Windburn (Nightwing# 2)

By: Juliette Cross

Acknowledgements


Once again, I must thank my amazing beta readers who helped me through the entire Nightwing series. Jessen, Julie, Rebekah, Rachel, Brooke, and Amber—love you ladies to pieces. I hope you’re ready for more. And to my editor, Corinne DeMaagd, I am certain that fate has tied us together. I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfect to guide and help me bring the Morgon world to new heights.





Prologue




Yeah. I heard that fairytale when I was twelve years old. The one about the dragon king violating Princess Morga the night before her wedding, then forcing her to be his sex slave. Whatever. As soon as Mom finished telling me the story, I was like…

“Bullshit.”

“Sorcha! Don’t say that word. It’s so unladylike.”

“Mom, have you actually seen a Morgon guy up close?”

“Of course, darling. What does that have to do with anything?”

I wasn’t even out of training bras, and I knew better than my mother what kind of man could truly satisfy a woman.

“Seriously, Mom? Because they’re a giant, hot, hunk of man. He wouldn’t have to force me, that’s for damn sure.”

“Sorcha! Such language! If your father were here—”

“Well, he’s not. Is he?”

And that was the end of that conversation.

I used to imagine I was Princess Morga, bathing under the moonlight, a voluptuous temptation of soft curves and smooth skin. The dragon king would come, fall instantly in love with me and take me in his arms, then carry me away to his kingdom in the mountains. There, he would cherish me, protect me, and love me for all eternity.

Of course, girls grow up and fairytales fade.

But even after years of disillusionment and disappointment, I never lost the dream of one day having my very own Morgon man. I kept this dream well-hidden, tucked away deep within my heart, always hoping it might one day come true.





Chapter 1




Even in sleep, Morgon men were hot as hell.

I shimmied into my black, strapless dress, admiring the view of the nude man sprawled across the bed, face-down, gray wings splayed to the side. Mmm.

No time for gawking, I grabbed my heels and headed for the elevator. Thank God, he lived in one of the few Morgon buildings with human access. Otherwise, I’d have to wake him to fly me down to the parking lot ten stories below. Morgon-only buildings had one entrance and exit—out the balcony and over the edge.

I checked the time on my comm device as the elevator dinged on the garage floor. Twenty minutes.

“Fuck!”

Running in bare feet to my black coupe, I clicked open the trunk with the key remote. After dropping six-inch stilettos inside, I strapped on a low-heeled, conservative pair and slipped into a white, tailored jacket. Fastening the two buttons covered most of my cleavage. Most.

I jumped in the car and jammed it into gear, hauling my make-up bag into my lap. Between lights, I managed to make my face look decent and twist my unruly, dark red hair on top of my head, a few wispy tendrils hanging down. By some freaking miracle, I found a parking spot in the front of Nightwing Industries. Pulling open the glove compartment, I found my stash of jewelry and clasped on a strand of large, white pearls with matching earrings. I prepared for all occasions, carrying just about everything a modern woman might need in the trunk or glove compartment of my car.

“This’ll have to do.”

I caught a glimpse of my reflection as I stepped up to the mirrored building. Yep, totally professional. No one could tell I rolled out of a man’s bed thirty minutes ago.

The front desk receptionist, a dainty Morgon brunette with rust-red wings, sent me straight up to the 77th floor. My comm device read 8:01 as I slipped it into my handbag and pushed through the large double doors into the conference room.

Six pairs of eyes swiveled in my direction. Chin up, smile on, I sashayed toward an available seat next to the Morgon at the head of the table. His tiger eyes tracked me all the way across the room.

From my first glance of Lorian Nightwing, I had recognized the beast in him. His older brother, Lucius, now mated to my best friend, Jessen, reminded me of a lion. A languorous predator who waited for the prey to come closer. Not Lorian. His beast was a tiger—prowling, stalking, pacing. Watching from afar, then moving in for the kill before you even saw him. And his eyes—one hazel-gold, the other brilliant blue. The average person might piss his pants from their sheer intensity. Not me. I relished the challenge in his dominant gaze, making damn sure to never look away first.

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