Axeviathon - Son of Dragons: A Pantheon of Dragons Novel

by Tessa Dawn

  Axe rolled around on the bank, trying to get the blasted substance off his body.

  When that didn’t happen fast enough, he bathed his own torso in silver flames, fanning and waving as much fire as possible over his pulverized neck, and then he leaped to his feet and called out for backup, summoning the sapphire, diamond, and emerald lairs: sapphire, because they were Axe’s brothers; diamond, because they had a stake in Ghost’s well-being; emerald, because they had promised to follow up if needed; and all three, because it was only a matter of time before the meadow filled up with demons.

  In the meantime, Axeviathon was prepared to defend Ghostaniaz to the death.

  No one was going to sever the fearsome male’s head.

  But then…

  They didn’t have to.

  Trader Vice had Ghost by both arms, and the pagan demon was smiling like a crazed, deranged warlock. Before Axe could react—or the lairs could appear—an enormous pair of disembodied hands, with long, spindly, skeletal fingers, reached out from the bottom of the pit, snaked around Ghost’s heaving body, and pulled the male underneath the quicksand.

  The viscous substance disappeared, and so did Trader and Ghost, leaving only Tony’s limp, lifeless body sprawled at the bottom of the ravine.

  Axe blinked three times, and Zeik and Grunge shimmered into view.

  Briefly…

  “Your buddy’s in the underworld,” Zeik snarled.

  “Sorry, but you can’t follow us home,” Grunge snorted.

  And just like that, the demons were gone, and the meadow was silent.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  SAPPHIRE LAIR ~ 2:00 AM

  The air in the Pantheon was thick with smoke.

  The trees shook, the ground undulated, and the rivers ran scarlet with blood—even the clouds wept crimson tears as flames filled the dragon skies as far as the eyes could see.

  And Lord Dragos, the first and diamond lord of the sacred Dragons Pantheon, soared through the dark, beleaguered heavens—over and over again—thundering his pain, roaring his rage, and bellowing his grief from on high. No one could comfort, console, or appease the diamond deity, not even the remaining six dragon lords. His mortal enemy had captured his Genesis Son, and the dragon was beside himself with mourning.

  Axe ran his hand through his recently washed, damp hair, disheveling the locks as usual, even as they fell into a perfect, haphazard shape. Once again, Zane had come to his rescue, at least in terms of healing the last of his wounds: knitting that ruined throat back together and seeing to it that Axe was back to one hundred percent.

  Nakai had tended to Amber’s injuries, even as Jordan had tended to Amber.

  The moment the couple had arrived through the portal, Nakai had healed the abrasions on Amber’s feet, the puncture wounds in her neck, and several strained or bruised muscles, before Jordan had whisked her away to her and Zane’s private quarters.

  Yeah, that didn’t sit so well with Axe.

  Another male bathing his dragyra in intimate fire…

  One of his lair mates examining her body, checking for injuries, open wounds, and who knows what other trauma, but there it was—what was done was done.

  Yet having another dragyra—another female, whom Amber trusted, to presumably help Amber clean up, give her a chance to debrief, offer her an all safe and clear zone, so to speak, where she could get whatever she needed off her chest—had been a blessing to both Axe and the Sapphire Lair. And knowing Jordan, the dragyra would have likely gone to great lengths to clear the air around Amber’s deception…her attempt to escape…and she would’ve provided Amber with a much-needed opportunity to process what had happened with Ghost.

  What had happened with Ghost…

  Axe bit his bottom lip and shuddered all the way down to his bones.

  The grief-show going on outside with Lord Dragos was one thing—the guilt, regret, and shock pinging around in Axe’s head was another. Axe had seen it all go down, firsthand. He had called out to Ghost for assistance, and he had watched as the male descended into that pit of quicksand, never to be seen again. Unbelievable, really! That solitary, broken, black-hearted male—the son of Lord Dragos who didn’t give a shit about anything or anybody—had sacrificed everything to save Axeviathon and Amber.

