For example, despite Abaddon’s demand for a full list of volcanoes that had been tampered with—unnaturally forced to erupt—Malone avoided giving a direct reply. Instead, he posed his own question. “Why would you want to know about the cones that failed to react to the protocol?” In other words, volcanoes that didn’t blow their top. Malone also fell back on, “Why waste your time checking out the places that didn’t produce a dragon?”

Because Abaddon wanted to be sure no eggs had hatched. The fact Malone and his subordinates hadn’t detected a dragon at these supposed failed attempts didn’t mean one of his kind hadn’t emerged from its shell. And even if the suspected dragon hadn’t matured, Abaddon still wanted it. A collection of potential rivals had some appeal.

“Stop being difficult and hand over the locations of the volcanoes you tampered with,” Abaddon commanded.

“Or what? Kill me and you won’t get any answers.”

Nostrils steamed as irritation boiled within, fueling a belly full of flames. How easy it would be to incinerate Malone into a smoldering pile of ash. However, Abaddon had to restrain himself because, while annoying, the man with the silvery temples held a veritable treasure trove of knowledge in his head. Pity cracking open his skull and slurping his brains wouldn’t transfer that information. It had been tried to no avail in the past.

“You seem to forget I can make your life unpleasant,” Abaddon pointed out.

“It already is, so you can stop with the threats. Why don’t you go bother Leo? He’s the one who paid for the operation,” a surly Malone reminded without even turning to look at him. Such disregard for Abaddon’s royal presence.

Ah yes, Leo. A man who’d initially been partnered with Malone in their quest for hatching dragons. He’d since been shown the error of his ways. Once Leo met Abaddon—and narrowly missed being turned into a crispy kebab—he couldn’t fawn hard enough, or as Abaddon’s first servant, Pip, liked to say, “He’s got his nose shoved so deep up your ass, it’s a wonder he can breathe.”

She did have a point, even if her delivery lacked eloquence. Leo worshipped dragons. Would do anything to serve, including signing over his home, property, and wealth. Because of Leo’s bestowal, Abaddon now owned a sizeable hoard, even if he couldn’t actually touch it. The modern world relied quite a bit on virtual currency, as opposed to more concrete items like the gold and jewels dragons usually preferred.

“You know very well Leo can’t access the files since you slapped a password on them,” Abaddon grumbled. The man had appeared shocked—and cursed quite a bit—when he tried to show Abaddon all he and Malone had discovered only to find himself locked out.

“Did I?” Malone quipped, his tone slightly mocking.

Teeth gnashing did little to stem Abaddon’s irritation. “One day, I’m going to forget the fact you’re a brilliant scientist and eat you.”

The comment finally had Malone half turning to offer a hate-filled glare. “I hope you choke on my bones when you do.”

Given the fruitlessness of the conversation, Abaddon left Malone chained to his desk—quite literally, since the man couldn’t be trusted. There’d been incidents, such as the time he tried to flood the habitat which, due to some built-in safety protocols, would have forced open all the doors.

The untrustworthy doctor would be unshackled and removed from the lab around dinnertime, when Maddox or Pip would relocate him for the rest of the night to his cell, a simple room with only the basics. Cruel? Not really, given Malone had initially planned to imprison Abaddon and experiment on him.

Again, Abaddon couldn’t believe the utter gall of a human thinking they could poke and prod a dragon by force. Meanwhile, had Malone politely asked and explained he wanted tissue samples and measurements to better understand a dragon’s greatness, Abaddon might have agreed. After all, he, too, was curious about what particular characteristics were unique to his kind.

As Abaddon trudged from the lab on four mighty paws, his girth barely fitting through the door frame, he ran into Pip. Dear, sweet Pip. His very first servant. A human woman in her third decade with silvery hair and artwork inked all over her body. She could be mouthy, but he forgave it because she always spoke honestly and had proven herself loyal.

“Hey, Big Fella,” she said, greeting him with his new nickname since he’d finally grown sizeable enough that using the word “little” would have been an insult. “Glad I found you. You’ve got someone waiting to chat on video.”

“Who?” he asked with casual nonchalance even as excitement filled him. He only ever received calls from one particular individual.

