Page 1 of Dragon’s Ending

Chapter One

BEN

The imposing wrought-iron gates stood wide open, but the carved dragons on top of the stone gateposts weren’t exactly welcoming. Their wings were spread wide in warning, and gaping mouths revealed sharp teeth.

The nameplate fixed to the right-hand gatepost didn’t help me to feel any more relaxed about this place: Dragon’s Ending.

At least it was singular. Not all dragons, then. Which would be little comfort if I turned out to be the one whose ending this was.

I turned in through the gates, glad to leave the narrow, one-track road. God knew how many I’d gone down to get here, having had to reverse back for miles at one point because heaven forbid GPS actually be accurate.

The drive was wide and tarmacked, lined with graceful lime trees. The elegant approach did nothing to prepare me for the house that lay just around the gentle, sweeping curve. It looked like something straight out of The Addams Family. Built from the grey slate-stone that seemed so common in this part of Wales, it sprawled across the hillside. Turrets sprouted from unexpected parts of the roofline, and narrow windows looked uncannily like disapproving eyes staring at me.

Whoever had designed this place had an interesting sense of humour. Or maybe they just liked over-the-top Gothic architecture and could afford to have it built, so had thought why the hell not.

I knew from the little Evelyn had been able to tell me about the Bedwyr family that they were rich. “Back in the day, they were the primary Welsh dragon family,” she'd said.

“And now?” I’d asked.

She shrugged by way of answer, that fluid way she had of making it look like a comment rather than an admission of ignorance—something she hated. All my family hated having holes in our knowledge, but Evelyn, as our head, seemed to take it particularly hard.

The last part of the drive was gravelled, crunching beneath the car’s tyres as I pulled in between a mud-spattered Range Rover and a low-slung sports car in bright metallic blue.

For better or worse, I was here, and eager to get going on my task. Evelyn had been honest about why she’d assigned this work to me alone when there were a number of dragons in our family who specialised in the earliest parts of dragon history.

“The main problem is that Rhodri Bedwyr has a bit of a reputation, and you’re the least likely to react to his dictatorial nature,” she’d said. “Rob, God love him, would be at Bedwyr’s throat within an hour, and he’d scare Lucy half to death. So, I’m sorry, Ben—you’re going to have to navigate this one on your own. The last thing we need is a diplomatic incident before we’ve secured their information.”

I nodded. “And the other reasons?”

Evelyn looked taken aback for an instant.

“You said this was the main one,” I reminded her.

“Good catch. Well, along with the fact you read Welsh, there is another reason why you’re the perfect choice. The Bedwyr heir.” She paused an instant. “He, too, has a reputation.” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes suddenly sparkling. I couldn’t blame her—all historians were gossips at heart. Why else would we take so much enjoyment in poking around in other people’s lives?

“You know the Moot sent a representative from the Carlew family to stay with them last year?” she checked. “Word has it that the visit was curtailed somewhat abruptly. Bedwyr the younger slept with the Carlew dragon within days of his arrival, then refused to have anything more to do with him. That’s reading between the lines of what’s being said, of course, but apparently it’s perfectly in character for Bedwyr. The Carlews are furious, though I’m not sure if they’re angrier with their own dragon or with the Bedwyrs. But the point is, I don’t want anyone there who’s likely to be bowled over by charm, status, or even—God help us—sex appeal. You’ve got a sensible head on your shoulders.”

And I’d like to keep it safely there, no matter how unfriendly this place had felt so far. Which meant getting on with why I was here. So I turned off the engine and reached for the door handle, only to pause as the massive front door opened.

The man who came out was in his mid-twenties, dark-haired, and moved with the predatory grace of a dragon. My immediate thought, that someone had seen me arrive and was greeting me, was swiftly corrected when he didn’t even glance in my direction.

I took advantage of that to size up the first member of the family I’d seen. He was slender for a dragon, but quite well-built by human standards. Lithe, my mind supplied, as I watched the way he stood outside the door, fists clenched by the black jeans that did absolutely nothing to hide the strength of his thighs, and then let my gaze trail upwards. Only to stop when I reached his face. Because while every nerve in him seemed to be thrumming with something—tension, or anger, perhaps—his expression was something that I didn’t think I should be looking at. Something raw and hurting.

He evidently didn’t know anyone was watching him, so I made a bit of a performance of noisily opening my door and moved around to the boot of the car without looking at him again.

The sound of boots on gravel alerted me that he was closing in on me fast. I looked up to see him striding across the drive, nostrils flaring in an unfairly attractive way as he took in the fact I, too, was a dragon. His dragon was already showing in his eyes, pupils narrowing to vertical slits in irises that glowed gold.

“Hi. I’m Ben Berstow,” I said, closing the boot. I hefted my bag onto my shoulder. “Your head of family invited me to stay here a while.”

That brought him up short. It seemed I’d surprised him, though I couldn’t tell how. His eyes roamed over me as if they had every right to do so, and for an instant I thought he wasn’t going to say anything.

“My condolences,” he said at last, his voice low, and I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or flirting. Whatever reaction he wanted from me, he wasn’t going to get it.

“Thank you,” I said calmly, and began to make my way towards the front door.

Up close, he was ridiculously attractive. The kind of face that would start a small war in a period drama—fine-boned, framed by dark hair sweeping over his forehead, his dark brown eyes assessing me with unsettling intensity.

“That’s all you brought?” he asked, falling into step beside me.