  And damn it all to hell, if Axe hadn’t walked right into that ambush…

  If Axe hadn’t gone after Amber’s human lover, maybe Ghost would still be around.

  Axe gritted his teeth and shook his head: Vengeance was part and parcel of being a Dragyr male—no self-respecting son of a dragon would’ve let Antonio Rossi’s insult stand. Not one. And truth be told, Axe wasn’t an idiot—he had considered the possibility of a trap, that Tony might not show up alone. But hell’s bells, he had been a thousand percent confident that he could handle whatever came up. After all, he hadn’t gone earthside to battle a handful of demons; he had gone to that field—he had followed Amber—in order to kill one weak, defenseless human and to bring his dragyra home.

  In and out, quick as lightning.

  Strike.

  Retreat.

  Open a freakin’ portal.

  How hard could that be?

  But Axe hadn’t accounted for that blasted quicksand, some sort of magical stew concocted by the dark lord of the underworld himself.

  But he should have!

  And that was the point.

  The back-and-forth insults had been between the Seven and Lord Drakkar from the beginning, from the moment Axe had left that missive in the bank, and any mercenary worth his salt would’ve added that factor into the equation, would have expected Lord Drakkar to strike back.

  “Stop it, Axe,” he murmured beneath his breath. “You can’t turn back the hands of time. And even if you had exercised more caution—brought the whole damn Sapphire Lair with you as backup—there would likely be five Dragyr trapped in the underworld now, as opposed to only one.”

  No one had ever seen that malicious quicksand.

  No one had even conceived of such a thing.

  Zane’s words echoed in Axe’s memory: “Brother…dragyri…don’t let that shit eat you up. Ghost was already playing with fire when he went through the portal alone; the male was looking for trouble, and he found it. He didn’t have to dive into that pit—he could’ve reached out to the Diamond Lair. But more important, and as hard as it is to hear, you still have a dragyra to tend to. You’ve got four more days, Axeviathon. Three dragon sunsets before you take your mate to the temple, and the two of you have had very little time to bond. Go get your mate. Go claim your mate. Make that woman your own, once and for all. She put everything on the line for you, my brother. Show her that you’re ready to see this through.”

  Axe blinked away his anguish and swallowed his regret.

  He took a slow, deep breath before opening the master bathroom door and reentering his suite. By now, Amber would be waiting for him in his sitting room—she would be alone in his apartment—and Zane was right: Nothing else in this world of dragons, pagans, and fearsome lords mattered.

  Not tonight.

  The door to the en suite bathroom opened and shut behind Axe, and the male strolled out in his bare feet, wearing nothing but a pair of faded blue jeans.

  Amber gulped.

  His dirty-blond hair was damp, yet perfectly mussed as usual; his fathomless sapphire eyes were shadowed, yet filled with some deep, dark purpose; and his thick upper lip was parted, ever so slightly, like there were a dozen words on the tip of his tongue just waiting to spill out.

  The dragyri strolled across the suite with determination, and Amber took a hesitant step back toward the ambient fireplace, suddenly self-conscious about her thin, silk pajama bottoms and the matching spaghetti-strap tank top. She suddenly wished she had worn a bra, even if it had looked ridiculous. “Axe,” she murmured softly, “are you okay?”

  His already shadowed gaze darkened.

  Amber took another, more generous step back.

  “No,” he
growled, reaching forward and encircling her waist. “No more cat-and-mouse, Amber girl. What you did tonight…that choice you made in the meadow…I’m ruined, sweet angel—I don’t want to be apart from you any longer.”

  Amber gasped. She arched her back to look up at him, and what she found was guileless, open, and raw. Axeviathon was standing on the edge of reason and regret, desire and shame, hunger and repentance…lust and being lost. And Amber was his anchor, his way back home.

  She didn’t know if she could carry such a heavy burden.

  And she certainly wasn’t ready to match his intensity.

  He was right—she had made an irreversible choice in that meadow, the choice to save Axe and give up her freedom, but she hadn’t thought it through. She had just reacted.