“It’s your girlfriend,” Pip sang, giving him a wink.

“Pollita is not my girlfriend,” Abaddon huffed. Although, she was currently the top contender for future maternal progenitor when he decided to fertilize some eggs. She was also the only other dragon in existence, that he knew of, and she currently lived in South America, a whole continent away. Not that distance mattered. Already he could fly vast stretches without rest.

Soon, very soon, they would meet in the flesh.

“Whatever you say,” Pip chirped. “Anyhow, your not-girlfriend is on the big screen by your chaise.”

“I guess I should see what she wants,” was his nonchalant reply as he made his way over to said seat. Abaddon’s current location, an underground complex of vast size, had been originally meant to serve as a luxury prison—the luxurious part being against Malone’s wishes. The scientist had thought a simple large cell with restraints would be suitable, but Leo, who’d long loved and been obsessed with dragons, insisted on a more lavish space. Since Abaddon had captured Malone and converted Leo, it turned out the underground installation actually suited him better than the main floor of the ranch house overhead. The massive dome with branching chambers held everything Abaddon could need. Aerial perches. A stocked pond big enough for a growing dragon to float. Furniture meant to hold his increasing girth. Overhead, bay doors could slide open, allowing him to leave and stretch his wings in flight. It also gave him the opportunity to hunt. The land all around held abundant wildlife as well as herds of goats, cattle, and sheep.

Not wanting to appear too eager, Abaddon took his time strutting to the well-stuffed chair that offered a comfortable seat for a dragon his size. Almost as big as a bull, he’d been eating well since his hatching. Even better of late, now that he could truly hunt larger specimens. As a result, he’d been shedding often as his flesh expanded.

Upon seating himself on what he liked to think of as his throne, Abaddon allowed his gaze to settle on the large, suspended screen displaying the female, Pollita. She appeared quite fetching, her growth not as drastic as his—a female trait—but she’d been maturing. Just look at those sexy nubs pushing up from the crown of her head.

“Hey, Abba,” she crooned upon seeing him. It should be noted, only she got away with that ridiculous shortening of his chosen name.

“I assume there is a reason for your call.” Dragons didn’t play around with words like humans and tended to jump right to the point.

“I was bored,” she admitted. “It’s been storming the past few days.”

“Afraid to get wet?” he teased.

“More like everything yummy is hiding. The only good thing about this weather is I’ve been charging up on all the lovely lightning bolts,” she admitted. While Abaddon possessed the gift of fire—the kind that could melt almost anything—Pollita inherited that of electricity.

“It’s still cold here. The snow’s now several feet deep all over.” Apparently, winter would last a few more months. Just his luck to be hatched in a country that spent half the year suffering from frigid temperatures.

“I can’t wait to visit you. I’m so tired of doing nothing.”

“Dragons aren’t supposed to do anything. That’s what servants are for,” he reminded.

“My humans have been catering to my every need. Even the ones I didn’t know I had. It’s making me feel quite useless,” she grumbled.

Abaddon masked his expression to hide his jealousy. His own retinue remained rather sparse given the fact Pip thought they needed to be discreet about who learned about his existence. Pollita, on the other claw, had lucked out. Her first servant, a Peruvian named Mathias, came with a rather large family who’d been eager to pledge devotion to Pollita. “What is it exactly you wish to do?”

“Something. Anything!” Pollita exclaimed. “I want a meaningful task. Something that will advance us towards our goal of world domination.” A feat all dragons strove for.

“We’ve already begun the steps,” he reminded. They’d been investing their wealth in something called stocks, a way to apparently gain control of human industries. With enough ownership came power, with power came influence, with influence came the eventual revelation that dragons existed. Once that secret was unveiled, they would begin the conversion of the population from obeying human mismanaged governments to dragon rule. Or as he liked to call it, Dragocracy.

“I know we have, but it’s such a slow and utterly dull process,” she lamented, pouting prettily, not something he was used to seeing from the usually happy dragoness.

His muzzle pursed. “You haven’t shed recently.” He pinpointed the real reason for her discontent. Hormones.

“No, I haven’t,” she sulked. “I don’t understand. I’ve been eating so well and yet it’s been weeks since my last molt.”

