Not His Dragon Read Online Free PDF Page A

him?” It wouldn’t be difficult. Lorenzo feared him in human form. He couldn’t imagine the art dealer’s reaction to him in his beast form.
    “No.” Roger met his glare. Another reason why he liked his agent. “We do this based on your work.”
    “Very well.” He left the sunlight by entering his castle. The doorway barely accommodated his size. Most of his home did, though. That was the point of living in such a huge building by himself. Just the bedrooms and bathrooms were too small. He rarely used either. He swam in the lake to bathe and slept under the stars on the rooftop.
    Taking the curved staircase, he climbed the tower to his workshop and glared at the stacks of unframed paintings piled against the wall. Monet, Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, even that fart Picasso had surpassed him with their work. What did they possess that he lacked besides their humanity?
    One by one, he flicked through the stacks, stabbing his paintings with his claws and tossing them over his shoulder into a huge pile. Sceneries, portraits, abstracts—crap, crap, crap. Others had described his work as flat, emotionless, and one-dimensional. Of course it was one dimensional and flat. He painted on a smooth surface. How did one inspire emotion when inside he felt dead?
    Heat rolled within his chest. He spun and blew fire over the pile of trash. Now, this was art. He sat by the window and watched the last century of his work turn to ash. When his agent brought Lorenzo in a few days, Eoin would have nothing to show him. Maybe he should return to his clan. They didn’t understand him—no one did—but at least he would be among his own kind.
    He reached behind him and scratched his lower back. The flames licked over the surfaces of the canvas as if tasting the dried paint. They reached high above, almost touching the ceiling. The castle was made of stone. Fire would scorch the wall and maybe burn the roof. All could be repaired if he cared to.
    The heat grew until his scales sizzled. In the corner of the room a mound of empty paint and soda cans sagged, melting in the presence of the intense heat. He snaked over and smashed the heap with his fist.
    Fuck them.
    Fuck the critic, fuck Lorenzo, fuck Roger. He spun around, whipping his tail to slap-shot the accumulation of melted scrap out the window. He breathed heavy and watched the flames lick over his scales. The red and orange contrasted nicely over his black hide. So much color in just this room.
    Eoin shifted to human form and dressed in a pair of stained jeans he kept here for this reason. Grabbing a brush and pallet, he picked a blank canvas. The light from his fire flickered over the flat surface. The differences in the shadows gave it depth. He watched the shades of light change until they blurred. With a little confidence, he traced this new inspiration.
    The shadows moved from dark to light so quickly it took his shifter reflexes to follow. He paused to observe once more. The violent nature reminded him of his not-quite a she-dragon who liked to scratch backs. A smile almost tugged at his lips.
    Pepper spray. That’s what he’d call this painting.
     
     
     
     

Chapter Five
     
     
     
    Eoin grew more aware of his surroundings as he woke. The hard stone floor bit into his soft skin. He hated when he slept in his human form. It left him vulnerable. Where had he been last night? He cracked open an eyelid. A pile of ashes filled the center of the room except for his latest painting drying on the easel.
    He rose onto his elbows and wiped the drool from the corner of his lip. He’d been so exhausted that he’d fallen asleep next to his easel. He stretched and worked on the knots in his shoulders and legs.
    Reaching around, he scratched his lower back but his blunt nails didn’t ease the itch this time. Withdrawing his hand, he glimpsed blood on his fingertips. What the fuck? He glanced over his shoulder and could see a bloody smear where he’d itched, but not the source of