  “That’s just it, dragyra,” he rasped, nuzzling the hollow of her throat. “Too much thinking. No more thinking. The truth between us; it’s just instinct.” He dragged his teeth along the same sensual path and tightened his arm around her.

  Amber’s head fell back as she lost her balance, and she pressed her palm against his bare, silken chest in an attempt to regain her equilibrium. His heart was beating like a heavy bass drum.

  He covered her hand with his and squeezed it.

  And then he brought it to his mouth, kissed her palm, then the base of her fingers, trailing his way up until he drew the tips of her fingers into his mouth and bit down, ever so lightly.

  Amber shivered as a course of electricity shot through her, but her dominant emotion was still fear, not arousal.

  Sensing her emotion, he spun her around, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pressed his chest against her back. And then the wild, untamed male began to devour her neck…her shoulders…the top of her back: nipping, kissing, tasting her skin…

  Sucking, biting, caressing with his lips.

  Amber shuddered, let out a moan, and his left hand snaked into her hair, fisting a handful to hold her steady beneath him.

  She gasped, and his right hand slid up, along her rib cage, tested the weight beneath each of her breasts, then caressed her passionately through the silken tank top.

  His thumb brushed over her nipple—back and forth, lighter and lighter—until the peak grew hard beneath his touch. He tugged on it gently and groaned in her ear, before turning his attention to the other breast…the other peak…until he was kneading her flesh beneath the silk covering.

  Amber’s knees grew weak beneath her, and she reached up to cover his hand with hers.

  He groaned, and then he purred like a satisfied lion, sliding his palm back down to her stomach.

  Tension, heat, and desire began to flood her core, and she tightened her stomach muscles and clenched her thighs in a futile attempt to control the sensations.

  Restrain them.

  Put some much-needed distance between her brain and her awakening desire.

  Axe sensed her weakness—her indecision—like a predator might sense hesitation in its prey.

  He stood up straight, spun her back around, and tunneled both hands into her hair.

  And then he tilted her head backward and virtually devoured her mouth.

  There was nothing the male didn’t kiss, taste, or explore…

  He drew each of Amber’s lips into the warm, moist cavern of his own hungry, seeking mouth, one at a time, tracing the soft, pliable flesh with his tongue, nipping at the skin with his teeth, and then he kissed her with wild abandon, only to pull back and repeat…

  And repeat.

  His examined the contours of her tongue, of her teeth…the corners of her mouth…using the tip of his tongue—then his fingers—to trace every hollow, angle, and curve, then he devoured her mouth, yet again.

  On and on…and on.

  Growing ever more passionate, ever more predatory, ever more sexual in nature.

  At last, Amber couldn’t take it anymore. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with fevered abandon. She had never tasted anything like him: smoke, fire, and primitive hunger.

  Pure, raw, uninhibited masculinity.

  Passion. Love. Primal desire.

  And unrestrained lust…

  He dropped to his knees, fisted the globes of her ass, and buried his mouth between her legs, doing unthinkable—impossible—things through the barrier of Amber’s silk pajamas.

  She fisted her hands in his hair, let her head roll back, and whimpered.

  He ripped the pajama bottoms along the seam, tugged on her panties, and slid two fingers inside her quivering body.

  “Axe!” She hadn’t seen that coming.

  Oh, gods, oh gods, oh gods…

  He was delving, teasing, tasting…exploring…taking turns with his mouth and his hand, and all the while, he was massaging her ass—raking his fingers along her skin—like he knew just where to stop short before drawing blood or scoring her flesh.

  The sensations were overwhelming.

  All-consuming.

  He raked at her ribs, then her stomach; he clawed the inside of her thighs—never hard enough to hurt her, but never gentle enough to console her.

  He kept her on the edge of arousal and fear.

  And then he filled her core with his tongue, stabbing deep, and Amber’s body fractured; it trembled and came apart from an orgasm that lasted and lingered…and tortured.

  Axe rose to his feet in one lithe motion, lifting Amber off the ground with one arm. He carried her to the master bedroom and laid her, stomach first, across the edge of his bed. He dropped to his knees behind her, spread her thighs apart with his hands, and rotated his thumbs in teasing, yet purposeful circles, stretching and opening her core. And then he freed his arousal from his unzipped jeans, sliding the denim down his hips, and pressed the large, blunt head of his sex against her while pressing down on her lower back.

