Page 57 of Mate of a Monster

“I’m going to need the dragons to let me.”

I shrug. “I don’t control them.” The beast scoffs in my head. “Besides, Thyrix wants to eat Arabella for lunch. I say we let him and get this over with.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

Creed’s jaw clenches “Because if she dies, Legend might die, too.”

I seethe, pushing forward with a growl. “What did you do?”

“Haide. Please. One step at a time.” His eyes glow white. I tense, waiting for him to dig into my mind again—but it’s the other way around. Like I’m the one in his head.

I see his sincerity as if it’s my own.

I shove my arms out again with a deep breath. “Hurry before I change my mind.”

With one swift move of his arms and a few muttered words, the hellhound leashes wrap around my wrists. They come to life, slithering around my forearms and back down.

The beast’s laugh echoes in my mind. “The hellhounds, they recognize your blood. They won’t hold you.”

“Why? How?”

“I don’t call you Hellpet for nothing, little mate.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You will, but play along. They need to feel like they’re in control.”

The dragons grow uneasy, their shifting weight sending rocks falling from the edges of the buildings.

Instantly, I turn to Thyrix. He understands without me saying a single word. With a commanding roar, he draws the attention of his companions and they instantly understand the order, kicking off the ground and soaring into the air.

Thyrix is the last to leave, but not before sending a short line of fire that dies out at Arabella’s feet, earning a little shriek from the Argent bitch.

I chuckle and Creed lets out a deep sigh.

“You’re going to be an even bigger problem now, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

I scowl, studying the man before me. “Why does it sound like you want me to be?”

Creed’s lips twitch the slightest bit, but his brows crash a second later. “Because I do.”

Chapter Twelve

Legend

Wind drags cold air across my skin as I brace my hands against the stone railing of the balcony, trying to will the surge inside me into something manageable.

Her voice, all rasp and hot honey, is lodged under my ribs like a splinter I can’t dig out. The second I heard it, I realized I forgot the sound completely. Nothing about it was familiar yet every fucking tenor slipped into my mind and, like acid, burned a hole there. It was like her voice was erased from my brain.

As it fucking should be.

Right?

Arabella’s heels click against stone as she approaches. Her hands settle against my shoulders, and I have to force my muscles not to stiffen further.

It’s not her fault I’m in a mood. A good mate would remember that.