Evermore

  Evermore

  Dragon Wars, Volume 4

  Rebecca Royce

  Published by Rebecca Royce, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  EVERMORE

  First edition. January 2, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Royce.

  Written by Rebecca Royce.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Evermore (Dragon Wars, #4)

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  Further Reading: Crashing Into Destiny

  Also By Rebecca Royce

  Chapter One

  Homer Prinze prowled through the crowd, counting the seconds until he could leave the putrid stink of the city. One year since the end of the Dragon Wars— the battle that had raged between werewolves and dragons for over seventeen years and caused nothing short of total destruction in the end—and the reconvening survivors of the war were arguably worse off than they’d been during the attacks. At least when they’d all been fighting a common enemy the werewolf population had been all on the same side. Post-war, the werewolf community all seemed to be turning their former dragon hatred on each other. They needed Alphas again. Pack life. A return to the thing which had at one time made them great.

  How the wolves could find their way again was beyond his limited viewpoint. Homer had been a great secret soldier during the war and he was, he hoped, an excellent dominant pack mate since. Solving the world’s problems had to fall to someone else.

  He couldn’t get home fast enough. His Alpha, who had once been his commander during the war, Robbie Owens, honored him with the task of negotiating supplies. He was cognizant of the recognition it brought him within the pack. Only he hated coming to the city every time. Gods, the smell. He shook his head. As soon as he returned home, he was shifting and running the last two days off.

  Robbie usually handled the trips to the city himself. Entrusting Homer to make the run showed enormous confidence in him as a pack member, and Homer was not going to screw anything up.

  If only all these lost souls could find the small beacon of happiness he had with his newly formed pack. He shook his head. The Owenses had been good to him, given him a chance first as a soldier and now as a valued member of their group.

  The small beacon of paradise in the midst of all this hell...

  A cry caught his attention and he turned toward the sound. Why the one noise called out to him when so many didn’t he had no idea. But the small feminine agony in the midst of all the rest of it trapped his attention and wouldn’t let him move another step.

  The black market vendors he did business with were going to deliver the seeds to his hidden truck in two hours time. He had to see to whoever needed help. Waiting in the truck for his supplies to show up was out of the question.

  The hidden Alpha in him wouldn’t let him do anything else.

  Gritting his teeth, fighting the need to shift, he plowed forward into the crowd. The sound of pain gave him a path to follow until his nose could pick up the scent associated with the noise. Roses, which was standard for a female werewolf, and the distinct aroma of cinnamon to go with it. He nearly tripped over his own feet as the fragrance moved through him.

  His heart rate increased. He hadn’t even seen the female yet and already he knew...she was his mate. Homer’s heart rate kicked up a notch and he moved forward. The sudden understanding, the sheer truth of scenting another and knowing they held your future in their hands was a gift he had never expected to find for himself.

  His family thought him dead, a requirement of joining the Special Forces. Better that way. Almost every elite soldier died at the hands of the dragons. The squads could face impossible odds knowing they had nothing left to lose. Except Robbie’s group hadn’t. And now there was going to be...

  Homer broke into a run. His mate was in distress. Whatever it was, he would fix it for her.

  Darting down an alley, he looked around before he came to an abrupt halt. The source of the noise—his mate—was backed into a corner in the alleyway. Dark haired with bright blue eyes, she held a large stick out in front of her as she tried to ward off two men who, from their scent, were stoned out of their minds from the dragon drugs.

  Soon the supplies of the cursed serum would disappear. Any werewolves who had given into the temptation the addiction offered would either rehab or die from the lack. The drug-addled werewolf mind proved a constant issue. Men and women who would never have behaved dangerously before using the toxic substance were like different werewolves when they did.

  His mate hadn’t noticed him yet. Her blue eyes were huge, her face flushed in terror, and the stick in front of her might let her stop one of her attackers, but not both. Why didn’t the lovely woman shift?

  It was then he noticed what else she had in front of her...a very pregnant belly. His mind stuttered at the vision. His mate was pregnant? Homer took a deep breath. He would have to deal with her gestational state after he saved her life.

  At least it made sense why she couldn’t shift. Females didn’t during the time they carried a baby, which was agony for them, particularly during full moons. Females showed their babies their first gift of love and didn’t shift for nine months. A shift ended the pregnancy so they endured the pain.

  Usually, from what little he understood, the male somehow gave his mate strength to endure during the process.

  “Hey.” He called out to both his mate and the two men who no longer would be breathing in a few moments. “I don’t think I like anything about what I’m seeing here.”

  Goon number one jerked around to look at him. “You’re going to want to get out of here, pretty-boy. We’re both soldiers. We want this woman. We’re going to take her. Why do you care? She’s trash.”

  Homer had been discounted his whole life by idiots like the one in front of him. He knew he didn’t look threatening. His blond hair, green eyes, and smaller stature did leave the less observant with the idea he wasn’t deadly.

  Whatever the two men in front of him thought, they wouldn’t be capable of thinking for much longer. “Every able bodied male alive was a soldier. Our time in the war does not give us permission to abuse or terrify a female. I’m going to give you two seconds to run.”

