Stroke of Fire Read online

  Stroke of Fire

  The Firestorm Dragon Chronicles

  Kira Nyte

  Stroke of Fire

  Copyright © 2019 by Kira Nyte

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Edited by: Raina Toomey

  Cover Design by: Daqri at Covers by Combs

  Published by: Dark Illusion Publishing

  ISBN: 978-1-947077-02-7

  Table of Contents

  STROKE OF FIRE

  Copyright

  Author Note

  About the Book

  Books by Kira Nyte

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Author Note

  Dear Readers,

  If this is your first journey into the world of the Firestorm dragons and their lifemates, welcome! I hope you find their world and ways as fascinating as I have. If you wish to start from the beginning, be sure to read A Dragon Speaks Her Name and A Dragon Gambles for His Girl, both of which are part of Nocturne Falls Universe.

  Happy reading!

  Kira Nyte

  Stroke of Fire

  At almost thirty, Briella Everett is finally getting the chance to spread her wings away from her overprotective parents and pursue the life of an artist in New Orleans. She has fun new friends, an apartment she loves and the promise of a showing of her paintings at a small art gallery. The fact she can listen in on other people’s thoughts and has the occasional, freakily accurate premonition is the little secret that inspires her work.

  Syn Terravon is content with his vagabond life. He travels the world and lives as he pleases, never staying in one place too long. It’s a good way to forget about the horror that drove Syn and his fellow Firestorm dragons from their homeland three decades ago, separating them from their mortal companions. He’s about to leave the Big Easy in search of his next adventure when he spots her. His lifemate. The connection is hot, raw and immediate. On his part.

  Briella is more annoyed than afraid when a tall, dark and dangerously attractive man with flames—actual flames—in his eyes accosts her outside her apartment. Yeah, sure he’s there to protect her. She’s shocked to learn the safe life she enjoys is nothing more than an illusion.

  For a woman to whom hard-won independence is sacred, putting her faith in a chivalrous stranger might just be the most dangerous challenge she’s ever taken on.

  Website and Newsletter for Kira Nyte: www.kiranyte.com

  Find Kira Nyte on Facebook: www.facebook.com/kiranyte

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/kiranyteauthor

  Instagram: www.instagram.com/kiranyteauthor

  Contact Kira Nyte at [email protected]

  Books by Kira Nyte

  Nocturne Falls Universe

  A Dragon Speaks Her Name

  A Dragon Gambles for His Girl

  Merry & Bright, A Christmas Anthology

  A Dragon’s Christmas Mayhem (novella)

  The Princess Protects Her Huntsman

  Touched by Her Elven Magic

  Touched by His Vampire Charm

  Winter Wonderland, A Christmas Quartet

  Touched by His Christmas Magic (novella)

  Science Fiction/Fantasy Romance

  The Gala Lover

  Chapter One

  Rain never put a damper on the French Quarter.

  In the short time she’d called it home, she’d learned that little subdued the eclectic, vibrant, pulsing enclave beloved by locals and tourists alike.

  Briella Everett doused the light in her small studio apartment, pulled the hood of her raincoat over her head, tucked her waterproof portfolio under her arm, and ducked out into the early evening. She was running late for her appointment at Stackwood, thanks to the phone call from her mother, who persisted in her campaign to convince Briella to return to Upstate New York.

  She suffered through the same old conversation at least once a week.

  Briella’s sole slipped in a small puddle. She snagged the nearest light post to keep from falling on her ass. Her dark purple tights and knee-length flared skirt weren’t spared a hefty splash of the dirty water.

  “Damn it. Gross.” Water seeped down her legs into her ankle boots. She scrunched her face. “Real gross.”

  She’d moved to her small apartment off Bourbon Street only three months ago to pursue promising leads with her art. A co-worker back home who had seen her paintings at an art festival insisted she was gallery material and quickly put a call in to a family member who owned an art gallery in New Orleans. After an impromptu weekend trip to Louisiana, Briella found herself without an art show at a large gallery, but directed to approach three smaller galleries. Stackwood was one of the three.

  She decided to make the move, temporary as it might be, and follow her dreams. Her parents made sure her bank account was full for any expenses that might occur. She was pretty much set if there was an apocalyptic event. How her parents could afford what they did when neither worked was beyond her. Family finance was always taboo subject, as was questioning their overprotective nature.

  Although she was financially set, she’d found a part-time position at a restaurant. It provided her with a sense of independence most people her age had a chance to become intimate with.

  On off nights, she found herself with her new friends, who begged for psychic readings. Once they got wind of her “abilities,” it turned into the highlight of every gathering.

