Page 3 of Hot for the Dragon (Saltwater Grove #3)

3

ARCHER

T he autumn sunlight filtered through the workshop's windows, casting shadows across Archer's workbench. Wood shavings scattered across the floor as his chisel traced delicate lines into the maple. The scent of fresh-cut wood filled his nostrils, mingling with the crisp morning air drifting in through the open window.

"Something’s missing," he muttered, turning the half-finished dragon model in his hands. The scales needed more definition, more life.

A gust of wind rustled the red and gold leaves outside, drawing his attention momentarily from his work. His workshop, separate from the main house, offered the solitude he craved. No politics. No wings. No responsibility except to his craft.

"Damn it." The chisel slipped ever so slightly, marring an otherwise flawless curve of the wing. Archer set the tool down with more force than necessary, the metal clanging against the wooden workbench.

He reached for his coffee, finding the mug empty. Again. Third time this morning, and the sun had barely cleared the trees.

"Can't even keep track of your own coffee, Hawke," he chided himself, pushing back from the bench. His boots crunched over wood shavings as he crossed to the coffee maker he'd installed specifically to avoid trips to the main house.

While the machine hummed to life, he studied the collection of finished pieces lining the walls. Dragons in flight, perched, fighting – each carved with painstaking detail. Each one perfect, or nearly so. The imperfect ones had met their end in his fireplace.

The coffee maker sputtered its last drops. Archer inhaled the rich aroma, letting it chase away his frustration. He'd get the wing right. He always did, eventually.

"Just you and me," he said to the unfinished dragon, returning to his bench. "And you're not leaving until you're perfect."

His chisel caught the light as he raised it again. Time to make things right.

The scent hit Archer's nostrils before the crunch of footsteps on his gravel path - flowers and earth, mixed with something distinctly human. His chisel stopped mid-stroke, suspended over the dragon's half-carved wing.

Two heartbeats. Both elevated. Both unwelcome.

"Seriously?" He set the chisel down and brushed wood shavings from his black henley. After two and a half years of blissful isolation, some idiots had the nerve to march up his driveway. The last time someone dared venture onto his property, well… the town still whispered about that.

The doorbell's chime echoed through his workshop. Archer's jaw clenched. He could ignore it. Should ignore it. But the dragon inside him bristled at the intrusion, demanding he establish dominance over his territory.

"Fine." He stalked through the side door, taking the connecting passage through his garage. The smooth marble floors of his mansion cooled his temper slightly as he moved silently through the house. Let them sweat it out on the porch for a minute.

Another ring. More insistent this time.

Archer's enhanced hearing picked up a feminine whisper: "Maybe he's not home?"

A deeper voice responded: "He's home. His car's here."

"Oh great, they've been casing my property." Archer rolled his shoulders back, drawing himself to his full height. The dragon within him stirred, sending warmth coursing through his veins.

He yanked open the heavy oak door, ready to tear into whoever had the audacity to disturb him. The words died in his throat.

A middle-aged man in an expensive suit stood on his doorstep, radiating the self-important air of a bureaucrat. But it was the woman beside him that caught Archer off guard. Dark waves of hair framed a heart-shaped face, and those green eyes... they met his gaze without a hint of the fear he was accustomed to seeing.

The autumn breeze carried her scent to him more clearly now - roses and rainfall, with an undercurrent of something ancient. A witch. Both of them were witches.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Archer leaned against his doorframe, arms crossed, as the man launched into introductions. The wood grain pressed against his shoulder, its familiar texture doing little to soothe his growing irritation.

"I'm Hugo Throne, Council member," the man said, straightening his already perfect tie. "And this is my sister, Daphne."

Not a Council member then, Archer noted, studying the woman. Her presence here made no sense. She held herself with quiet determination, but there was a softness about her that had no place in dragon politics. That scent of crushed petals and earth clung to her clothes - a gardener, maybe?

"Carmen Kane attacked the town yesterday," Hugo continued, his voice tight with barely contained urgency. "She brought a dozen dragons. They burned buildings, terrorized citizens-"

Archer's dragon stirred at Carmen's name. Of course it was her. He remembered her from the old days - always circling, always pushing boundaries. The blue-scaled menace had spent years trying to prove herself the strongest, the most ruthless. Back then, she'd been all talk and posturing.

