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Marty
Dragon Riders 1 : Bonded Hearts
by Marty Rayne
Publisher: Loose-Id
Artist: Christine M. Griffin
ISBN: 978-1-59632-580-7
e-book: $4.99
Genre: Fantasy, M/M/F menage
When Detective Nick Montgomery finally catches up to the serial killer plaguing Miami, he finds himself in a kind of trouble he never expected: caught up in the killer's magic. The killer's spell transports him to Ketall, an alternate world of a primitive nature, home of dragons.
Jax, a red-eyed dragon, doesn't exactly like him -- or the idea of having to share her Rider, Kel, with anyone, especially not Nick. Kel's young, possessive, and spoiled. At least that's what Kel tells her. So why is she starting to be attracted to this off-worlder who interrupts their life? Why does he set her blood boiling with desire every time they are near? And why can't she kill him to rid her of the annoyance?
Kel, her Rider, has been drawn to the stranger he saved from death from the beginning; more so when he realizes that Nick is also fated to bond with his dragon, Jax. Never has a dragon had two bondmates at one time, and the prospect astounds -- and arouses -- him.
Then an evil sorcerer and his witch complicate matters by trying to send Nick back to his own world. If they succeed, it will destroy Ketall. And kill both Jax and Kel.
Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Ménage (m/m/f), homoerotic sexual practices, violence.
Excerpt:
Awareness came slow to Nick. The floor beneath him was leisurely rocking, almost lulling him back into the abyss of unconsciousness until it jostled none too gently. The movement slammed the air from his lungs. Just when his breath came back to him, the ground jumped from beneath him again.
Nick groaned with pain and forced his eyes to open. He tried to lift to his hands and knees, keeping his balance with the sway, but his right leg refused to hold his weight so he tumbled back down while his right arm screamed in protest as he landed hard on it.
“Fuck,” he spat.
The rattle of chains drew Nick’s attention to his surroundings for the first time. His eyes finally focused on the wood floor. The sun heated his skin, birds chirping reached his ears, and a horse neighing let him know he was outside without having to look around.
His thoughts were foggy. What was the last thing he remembered?
He was chasing a killer. Amos Bronson. And blood. Lots of blood everywhere. There was a light, its brightness and heat burning him, followed by cool darkness. What had happened? How had he gotten outside? And hadn’t it been nighttime?
“He’s awake,” a sharp voice dragged Nick from his cloudy memories.
There were six sets of eyes staring at him. All were men of varying ages, their appearance unkempt. They were streaked with dirt and were clad only in pants that tied at the waist. The only other items adorning them were the thick manacles on their wrists that dangled with a chain connected to the floor.
Prisoners? What was he doing with prisoners? But they weren’t dressed in the normal inmate attire. Nick’s confusion deepened.
“Where the…?” Nick attempted to sit up again, this time being more careful of his leg and arm.
Nick was in some sort of cage. Crudely created. The top and bottom made of thick wood and the bars surrounding them made of solid black iron. The swaying and jostling was the result of it being pulled behind a single horse. The wheels kicked up dust from the dirt road.
Like the others, thick iron manacles adorned his own wrists locking him to the floor. Even if one weren’t chained, there would be no way a man of average height could stand in it. Even at his five foot eleven inches, Nick wouldn’t be able to kneel without having to slump down.
“Who are you? Where am I?” His throat was dry and scratchy. He felt hot and chilled at the same time. Sweat dripped from his forehead, yet he shivered. “How did I get here?”
“Found you on the side of the road. The Master thought he’d get some coin for you before you died,” a red-haired man sneered at him.
Nick shook his head. The Master? Coin before he died? What was with the cage? This dirt road? Where the hell was he? Certainly not in Miami. Instead of tall buildings, busy streets, and palm trees, there were thick clumps of trees along one side of the road and open fields on the other.
Definitely not Miami.
He closed his eyes, nothing making sense. Nick ignored the sharp pain in his leg and the way the fabric of his jeans stuck to the wound.
“I don’t…” His words were clipped by the pop of a whip. The six men flinched and cowered as far as their chains would allow.
“No talking, slaves.” A harsh, deep voice boomed from Nick’s left. Turning, he was met with near black eyes. They belonged to a large built man dressed straight out of a medieval festival. His pants were dark brown, resembling leather. His shirt, probably originally white in color, now coated with sweat and the dirt from the road, was tight around his bulky build. He had several leather bands around his wrists and leather boots adorning his feet. The most menacing part of him was the long bullwhip he held in his hand.
Nope, Toto. He definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
Nick groaned with pain and forced his eyes to open. He tried to lift to his hands and knees, keeping his balance with the sway, but his right leg refused to hold his weight so he tumbled back down while his right arm screamed in protest as he landed hard on it.
“Fuck,” he spat.
The rattle of chains drew Nick’s attention to his surroundings for the first time. His eyes finally focused on the wood floor. The sun heated his skin, birds chirping reached his ears, and a horse neighing let him know he was outside without having to look around.
His thoughts were foggy. What was the last thing he remembered?
He was chasing a killer. Amos Bronson. And blood. Lots of blood everywhere. There was a light, its brightness and heat burning him, followed by cool darkness. What had happened? How had he gotten outside? And hadn’t it been nighttime?
“He’s awake,” a sharp voice dragged Nick from his cloudy memories.
There were six sets of eyes staring at him. All were men of varying ages, their appearance unkempt. They were streaked with dirt and were clad only in pants that tied at the waist. The only other items adorning them were the thick manacles on their wrists that dangled with a chain connected to the floor.
Prisoners? What was he doing with prisoners? But they weren’t dressed in the normal inmate attire. Nick’s confusion deepened.
“Where the…?” Nick attempted to sit up again, this time being more careful of his leg and arm.
Nick was in some sort of cage. Crudely created. The top and bottom made of thick wood and the bars surrounding them made of solid black iron. The swaying and jostling was the result of it being pulled behind a single horse. The wheels kicked up dust from the dirt road.
Like the others, thick iron manacles adorned his own wrists locking him to the floor. Even if one weren’t chained, there would be no way a man of average height could stand in it. Even at his five foot eleven inches, Nick wouldn’t be able to kneel without having to slump down.
“Who are you? Where am I?” His throat was dry and scratchy. He felt hot and chilled at the same time. Sweat dripped from his forehead, yet he shivered. “How did I get here?”
“Found you on the side of the road. The Master thought he’d get some coin for you before you died,” a red-haired man sneered at him.
Nick shook his head. The Master? Coin before he died? What was with the cage? This dirt road? Where the hell was he? Certainly not in Miami. Instead of tall buildings, busy streets, and palm trees, there were thick clumps of trees along one side of the road and open fields on the other.
Definitely not Miami.
He closed his eyes, nothing making sense. Nick ignored the sharp pain in his leg and the way the fabric of his jeans stuck to the wound.
“I don’t…” His words were clipped by the pop of a whip. The six men flinched and cowered as far as their chains would allow.
“No talking, slaves.” A harsh, deep voice boomed from Nick’s left. Turning, he was met with near black eyes. They belonged to a large built man dressed straight out of a medieval festival. His pants were dark brown, resembling leather. His shirt, probably originally white in color, now coated with sweat and the dirt from the road, was tight around his bulky build. He had several leather bands around his wrists and leather boots adorning his feet. The most menacing part of him was the long bullwhip he held in his hand.
Nope, Toto. He definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
To find out more about Marty Rayne and her books, visit her website and blog.
Website - http://www.martyrayne.com/
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