“It’s coming,” he promised. “Females have ever been slower to grow.”

“So unfair,” Pollita grumbled. “Here you are, hatched after me, and yet look at you. Much larger already.”

She’d noticed? He casually expanded his chest. “Your growth will come.”

A sigh huffed from her, the heat of it momentarily misting the camera. “I know. I’m just impatient. On to other matters. Have you had any luck with the locations of the other eggs from our spawning?”

According to Leo, who’d uncovered some ancients scrolls, their maternal progenitor had allowed a human scribe to note where she’d dropped her eggs. Although “note” was being generous. The clues left behind were vague, saying things such as “where the mountains rise and touch the clouds” and “overlook a lake with serpentine creatures”. It didn’t help that it had been eons since those references had been penned and the landscapes that once might have seemed distinctive had changed.

“Leo’s been working on the clues and has come up with some possible locations.”

“As have my servants,” Pollita interjected. “But we won’t know if their theories are correct until we find an actual egg.”

“Hence why I’ve begun a subtle effort to recruit people to scout those locations.” So subtle, Abaddon didn’t have anyone yet, but he wasn’t about to let Pollita know that he’d been lax about forming a scouting team.

“You really think a human can tell a dragon egg from a regular rock?” she scoffed.

“Probably not. Most likely, once I get to be a proper size, I shall go hunt for them myself.”

“Destroy the competition before it hatches. A wise plan of action if this were another time. Given the way humans have exploded population-wise, we might need allies.”

“Allies that will later require elimination if we’re to rule the world,” Abaddon countered.

“Are you scared of competition?” Pollita purred.

“No,” he blurted. As if he’d lose.

“What of the scientist Malone? Have you eaten him yet for being insubordinate?”

“He lives. For the moment. He thinks himself clever for refusing to divulge which volcanoes he attempted to ignite. However, Pip has a hacker who’s been working on his encrypted files. Once they’re cracked, we will know everything.”

“Do you think we’re the only ones who hatched through his machinations?” she asked.

“He seems to think those other attempts failed.” But then again, Malone had also thought Pollita dead, and look how wrong he’d been about that.

“My servant, Juan, has been using his connections to get a list of all the volcanoes that erupted in the past few years. Of those documented, six were unexpected and could have been induced by your Malone.”

“If you want to send me what he’s found, I can have Leo compare those locations to see if by any chance their descriptions match our clues.”

“Excellent idea,” Pollita stated, and he almost preened at the praise. “I’ve also had some of my other servants combing the internet for any stories of mysterious flying creatures or an uptick in the loss of herds in areas of eruption.”

“Good thinking,” he complimented. Beautiful and smart.

Pollita half turned as if she heard something. “Time for me to go. They just rang the dinner bell.”

“Before you do…” He lowered his voice. “I figure another few months and I’ll be able to plot a course to visit. That is, if you would like to meet still.”

Her teeth gleamed as she replied, “I would like that very much, Abba.”

It took all his fortitude to remain stoic rather than give in to giddiness. “Like you, I must go now. Important matters to attend.”

They ended the call and he allowed himself a loud bugle of excitement.

“Someone’s happy,” Pip noted, having returned.

“Don’t know what you mean,” he fibbed even as he fairly vibrated with anticipation. “Open the doors. I need to hunt.” And feed. And grow. Because a certain female dragon waited for him.

Best he cement that alliance before she discovered he’d told a lie. Despite him asking her to send a list of activated volcanoes her servant had sniffed out, he already knew of them. One in particular happened to be a name Leo recognized. “I remember Mount Amiata. It was the first one we tried to erupt, only nothing really happened other than heightened underground seismic activity. Malone was so pissed.”

Leo and Malone had assumed that the lack of the top blown off the mountain meant their attempt to hatch a dragon failed. After all, increased magma wouldn’t matter if the egg wasn’t anywhere near a lava flow. But… what if an egg did crack and its occupant perished because it never found its way to the surface? Or worse, what if it built up its strength while remaining hidden inside the mountain?

There could be another male out there who would become competition for Pollita’s attention. The very thought had him steaming.

She’s mine. Because dragons didn’t share.

Chapter 1

The curser blinked repeatedly and I wanted to punch it. I didn’t appreciate the way it kept mocking my inability to type anything of worth.