  “What do you think you’re going to do?” Number two, taller and also fatter than his counterpart, sneered. “Talk us to death?”

  “Times up.” He looked straight at his mate. “Stay there, don’t move.”

  Even before he’d known how to fight, Homer had been able to shift. Fast. The process took him half the time it did his fellow werewolves. What he knew from his years of working for the most elite soldiers was a fast shift made for a lethal werewolf. Plenty of lethal werewolves had slow shifts but a fast version automatically meant strong fighter.

  He saw the horror on the face of the male who would soon be dead. Seconds before he struck. Homer wasn’t interested in torturing them—although he’d learned how to do that in the war. He didn’t want to terrify his mate. Dispensing with them fast seemed the best option. Two sharp tears to their necks. The second one saw the first one go down didn’t even run or shift. The drugs made them slow and stupid.

  Although they were certainly fast enough to have caused his mate to smell terrified.

  Homer called the shift once more and returned to his human form. With two dead werewolves on the street, they couldn’t stay there very long without drawing attention. Not that the police were anywhere to be found. In his pack, he’d be perfectly justified with what he had done. Hell, Robbie might even be mad he didn’t leave them for him to kill himself. Who knew what the rules were in the city?

  When he’d returned to
his fully human form, he approached his mate. She trembled, still holding her stick out in front of her as though she could do anything with it.

  “You’re not going to need that.” He pointed at her would be weapon. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  His mate’s shaking increased and the dark circles under her eyes concerned him. She was pale and her scent spoke of exhaustion and possible infection. He didn’t like her pain one bit and if he hadn’t had years of training to keep himself under control he might have swept her off her feet and hauled her off without so much as a by your leave.

  “You smell...really amazing.” His mate had a low, husky voice. The sound made his shoulders relax. Oh yes, he was going to enjoy hearing her speak. Over and over again.

  “You do too.” He extended his hand. “Can you give me the stick?”

  Homer really didn’t want to get whacked in the face with it. The sting would be really annoying. She looked down at her hand, staring at it as though she’d never seen the stick before. “I didn’t realize I still held it.”

  “Hand it to me. Please.” With shaking fingers the beautiful woman whose scent saved his soul handed him the pathetic stick she’d used to hold off her two assailants. He nodded when he took it from her. “Thanks.”

  She blinked rapidly. “Why do you smell so...perfect?”

  Homer stiffened his spine. He had found his mate—she was pregnant—he’d killed two werewolves and now he had to explain to her why he smelled good to her. His day couldn’t have gotten any stranger.

  Before he could answer, she spoke again. “Are you my mate? My mother always said the person I was meant to be with would smell right. I never knew what she meant.”

  “I’m your mate.” Saying the words aloud when he didn’t even know her name only added to the surrealness of the whole experience.

  “I’d given up hoping.” She swayed slightly and he grabbed her arm to steady her. Heat radiated off her and worry about how ill she was flooded his veins. The woman who had given up on finding her mate and couldn’t be more than twenty five years old was sick.

  “My name is Homer Prinze. What’s yours?”

  She opened her mouth before her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she fainted, dead weight in his arms. He caught her without issue. Homer needed to find her help and fast. But he wasn’t going to get the kind of care he wanted for her in the dirty, dying city. His mate, whatever her name was, needed to come home with him.

  ****

  Camille Kendrick woke up slowly. She was hot, itchy, and her bones ached. Inside her ever-swelling belly, the baby kicked rapidly. Before she even opened her lids to find out what kind of hell she’d landed in this time, she rubbed at the hard kick of her unborn baby.

  Bad enough she’d taken up with the wrong man in desperation to eat, having his baby and running for her life had seemed the end of the line for her in terms of trouble. Only now she’d clearly fallen headfirst into something else she’d have to worry about.

  Whatever happens, I’ll keep you safe. It was the promise she made the child every morning and every evening. The tiny life inside of her hadn’t asked for any of the crap Camille had hoisted upon both of them.

  A male scent wafted over. She knew that smell. Woodsy, cinnamon, heat. Camille’s eyes flew open.

  “Easy.” The steady voice to go with the spicy scent coupled with the feel of his hand on her arm. She was rocking. What was going on?

  “You’re in my truck. We’re driving. Slower than I’d like but I need to make the gas last. Can you drink some of this water for me?” The world seemed blurry, out of focus. Hearing his tones, the way he spoke slowly, brought back the moments before she’d fainted. Two men had wanted to hurt her. She’d thought for sure she was going to end up dead in an alley, she’d failed the baby, and Derek Dresden, who wanted her dead, would have won.

  Her mate—she could hardly believe the thought—pressed a cup to her lips and she took a sip. Water. It had been so long since she’d had any fresh. “That’s right. Drink it down. Slowly. I want you hydrated so I can see what this fever is about.”

  “Thank you.” She closed her eyes. What on earth was she going to do with a mate?

  “Before you sleep again, what’s your name, precious?”

  Precious. She loved how the word sounded. She’d never been that to anyone, or at least she couldn’t remember being. How lovely he had used the description on her. But she couldn’t let herself forget that mate or no mate she was always in danger. Letting her guard down wasn’t an option. The world was...heavy.

