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connection. “Have you ever met other dragons?”
    “Sure. My father has lots of friends. Other beings, and not just dragons, come to him for advice. He is very much respected.”
    “You grew up in Alaska?” He picked up her other foot and yanked off the boot.
    “Yeah. On Fire Island. Manx, my dad, told me never to tell people who or what I was.”
    Kirill’s hands stilled, sure he’d heard her wrong. “Did you say Manx?”
    “Yep, Manx Supreme. Don’t get me wrong, the man can be surly, but deep down he’s got a molten center.”
    “Double damn.” Kirill made the connection.
    He slid his hands up her legs and crawled between the “V” her thighs created. If she was alive that meant Manx the Supreme was alive. Drago was trying to eliminate the competition. Kirill pressed a kiss to her belly. Shit just got serious. He knew that ass would make a play for the jewels and with no one to challenge him it was quite possible he could obtain the Supreme title and rule uncontested.
    Kirill rubbed his cheek against her sweater, moving his head in time with the way she pushed her fingers through his hair. With Synda dead, Drago could easily become the most powerful dragon among the shifters. And with the jewels to uphold his claim, he could buy any other backing he needed. The soft brush of her lips on his temple brought him from his musings.
    “Synda, do you know where your father is?”
    “No, I was going to go home to visit him. I haven’t heard from him in a few days and I was starting to get worried.”
    Kirill groaned. He lifted his head, looked into her eyes and saw trust. There was a distinct possibility that Drago had discovered Manx and already made the moves necessary to ensure he’d obtain the Supreme title. But how did you tell your woman, newly bonded, her father might be dead and he’d originally been sent to kill her?
    “Synda, I need to explain dragon politics…”

Chapter Seven
    Manx sat to Drago’s left and glance around the room, not bothering to conceal his contempt. The depraved idiot had gathered his cronies to form what could be loosely called a court. The room itself wasn’t as large as others that were sectioned off in the warehouse, which had become his temporary home. It was decorated like a royal drawing room, with the groupings of furniture facing an oversized chair flecked in gold, upholstered in red satin and mounted on a dais. Heavy Cerise velvet drapes concealed the barred windows, and the Victorian furniture with the ornately carved arms and legs, on thickly piled rugs the same shade as the curtains, gave the illusion of opulence. Drago sat in his chair like a king receiving his courtiers.
    Lesser dragons deferred to Drago about minor matters, feeding into his delusion of greatness. Manx sucked his teeth. What did he care who was in debt to whom? Hell, he used to decide matters of dragon state that could make or break alliances, and ruled on whether or not a dragon could conduct business with humans. This nonsensical posturing was just a parody of what was once true dragon pride. Manx shook his head. No wonder other shifters no longer took them seriously. It was times like this he really wished he could eat a bitch.
    Drago was obviously flaunting him to others in a show of pseudo strength by keeping him at his side. Manx coughed and hastily covered his mouth with a handkerchief. He looked at the fabric when he pulled the material away. Crimson stained the white cotton. He needed a little more time to make sure Synda was safe, and maybe find a way to give Drago the slip. He wanted to give his daughter one last goodbye.
    Someone cleared their throat, and Manx lifted his head to see what new idiocy Drago had dreamed up. Manx watched as a stranger entered the room. He narrowed his eyes, trying to read exactly who had entered the chamber. The heavy steps of the being, with a thick bulky body and total disregard for those around him, amused Manx.
    The creature pulled at the cuffs of