My editor expected a finished manuscript before the end of the month. In her defense, I’d had two years to write it. Two years of struggling to find the words. It didn’t help I’d spent most of them drunk. The bottle became my best friend after my wife left me for another dude, but even more traumatizing, she took my dog, Buster. I still missed that big goof even as I stalked her social media and saw him living his best life, playing fetch.

With another man.

The betrayal bit deep.

To escape it all, and with my deadline rapidly approaching, I’d recently fled the USA and temporarily relocated to a spot close to Mount Amiata in Italy. Drastic, I know, but my editor had a friend with a friend whose cousin owned a chalet that wasn’t usually rented in the winter since its remote location made it difficult to reach once the snow started falling.

The privacy—and absence of triggering memories, such as the couch where Buster and I used to snuggle—suited my needs even if I didn’t have use of the extra bedrooms it came with. Situated a fair distance up a mountain and reached by a sketchy, narrow, single-lane road, the chalet possessed a basic kitchen, which matched my cooking skill. The living room with a fireplace meant exercise in the form of splitting logs—and yeah, I’d been swinging that ax plenty since I’d kicked myself off the booze. And when I worked myself sore, there was a hot tub for soaking while enjoying the view. No neighbors equaled no distractions. As for my liver? It got a break since the nearest bar required me to drive. Even I knew better than to drink and drive, because despite my shitshow of a life, I didn’t want to die.

Should have been the perfect place to put my fingers to the typing grindstone.

Nope.

I fucking hated it. Never thought myself a social guy until I literally had no one to talk to. It should be noted that when I lived in the city, I rarely spoke to anyone, but I could have. If I’d wanted to.

And here I was, procrastinating again. I stared at the screen, fingers frozen over the keyboard, once more cursing myself for choosing to become a writer. At the time, recovering from being injured in the line of duty—with a leg that never fully healed from the shrapnel despite the surgeries and rehab—I needed something to keep my mind busy. It had been my therapist who’d suggested I begin journaling as a way to work through what I’d experienced. I thought it dumb, and yet, I tried it, writing down what I remembered but from the perspective of a third party, as if I watched what had happened from the outside. It didn’t help the nightmares, but I found myself enjoying the soothing nature of putting into words some of the things I experienced. Given the private nature of a journal, I spilled every thought and emotion into it, never expecting anyone to read it.

My now ex-wife stole what I wrote and sent it in to an editor she knew. When she told me, I was pissed. So very, very pissed, until the publishing house made me an offer with a crazy number of zeroes attached. For a guy struggling to maintain a household and his dignity on a disability check, the contract they offered felt like winning the lottery. That first book made me enough I forgave my ex and embarked on a new career.

Five years later and I could claim without arrogance that I was good at it. Who knew my gritty times in the field and trenches would have an audience? Avid readers were patiently—and not-so-patiently, according to various DMs and emails—waiting for the next book in my ongoing series, Sniper Behind the Lines, featuring a better version of my ornery ass, Brett Maverick. Given I couldn’t talk about most of my missions without being arrested for treason, I had to make changes to ensure the stories were fictional. However, I knew enough and had seen enough that scenarios proved easy—usually—to develop. Then there were the sensory details I could relate. How the grit of the Middle East clung to the skin and tongue, the feel and weight of the rifle, the way I’d sink into a trance as I lined up a shot, the adrenaline of battle. According to reviews, I knew how to suck a reader in and make them feel as if they were actually there.

Seeing as how my last two novels hit the bestseller lists, the pressure mounted to produce a sequel that wouldn’t suck. Hard to do when I just wanted to wallow in my misery.

My high school sweetheart, who’d seen me through all the physio sessions and held me when I woke shouting from nightmares, suddenly decided—after I found fame and fortune—that she wanted a different man. One without a bum leg. One who liked to dance. A guy who could give her kids. In other words, someone who wasn’t broken.

I shoved away from the desk as self-pity overwhelmed.

Fuck me. I wanted a drink so bad, but I’d intentionally left booze off my weekly deliveries, and the two times I’d gone to town I’d avoided the temptation to buy a bottle. Because one bottle led to two, and next thing I knew I’d find myself pissing in the most inappropriate places. Apartment building vestibule. My own fucking shoe by my front door.

