusional, but ballsy.

his dragon said privately to Emon.

Great. You could be the Bonnie and Clyde of the shifter world, going around leaving a trail of bodies in your wake.

Of course he did.

Layla stepped forward, sniffing. I bit you, she said. When you were two-legged.

his dragon said negligently.

She sat down, her head tilted, tongue hanging out of her mouth.

But I did bite you. Very hard.

She sounded way too pleased with herself.

So what now? The black dragon watched the black wolf, two pieces of the night. Nightmares together.

his dragon said finally.

The night is made for running.

Emon let his dragon take the lead. He ran away from the woods, across the open land, with his lumbering dragon gait. After a moment, he felt Layla beside them, flowing like a shadow. Through his dragon’s connection with her, he felt the wind ruffling her fur, the sense of freedom, the safety in the darkness.

The knowledge that no one could see her coming. She could attack out of the night, if she wished, or she could simply be, stretching her muscles, feeling her own strength, reveling in being wolf.

They reached the top of a little hill, and as they crested it, his dragon unfurled his wings and took off. And Emon felt it, their kindred spirits, as his dragon luxuriated in the wind under his wings, the stretch and strength of his muscles despite the pain in his side. The safety of darkness, being dragon, a creature of air and dark and death.

And life.

He swooped low, then flew upwards in a rush of wind and looped back, keeping pace with the running wolf. Layla yipped in acknowledgement, putting on a burst of speed, and Emon lazily loop-the-looped above her. They ran for miles, until the grassy plain ended at the cliff edge. Layla dropped to her haunches and panted, and Emon came in for a landing right next to her.

A round full moon shimmered overhead, and Layla threw back her head and… sang. It was more than a howl, it was a full-throated song—to the moon, and the night, and the sheer joy of being alive.

And Emon and his dragon raised their muzzle and sang with her, a dragonsong full of magic and promise and darkness and hope.