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  ETERNAL

  DRAGON WARS

  Rebecca Royce

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Eternal

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  More Books by Rebecca Royce | The Westervelt Wolves

  Fallen Alpha

  The Capes

  The Conditioned

  Eternal

  The last thing Dougal Owens expected was his mate to show up on the front lines of the war he has been fighting for sixteen years. Scarred and fully aware the Werewolves are not winning their battle, he does not want Caitlyn Knox anywhere near the dragon island she insists on visiting—even if she can turn the tide of the war.

  Caitlyn Knox knows she is unmatable. Genetically flawed, she has no hopes Dougal will return her love. But if she can save them all, she is willing to risk everything to see the job done.

  War torn and nearly destroyed, Caitlyn and Dougal find love and fight for hope while the dragons ready to destroy them all.

  Prologue

  “Tell me what you know.” No matter how many times Dougal heard the things speak his language, it never ceased to weird him out. “Answer me, Werewolf, or I’ll burn you again.”

  He had no doubt the dragon would do exactly as she claimed.

  All right. If she wanted an answer, she’d get one.

  “I know the planet is round. It spins and moves around the sun. I know I used to have a life—a good one. I lived with my family. We had a pack. There were rules and I did my best to follow them. On full moons, we all shifted together. I went to school. Later, I would have gone to work.”

  The dragon hit him with her purple wing. He’d never seen one entirely the color of an eggplant before. Then again he’d never seen their Queen.

  “Don’t like my answer? Okay, I’ve got more. I know our scientists think, thousands of years ago, there were these creatures called humans who lived here. They’re long gone. If they hadn’t left some stuff behind, I’d think they were unicorns. Heard of unicorns? They had long pointy stems.”

  “No.” The dragon seized his neck and lifted him off the ground. One wrong move and he’d been dead. “Tell me about the woman.”

  “What woman?”

  He’d die before he told the beast anything about her...

  Chapter One

  The screeching sounds of dying dragons hit Dougal Owens as he tromped toward headquarters through boot-sucking mud. He’d pulled the shoes off a dead soldier to replace his torn pair, but they’d be disgusting by the time he arrived at his destination.

  Things would be easier if he shifted. He’d already be out of the muck. However, the rule was no-shifting near HQ unless they were being attacked, in which case everyone shifted and fast. Pain in the ass rule, but habit after sixteen years of war.

  He heard the flap of wings as the green demon arrived overhead. Dougal put his hands on his hips and watched while the dragon alert-howls sounded in the air. The whoosh of the wings and the roar of the beast’s snarl seemed to hasten the creature’s approach.

  His fellow Werewolf commander, Brett Daly, moved to stand next to him. Brett was tall, blond and prematurely greying around his temples. Lines crisscrossed around the other man’s eyes which mirrored Dougal’s own exhaustion. Brett nodded toward the sky. “Are you kidding? Again?”

  Dougal shook his head. “This is the fifth attack on HQ this morning. They have to know we’re running things from here. No more element of surprise, I guess.”

  His friend frowned. “What concerns me whether or not they know what we’re planning. I don’t give two shits if they know our location.”

  The wind whirled and Dougal glanced at Brett again. “You look like shit. Did you know that?”

  “You’re really hot yourself, brother.”

  Dougal laughed, likely the first time he’d done so in a year. “Yeah. I’ve never been better than now. Didn’t you hear? Forty-two is the new twenty-two.”

  “Sure.” Brett patted him on the shoulder. “I feel exactly as good as I did twenty years ago, don’t you?”

  Twenty years ago. By the gods, he could hardly remember what he had been doing back then. Three years before the Dragons attacked and started the war for land—a war they still fought. Things escalated fast after the first attack. Every male Werewolf over the age of eighteen had been sent off to the battle. Gone were the days of pack. Gone were the days of runs in the woods and howls at the moon. Gone was embracing the duality of their nature.

  His days involved killing the flying monsters, sleeping when he could, rise, and doing it again.

  Twenty years ago—three years before it occurred to him a dragon even existed—he’d been home. In Springdale, where the wind blew gently and the springtime smelled of lilacs in the meadow, he’d believed his life laid out before him.

  Brett had been there, a member of the pack Dougal had hoped one day to lead. They might have both challenged for Alpha one day. None of those possibilities existed anymore.

  “Do you want left wing or right wing?”

  Dougal bent over to unlace his boots. “I’ll do the kill alone. Go on ahead to HQ. I don’t want both of us to be late. You know how the old man likes to hear himself speak. Wouldn’t want to hold him back. Do me a favor, take my shoes.”

  Eyeing the shoes with a raised brow, Brett asked, “Where did you find these?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Right.” His friend nodded.

  “Thanks, brother.”

  Dougal ran toward the incoming airborne nightmare. Of course, Brett wasn’t actually his brother. They’d been pack mates in their half-forgotten past and served together on the front lines. It was all about legions, all about soldiers, all about units. Dougal led his for a decade. His fellow Werewolf soldiers listened to him, not because they believed he was their Alpha or to help them fulfill their moon-driven destiny. No, they thought he’d keep them alive to see another morning in the never-ending battle.