Not cool.

Despite that, I craved the mindlessness that came from lots of alcohol. Maybe a dip in the hot tub would relax my ass. I needed to clear my head so the words could flow.

Throwing on a robe, with my feet loosely shoved into my boots, I headed out to the deck with its awesome view of Mount Amiata. Located in the Tuscany region, the long dormant volcano was a popular spot for hiking in the spring, summer, and fall, and skiing in the winter. A winter that started out slow until after the New Year. Within the last week, a layer of snow had fallen and covered everything in a blanket of white. Pretty but cold. With its arrival, just about every rental and hotel in the area was about to get booked solid. I didn’t have to worry, though. I had this place for as long as I needed since the owner didn’t usually rent during the winter months because of the difficulty getting to and from the chalet.

Given I didn’t have to worry about being seen, I stripped naked and sank into the hot tub, my muscles immediately relaxing in the bubbling, hot water. Sigh. I did enjoy this particular amenity. It eased the almost constant ache in my leg. It had me thinking of buying one for my place. The house I’d gotten to keep in the divorce. The place that killed me with memories every time I walked in the door.

I really should sell. Get myself some place new. One bedroom, since there would be no kids. Or maybe two, so I had a place to put my hot tub and sauna. I’d have asked my therapist what he thought, only I didn’t trust him anymore since he’d gotten together with my ex.

He’d almost died for it. I’d had the doctor in my scope’s sights a few nights as I lay on the roof of the building adjacent to his condo. My finger had tensed on the trigger, but in the end, I couldn’t kill Gary. Yeah, he was banging Elodie. Yeah, he was the one Buster now pissed on in excitement when he got home from work. But what would killing Gary do? It wouldn’t change the fact Elodie didn’t want my broken ass and I couldn’t exactly keep Buster with me in a jail cell.

I’d ended up being the bigger man. I let him live. And got drunk to numb the pain. A pain that never ended. Or was it the loneliness killing me? Either way, I would never escape. My leg would never fully heal, couldn’t with the missing chunk. As for ever finding love again? Why bother even trying when Elodie, a woman I’d loved for seven years, left because I wasn’t man enough anymore?

God, I wanted a drink.

No drink. Think of your abused liver.

Fuck my liver.

You need a clear head to write.

Fuck the story.

You’ll be fucked if you don’t turn it in.

I had two months. If I could do even a measly thousand words a day, I’d have a manuscript. Now, I just needed an idea. Something to lighten the darkness that kept creeping into the few chapters I’d struggled to spit out already.

What could I do to my hero, Brett, to give the book the flair I was known for? As one reviewer put it: For such a serious subject matter, Mr. Milner manages to inject a lighthearted repartee that keeps it from being depressing. Funny how I could that in books, just not real life.

My head tilted back, my eyes closed, and I relaxed. Until I heard a splash.

What the fuck?

I jolted upright and stared at the bubbling water. I was alone, so what fell in the tub? No trees overhung the spot, so not a nut or branch. I stood to look, but the frothing from the jets made it impossible to see anything below the surface. A press of a button and the motor went quiet, the only sound the occasional pop as the wood that kept the tub warm burned. The liquid settled and the lights on the inside of the tub showed me who’d jumped in.

Or should I say, what?

As if sensing my regard, the cat-sized creature rose from the bottom, the top of its head emerging first, then its big eyes, followed by its snout. Definitely a reptile. I might have thought I hallucinated, only I remained sober. No drugs for the pain. No booze. Nothing to explain the lizard eyeing me with a hint of caution. Had my drinking finally caught up to me and addled my mind?

I blinked but the lizard remained. I rubbed my hand over my bristled jaw. “Well, fuck.”

What to do?

Nothing. I wasn’t about to wrestle a reptile that size while naked.

I exited the tub and grabbed my terrycloth robe. As I wrapped it around my shoulders and slid my feet into my boots, I glanced at my scaly guest floating in the hot water. “Enjoy. I’m going back to work.”

Because miracles of all miracles, I had an idea. My hero, Brett, was about to get himself a reptilian sidekick.