"She's declared her intention to take control of Saltwater Grove," Hugo pressed on. "Says the Council is weak, and that dragons should rule."

A muscle twitched in Archer's jaw. Typical Carmen - still spouting the same tired rhetoric about dragon supremacy. The only difference was now it sounds like she had the numbers to back up her threats. His enhanced hearing picked up Daphne's quickened heartbeat as Hugo described the attack.

The autumn wind shifted, carrying the acrid scent of smoke from town. Beneath it, he caught another whiff of the witch's unique fragrance - not just flowers, but something deeper. Rich soil after rain. Growing things. Life itself.

Archer's dragon rumbled with interest, and he ruthlessly suppressed the reaction. He didn't need complications. Didn't need to get involved in town politics or dragon power plays. And he definitely didn't need to notice how the morning light caught copper highlights in Daphne's dark brown hair.

Archer pushed off the doorframe, his dragon's heat simmering just beneath his skin. "And this concerns me how, exactly?" The words came out in a low rumble that made Hugo's adam's apple bob.

Hugo straightened his spine. "We need your help to stop her."

A laugh burst from Archer's chest, deep and sardonic. The sound echoed off the mansion's marble floors behind him. "You want me to what?" He shook his head, running a hand through his auburn hair. "Let me get this straight. Carmen Kane's out there burning down your town, and your brilliant solution is to drag me into it?"

The morning sunlight caught the polished wood of his door, reminding him of the half-finished dragon waiting in his workshop. That's where he should be right now - working in peace, not dealing with town politics.

"You clearly don't understand what you're asking." Archer's voice dropped lower, taking on the edge that used to make lesser dragons tremble. "Carmen's not just some upstart with sharp teeth. She's spent years building her power base, gathering followers. And now?" He gestured toward town, where wisps of smoke still curled into the autumn sky. "Now she's showing her true colors. If she's moving this openly, she's got something bigger planned."

The witch - Daphne - shifted her weight, drawing his attention. The motion sent another wave of her intoxicating scent his way. Damn it. Even his dragon noticed, rumbling with interest. He needed them gone before his beast got any more ideas.

"I haven't involved myself in wing politics for years." Archer crossed his arms again, the henley pulling tight across his chest. "I have a perfectly good life here. Quiet. Peaceful. Zero dragon drama. And you want me to what - throw myself back into that cesspool because you can't handle your own problems?"

His dragon bristled at the mere thought of dealing with Carmen again. She'd always been a powder keg waiting to explode, and he'd been smart enough to walk away before the blast. Now these two wanted him to wade right back into ground zero.

"Thanks, but no thanks." Archer reached for the door. "I suggest you figure out another plan. Preferably one that doesn't involve disturbing my solitude."

"I watched them burn everything." Daphne's soft voice cut through Archer's dismissal, stopping his hand on the door. "My shop, my neighbors' shops, people's homes - all gone in minutes."

Archer's dragon stirred at the pain in her voice. He kept his back turned, fighting the inexplicable urge to look at her.

"Do you know what burning flowers smell like, Mr. Hawke?" Her voice gained strength. "It's not just smoke. It's the death of everything I've worked for, everything I've grown. And the screams-" She paused, drawing a shaky breath. "The screams weren't just from fear. People got hurt. Real people."

Damn it. Archer's jaw clenched as he slowly turned back. The morning light caught the unshed tears in her eyes, but her chin was lifted defiantly.

"I helped set up a triage center while we waited for ambulances. Children with burns. Elderly people who couldn't run fast enough." Her green eyes locked onto his black ones. "And you're telling me you'll just sit here in your mansion, carving your wooden models, while real dragons torch our town?"

His dragon roared inside him, demanding he prove his strength, his dominance. But something else stirred too - something he thought he'd buried years ago.

"You don't know what you're asking," he growled, but the words lacked their earlier bite.

"I know exactly what I'm asking." Daphne took a step forward, close enough that her scent - flowers and earth and determination - wrapped around him. "I'm asking if you can live with yourself, knowing you could have helped and chose not to."

Archer's hands flexed at his sides. The witch had nerve, he'd give her that. And worse - she had a point.

He glanced at Hugo, who watched the exchange with barely concealed hope, then back to Daphne. The dragon within him paced restlessly, drawn to her fearless challenge.

"Fine." Archer finally replied, already regretting what he was about to say. "I'll think about it. Now get off my property before I change my mind."