  He shifted, calling his wolf self to the surface. In moments, his bones broke, muscles pulled and fur covered his body.

  His older brothers—the twins, Auggie and Robbie—died early in the war. Devon, the baby, celebrated his fortieth birthday the month before, after returning home from a five-year imprisonment with the dragons. Dougal had yet to be in touch. What was there to say really?

  Dougal pushed the thought of his brothers from his mind.

  He and the green-winged beast met in mid-air. They’d learned quickly to never underestimate a dragon in flight. Dragons always had the advantage. The trick was to take them to the ground. Dougal was good at it.

  With his claws descended and his fangs bared, he bit on the wing of the dragon. Snarling, he pressed harder. The dragon bucked in an attempt to throw him off. Dougal wasn’t going anywhere. He’d hold on until they both crashed into the ground. Luckily for him, the dragon wasn’t a fire breather.

  His adversary was the equivalent of a Dragon grunt. Their years of fighting these beasts taught them about their hierarchy. They were matriarchal. Similar to how wolves used to follow their individual alphas, the dragons followed one queen. They protected her beyond all the others. Dragons who could breathe fire were the most dangerous—and higher on the food chain. More, the multicolored beasts occupied leadership roles. Females of the upper crust variety had purple spots. The Wolves still didn’t know how to tell the difference between the solid green male and females until they dissected them after deat
h—but the greens were grunts and therefore expendable. They sent these nuisances to harass the wolves then die for its trouble. Sixteen years of killing them taught Dougal the difference.

  He tore at the Dragon’s skin until he saw blood. Yes, exactly what he wanted. When they bled, they fell.

  The green guy started to spin and Dougal held on tight. He wouldn’t let go and leap down until he was sure the flyer would actually hit the ground. Anything short of ground collision and the thing might recover enough to attack again. Even the green ones could cause a ton of damage. They had claws and talons. Not every Wolf could attack as Dougal did.

  Only a few meters from the muddy ground, the rain began again. Great, he was going to be dirty and wet by the time he made into HQ. The top wolf hated to see his commanders dirty. He thought it screwed with morale. Personally, Dougal believed the opposite. The other Wolves appreciated seeing the guys in charge battle filthy.

  They weren’t afraid to do what they asked their men to do.

  Dougal hit hard, jumping off seconds before the dragon crashed. Years of practice kept him on his feet. Nothing more embarrassing than face planting to ruin a good kill. They’d send him back in theater, to the front lines where the dragons burned any signs of civilization they saw, to get his fur torn off for the fun of it.

  The green menace screamed in the way they did when they were grounded. He had no idea what they yelled. Wolves didn’t speak Dragon. Only he could imagine. Ouch. Oh please don’t kill me. Damn you, Wolves.

  Whatever.

  The top Dragons could not only speak Wolf, they could read and write the language. He’d only seen them do it a few times and it disconcerted him every time. The green guys only spoke Dragon. Who knew what they comprehended? Not that he cared. The Dragon leadership occasionally attempted to lure them into signing a peace accord. It never happened.

  Once the green beast was finished, other Werewolves jumped in, finishing the job with their own fangs and claws. He nodded at one before he returned to his human form. His clothes survived the shift and, fortunately, he was still dressed albeit shoeless.

  He stretched his hands over his head. His blood didn’t pump as hotly as it used to from the fight. Did his lack of post-fight adrenaline mean he’d lost his fear of dying?

  Who knew? He didn’t have time to worry about it anymore.

  Brett stood outside the door of the makeshift headquarters. Dougal had lost track of how many times he helped put the tent up and take it down over the years. No one asked him anymore. Three Wolf commanders ago, he’d been in a different position—more grunt work, less leadership.

  “You have a funny look on your face.” Brett handed him his shoes.

  “Yeah?” Dougal shrugged. “No idea what I’m thinking about. Shouldn’t you be in there?” He motioned toward the tent.

  “The old man preferred to wait for you.”

  Dougal bent over and pulled off his wet, muddy socks. He’d put his bare feet back in the boots before he shoved wet socks into them. Dry feet were preferable to the alternative. He really didn’t need to get sick. The medicine on the front line was in short supply. They’d probably keep him drugged on something horrible, or worse something he’d get addicted to, then he’d be shipped back home with the rest of the pathetic Wolves unable to kick their habits.

  “How weird,” he finally answered Brett. “Did he say specifically why? Am I about to get my ass handed to me?” His wolf squirmed inside. He’d destroyed a dragon. Alpha general or not, scolding Dougal publicly so soon after a fight could be disastrous.

  He might shift and go for the jugular. Like it or not Werewolves only had so much control under the best circumstances. Minutes after a takedown, violence raced through his blood.

  “I didn’t get the impression this was a chew us out kind of meeting. Besides, I don’t think he’s going to call a whole meeting of all the local commanders to give you a dress down. Maybe he doesn’t want you to miss the information.” Brett was always so reasonable. He never went off the deep end, never lost his mind in battle. Probably why he planned the battles and Dougal executed the fights.