  Holy shit, he was pinning her in place…

  Amber dug her fingernails into the mattress, trying to gain purchase through the duvet—she arched her back and let her head fall forward, bracing herself for the full sensation…

  Axeviathon did not disappoint.

  He thrust inside her like a wild beast, stretching her core impossibly, and then he began to rock back and forth, plunging deeper and deeper, until he, at last, began to thrust in earnest.

  Amber cried out.

  She bit down on her bottom lip and grunted—she couldn’t help it.

  Axe was taking her body, consuming her soul, like he was starving, and he would never get enough. He leaned forward, slid his hands up along her back, and anchored a fist in her hair, and then he wrapped his other arm around her stomach, drew her, hard, against his pelvis, and took everything Amber could—or couldn’t—give.

  There was nothing left of the careful, tempered suitor he had shown her that first night in the Pantheon. There was only fire, sweat, heat, and lust: a wild dragyri animal and its mate.

  Claiming.

  Worshiping.

  Conquering…

  And when he threw back his head and shouted his release, a second orgasm rocked Amber’s tender, sensitive body, and she screamed along with Axeviathon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Ghostaniaz Dragos was summarily fucked.

  And he had to admit, when he had contemplated going earthside to incite his father—when he had considered all the ways he could provoke his ultimate death—this had not been one of them.

  Those giant hands had dragged him beneath the quicksand, and then he had felt like he was falling, tumbling…plummeting downward as time stood still. The next thing he knew he was being dragged across an ancient wooden platform—a drawbridge encased in fog, overlaying a moat—and lining the archaic bridge were rows and rows of curious, hissing, snarling pagans: demons lined up along the right, a row of beasts who looked like men and feasted on human sins, and shades along the left, a column of skeletal soul-eaters whose ghoulish mouths fell open in monstrous contortions as if they were starving to eat Ghost whole. All were dressed in ceremonial rob
es with an all-too-familiar emblem on their breasts: a witch’s pentacle etched into the pommel of a sword; a reversed numerical seven inscribed in gold below the crossguard; and the tail of the seven was outlined in permanent blood, extending along the length of the blade.

  The sky above him was neither light, nor midnight blue, but a thick, murky haze that permeated the oppressive sky. If the Pantheon was saturated in brilliant, vivid colors; lyrical, living sounds; and everything grew to perfection, then this place—this abomination—was its polar opposite: a dark, inky replica of a thousand shades of gray and black; a subtle, but grating, disharmonious drone; and dead grass, dead tree limbs, dead vegetation as far as the eye could glimpse.

  The drawbridge led to an enormous gothic castle, and the disembodied hands proceeded to drag Ghost across a mammoth foyer to one of two parallel doors, each set about fifty feet apart. The door on the left swung open, as if on its own, revealing a large, rectangular, torchlit throne room. Ghost turned his head to the right, drawn by the popping, crackling sound of a roaring fire—it almost sounded like demonic laughter—and he realized that flanking the two arched entries to the Great Hall, the bestial throne room, was a massive, towering fireplace made of pure obsidian stone.

  He cast his glance forward, and oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

  A garish red velvet throne, smack-dab in the middle of the hall, and the blood-red cathedra was occupied by a glaring, smirking, demonic king: Lord Drakkar Hades, Father of the Pagan Realm, Ruler of the underworld…sire of the Pagan Horde. Ghost’s stomach muscles clenched as he studied the entourage surrounding the evil deity.

  Perched behind the malevolent ruler were nine males, a mixture of demons and shadow-walkers, and their robes were literally dipped in blood. This had to be Lord Drakkar’s congress—but why only nine?

  To the king’s left stood some sort of dignitary, and the words Killian Kross practically echoed through the hall. It was as if the demonic fire were cackling the name. Ghost shivered and shifted his gaze to the king’s right. The space beside him was empty—