  She wasn’t psychic, but she had an advantage they didn’t. Her father said it was a gift.

  To Briella, it was a gift, a curse, and a nuisance.

  As it was proving to be now. Voices plagued her head the closer she came to the hustling throughway of the French Quarter.

  She learned at a young age to paint as a form of expression. Her paintings always reflected the inner turmoil of strangers’ detached thoughts.

  Thoughts she could hear as clearly as her own.

  The audible sounds of bar music, raucous laughter, and loud conversations as she approached Bourbon Street did little to muffle the mental onslaught of thoughts that demanded her attention. Briella sighed. She could easily turn off the noise in her head, but she found inspiration for her paintings in the small blurbs of these strangers’ lives.

  Some might consider you a creep, Brie. A peeping Tom of the mind.

  “No guilt,” she muttered.

  Tugging the belt of the raincoat more tightly around her waist, she crossed Bourbon Street and followed the crossroad to the gallery.
>
  She hesitated outside the heavy wooden door with a medieval-looking iron grate over a small window, blocked further by a black iron plate. Narrow beams of light escaped the shuttered windows to her right. She read the sign that rocked on two chain-link tethers over the door. Stackwood Gallery of Fine Art.

  “Well, it’s a start.”

  Drawing up her confidence, she tried the door.

  Locked.

  “Damn.” She knocked. After a few minutes of waiting, she knocked again. She could see no doorbell or other means of notifying whoever resided inside that someone waited to be received. She pulled back the cuff of her raincoat and glanced at her watch. Six-ten for her six o’clock appointment. “Thanks, Ma.”

  She tried knocking one last time before digging into her purse for her phone. When she came up empty-handed, a deflating breath fled her lungs and her shoulders drooped. She must’ve left her phone on the counter in her rush to leave.

  Well, late was late. She’d made her impression, present or not.

  Resigned to a failed meeting tonight—she’d call the gallery’s director in the morning and try to set up a second meeting—Briella lowered her head and turned back toward Bourbon Street. Nothing a hurricane and a hot bowl of gumbo couldn’t cure.

  “Ms. Everett?”

  Briella spun, too fast. Her soles slipped on the rain-slickened sidewalk. She gasped and reached for the wall to keep from falling. A pair of hands snatched her biceps and steadied her on her feet.

  She stared at the middle-aged man as he let go and gave her an apologetic tip of his chin. He had a pleasant face—and, apparently, the soft steps of a cat. She hadn’t heard so much as a creak from the wooden door when it opened behind her.

  “I’m terribly sorry for startling you. Let’s go inside?”

  Without waiting for confirmation of her identity, the man ushered her through the ancient-looking door. It closed with a solid thunk behind them.

  The interior of the gallery shocked her. She hadn’t expected to walk into a space as sleek and modern as it was sensual and alluring. Pushing the hood off her head, she gazed around in awe. The gallery was divided into two main sections to the left and right that stretched to the far back of the building. It looked like each side had several partitions to section off areas where pieces of art hung on display. A virtual maze of beauty with lighting to capture hues and highlights and the unique aspects of each work. In front of her hung a single painting beside a mounted card with the biography of the artist.

  “Again, my deepest apologies. I had been caught up in the storage room and didn’t hear you knock right away. May I take your coat?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Briella leaned her portfolio against her leg and slipped out of the wet coat. The man took it from her. “I’m Briella Everett.” She held out her hand.

  The man smiled, pushing wire-rimmed glasses onto the bridge of his nose with one finger before taking her hand in a firm shake. “Abraham Harper. Pleasure to meet you.” He held her coat a few inches from his body and spread a hand toward the back of the building. “Why don’t we head to my office. I’m anxious to see your work. Bruno had wonderful things to say about your pieces.”

  Heat brushed her cheeks as she picked up her portfolio and followed Mr. Harper through the gallery.

  “I hope you find my pieces to your liking,” Briella said, falling behind as she looked at the paintings on display. They were dark, foreboding, with a beat of twisted romance. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Harper would find her work palatable. “Wow, these are pretty incredible.”

  “Mr. Tawling is quite a fascinating person with an equally fascinating mind. Many galleries steer clear of a brooding tone, fearing it will turn away potential customers. I, on the other hand, find an unseen beauty in the dark and mysterious.” Mr. Harper flashed her a friendly smile over his shoulder. “All art deserves a fair eye. I enjoy catering to those who prefer something other than bright flashes of color and scenescapes. These”—he motioned to the displayed canvases—“touch people on a more primitive level. They connect with those deeper aspects of our subconscious and draw us in. Wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Everett?”