  Dougal nodded to the other leaders in the room as he walked toward the old man behind the desk. Sixteen of them present at HQ, two assigned too far away to attend the meeting. Keeping the dragons from getting past the coastline had been their sole responsibility for a decade. The small peninsula they held against Dragon occupation.

  No one in the room would live to be as old as their commander. Eighty years old, he’d lived most of his life before the war. While Dougal had lived most of his fighting the dragons.

  Still, Paul Vincent looked ancient. The weight of so many lives lost left its mark on him.

  “Gentlemen, please take a seat. I’ve asked someone to join us in a moment who I think is immensely qualified to help turn the tables on this war once and for all. I’ve brought you here today because I want you to hear what she has to say. We’re implementing changes based on her intel.”

  Dougal jolted and was gratified to see the rest of the Werewolves in the room did the same. Had the commander of their war effort just said...?

  “Yes, you heard me right gentlemen, I said she.”

  ****

  Caitlyn Knox was over the meeting with the commanders before began. Alpha Werewolf men were, and always had been, a huge pain in her ass. The soldiers stared at her as though she possessed two heads. She didn’t have to read minds to guess what they thought.

  What the hell business does a woman have speaking to us?

  If she had any doubts, the fact not one of them sat spoke volumes. They would all treat her like the dainty little flowers they remembered from when they used to have homes. The whole group of them would be surprised to see what the women they’d left behind had become. Packless, they’d fended for themselves.

  “Gentlemen, if you would please be seated. I’m really not comfortable with all of you standing.”

  No one moved. She looked at the commander and he didn’t help. He couldn’t deny her expertise, not when he needed her. Hearing her out in the first place suggested an unexpected open-mindedness on his part.

  Perhaps expecting them to sit was too much to ask.

  “Okay, my name is Caitlyn Knox.” She smiled. No one responded. “And I’m here to discuss with you information we’ve recently uncovered—the second front of this war which we’ve been fighting at home.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  And there went the ma’ams. She was thirty-six. They’d assume she was a mated woman. Years ago, the presumption would have likely been correct. However, with such a large portion of the population—all the males over eighteen who could still fight—not home to mate, the females left behind weren’t necessarily mating, which suited her fine.

  She looked at the man who spoke and, for a second, she forgot to breathe. There he was. Sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Dougal Owens, the boy next door. Well, the man. She hadn’t seen him in sixteen years. Not since he’d ran to war without looking once in her direction.

  His disinterest hadn’t surprised her. In their pack, boys and girls were separated from each other until their eighteenth birthdays. If they did meet, it was always in the presence of family. Men older than eighteen were discouraged from making eye contact with younger females, even then.

  That hadn’t stopped her from knowing, as apparently her sister had with his brother, if ever she were to mate it would be with Dougal Owens. Yet, he stood before her in this hellish camp on the edge of the world, staring at her without discernible reaction. She gritted her teeth. He was not hearing mating bells in his head as she did whenever she looked at him. Sixteen years passed, yet nothing changed.

  Caitlyn would always be the unmatable Knox sister. Oh well. Time to pull it together, the war wouldn’t win itself.

  “Yes?” She cleared her throat. “Did you have a question, Dougal?”

  He nodded. “You’re one of the Knox girls who grew up across the street from
me.” He paused. “I assume you know who I am, since you knew my name?”

  “Right.” Did her voice really squeak? His was so low and gravely. “Yes, I’m a Knox girl. These days, we’re family too.”

  Fifteen heads turned toward him, waiting for an explanation. She guessed he hadn’t shared the news. Instead of agreeing, he raised a dark eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

  She opened and closed her mouth. They were supposed to be talking about dragon eggs and drug abuse not discovering family connections publicly.

  Finally, she found her voice. “Your brother mated my sister earlier this year. Almost a year ago, actually.”

  Some of his stiffness melted away. “For real?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you hadn’t heard.”

  “I’ve not been in touch for a long time.” He shook his head. “As I know a lot of the people here can understand.”

  “Right. Okay.” She waved her hand in the air. “Let’s move on. I’m sure everyone else would rather not hear about the mating of two Werewolves they don’t know.”

  “By contrast,” the blond male standing next to Dougal finally spoke, “I actually know his brother. I’m sure you don’t remember me. I’m not as exciting as Dougal here, but I lived nearby, too. It’s great to hear two members of my pack are mated. Why else are we all doing this if not to save the world for the homeland?”

  Excited affirmations followed his short speech. She’d lost control of the room. Any minute, she was going to have to start describing her sister’s dress.

  “Let’s talk about dragon eggs.” The room fell silent at her words.

  Her experience with soldiers told her they detested anything to do with the egg nests. The necessity of eliminating them warred with the Werewolf’s natural love of children. They hated destroying them and detested their existence at the same time.

  “What about them?” Dougal spoke again. Every time he did, it seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room. Her wolf stirred, and she hated to disappoint the poor girl. They weren’t going to get to know this male the way they both wanted. If he’d been moved by her presence, he wouldn’t be standing so nonchalantly on the other side of the room.