  “Camille.”

  The world fell black again.

  “It doesn’t matter whose baby it is.”

  Homer’s voice brought her back from the darkness. This time she wasn’t in a truck, she lay on a bed, on sheets which felt clean, and she knew she wasn’t alone in a room with him. There were folks with him. Five individual scents she could make out. One female. Three male. And Homer.

  “Homer...”

  “My Alpha.” Homer’s tone sounded fierce. She couldn’t imagine ever arguing with him if he spoke to her in such a direct manner. “With all respect, it’s my baby. My mate is carrying it. As far as I’m concerned, whoever is inside of her is my son or daughter. My pup.”

  “She might have a husband.” The female spoke before she pressed something cold on Camille’s forehead. “With the expectation of finding mates a thing of the past, werewolves are pairing off for protection.”

  “Well if she had a husband, he was nowhere to be found when she needed him. And damn it, mate trumps husband. I don’t care if she has one or not. I’ll go find him and he can relinquish his rights to her and the baby or I’ll challenge him to a death match.”

  “You don’t even know the circumstances yet.” The woman again. “Maybe don’t be so hasty to rush in and kill.”

  Camille decided it was time to let herself speak up. She’d had enough of other people deciding her life, and she’d be damned if these strangers were going to make decisions in regards to her and her unborn baby without so much as asking her opinion.

  She hadn’t worked so hard to free herself from Dresden to fall into another, possibly worse situation. Camille had promised her baby she’d make them safe and she planned on delivering on her word.

  If she could stay alive long enough to see it happen.

  No one was going to tell her what to do anymore.

  “Stop.” She sat up, rubbing at her eyes because they burned. “Please. I appreciate you taking care of me, whoever you all are, but please don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”

  The woman, who had blond hair and blue eyes, grinned before she stood, rising from the corner of the bed where Camille lay. “Backbone. I like it.”

  “Ah...thanks?” Camille settled into the discomfort being stared at by four strangers caused. She’d been embarrassed before and, unfortunately, woken up in worse circumstances too.

  “What do you remember?” Homer stepped closer to and she let herself breathe in him. His scent still moved her as it had on the street. Then, she’d been too terrified, too hot, too sure of her own upcoming rape and death to really roll around in the sensation of having a mate. Being near Homer made her mouth water with want. Yet, she knew better than to give in to the need or even to vocalize it until she knew more.

  Just because he was her mate didn’t necessarily make him a good man. There were so few left after the war. She wasn’t going to tie herself to a drug addict, murderer, or any other lunatic simply to complete the need.

  “I remember you. How you saved me.” She owed him thanks. “I do appreciate you stepping in.”

  “How could I not?”

  Homer was beautiful to regard. He had a freshness about him, a sincerity in his blue eyes she hadn’t seen since her childhood, if then. She couldn’t really remember pre-war times, having only been four when the fighting with the dragons began. In any case, Homer defined the world beautiful. He could have been carved out of stone
. And now he’d been saddled with her and all of her problems. If she were Homer, she’d run the other way.

  Her mother used to muse about mating, reminiscing about better times, pack life, and alpha males who cared for and loved their females. She didn’t imagine her current situation fell into anyone’s definition of ideal.

  But if those things had been real, they were no longer. Homer’s appearance of goodness could disguise a true terror beneath. She sniffed the air. His scent didn’t speak of nasty intentions although with all the drugs werewolves used she’d gotten really bad at telling.

  “Most would have left me there to die.” She looked at her hands. “I wasn’t really your problem.”

  Homer’s eyes widened. “You’re my mate. You’ll always be mine to keep, mine to cherish.”

  “Sweet words.” Yet, only words. Males could pretend for a long time before they showed their true colors. Homer had killed her attackers, and for his actions she’d be forever grateful, but he’d done so with a swiftness which spoke of experience in death. Was that only from the war? Or did he end lives on a regular basis?

  The woman cleared her throat, interrupting them. “So you remember Homer. That’s good. You have an infection your body is trying to fight. I’ve given you some medicine, which should help. If you could shift it would go a long way to help, but obviously given the pregnancy that’s not possible. We’ll do the best we can in the meantime. I’m Tatyana. This is Dougal and Robbie Owens. Robbie is my mate and the Alpha of our pack.”

  “There are no more packs.” The war movement had banished them. They needed everyone loyal to the cause, not their individual packs or Alphas so they’d been forcibly disbanded. Her father had refused to step down and the generals had killed him for it. Or so her mother had said. All Camille could remember was the shouting and the fire.

  She shook her head, pushing away the memory.

  “We reformed after the war. We’re close knit, secretive.” Dougal answered. He was tall like Robbie, the apparent Alpha. They were probably brothers if the shape of their faces and the similarity in their scent was any indication. And usually it was. Dougal was also missing a hand and part of his arm. Post-war, Camille had seen so many amputees the sight didn’t even startle her anymore. He must have been strong to survive his injury and she would do him the courtesy of not staring. “We don’t let uninvited people onto our pack lands. But you’re Homer’s. So you get to be here.”