  “I certainly do agree.”

  At least he won’t snub the dark in my art.

  They reached Mr. Harper’s office a glass-encased room tucked in the back corner behind a wall of displayed canvases. He motioned for Briella to enter the neat space and followed her in, leaving the glass door open.

  As Mr. Harper hung her coat on a hook, he said, “You can put the portfolio on the desk. I’m eager to see what Bruno was talking about.”

  “I’ll have to thank him personally for the high accolades.” Briella smiled as she rested her portfolio on the uncluttered desk, unzipped the case, and laid it open. Mr. Harper was at her side in a blink, leaning over the two pieces that lay on top. She looked at them with mingled pride and nerves. “These two are my favorites.”

  “May I?” He asked, hands stretched out toward one.

  “Of course.”

  With respectful care, he lifted free a painting of two people obscured in shades of gray and black. Ghosts in a sea of darkness, lit by a single candle. She recalled hearing the thoughts of a man planning to propose to his girlfriend, and with them all the self-doubt that rambled over and over in his head. Between the two ghostly figures, strokes of gold and red and diamond-like hues of white conveyed the couples’ emotions, their love for each other.

  Mr. Harper placed the canvas on an easel and played with the lights on a strip at the upper cross-section. At last, he stepped back, hands folded in front of his chest, eyes wide.

  “Genius,” he murmured.

  Briella hated herself in the next moment when she opened her mind to this man’s thoughts. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to know what he was really thinking. Those raw thoughts that would never come to his lips.

  …great potential. A unique vision I can’t pass up. My clientele will jump on this…

  Pride swelled in her chest. Whatever Mr. Harper did with the lighting brought the eye straight to the promising center of the painting, but somehow managed to add depth to the shadows around the edges of the canvas. It took on new life, new meaning sitting on the easel beneath the masterful lighting.

  Minutes slipped by and the silence stretched. Mr. Harper’s head tilted one way, another, yet another. His body angled several different ways. He walked past the painting, backed away from it, moved closer. All the while, Briella had to tamp down her desire to tap into his private thoughts again. She stood next to the desk, anxiously awaiting his final verdict on the first of many pieces she had to offer.

  Without a single word, Mr. Harper gently removed the canvas from the easel, placed it back in her portfolio, and removed a second. Again, Briella watched quietly as he went through his strange routine, all the while holding her muscles tense and her body stiff to keep from fidgeting. She took several slow, deep breaths and waited in an emotional turmoil like any other aspiring artist who didn’t have her supernatural gifts to offer some insight.

  Mr. Harper continued to go through the same ritual for each canvas, six in total. When he settled the last one back in the pocket of her portfolio, he quietly closed the case, zipped it up, and rested his hands on his desk.

  His eyes met Briella’s. She caught the excitement behind those dark irises, stoking her own hope.

  “Well, Ms. Everett, I must say Bruno was not exaggerating when he said you had a very unique vision and the talent to back it up.” A grin began to tug at the corners of his mouth. “I have an opportunity I would like to extend to you. I’ve had an artist back out of a showing. It’s just two weeks from now. I was going to ask one of my regular artists to fill the spot, but after speaking to Bruno, I decided to wait to see what you might have to offer.”

  Briella’s excitement bubbled up from her belly and into her throat. She wanted to shout and dance, but tangled her fingers behind her back in a tight, almost painful, knot instead.

  Mr. Harp
er rested a palm against her portfolio. “I like your work. In fact, I find it absolutely stunning. I would like to offer you the spot, if you feel you’re ready and can provide me with the paintings I require for this type of event. You have brought six exquisite pieces with you tonight. How many do you have in total, and how many do you feel are presentable to paying clientele?”

  The breath fled Briella’s lungs. Her lips trembled as she smiled. Were those seriously tears in her eyes?

  Be professional, Brie. Be professional.

  She nodded. “I have dozens of paintings. I can provide you with at least twenty, twenty-five paintings that I feel are worthy of your clientele.”

  “Can you deliver fifteen to me tomorrow?”

  Brielle bounced on her toes before clearing her throat and settling back onto her feet. “Yes. Of course, Mr. Harper.”

  Mr. Harper’s grin melted into a smile. “Wonderful. If you have about a half-hour now, we can discuss the terms of the gallery, showcasing, what I will provide, the promotion I will do, what I expect from you, and what you can expect from me. I usually have a month to put together a showing, and with a new artist I always try to give myself at least six weeks to built interest. Since we don’t have the luxury of that time, every minute will count to make this showing successful for you and for me.”