Claiming the Dragon King

by Amelia Hutchins

  Blane’s eyes traveled down her body and stopped at the blood that oozed from her wound. His jaw flexed as he brought them back up to hers.

  “Find what you were looking for?” he asked.

  “As if she would know what it is,” Fyra laughed as she flipped the short sword in her hand as she watched her.

  “Actually, I did, thanks,” Ciara mumbled as she started past them. Fyra’s blade rose to her throat, resting against it.

  “We didn’t give you permission to move, Slaugh,” she hissed as her blade rested against Ciara’s throat.

  Ciara laughed as her eyes met and held Blane’s. She pushed against the blade, hissing as it cut through her throat just enough to draw blood. “Either kill me or move out of my way. You two have better things to do, I’m sure,” she laughed coldly as she watched him. “Or do you get off on hurting women?”

  “Let her go,” he growled. “Walk, now,” he ordered.

  Ciara closed her mind off to the pain. She went back to the cold, dark place inside her head that she’d created to deal with the beatings and torture her father had given her, the endless torture he’d dished out when she’d disobeyed him. She lifted cold, lifeless eyes to Blane and smiled, and started the walk back to the tent.

  He ended up leading, ignoring her slow, sluggish movements. It wasn’t until they entered the tent and Remy glared at her that Blane spun around on her again.

  “If you leave the camp, you die. Understand?” he demanded coldly.

  “Got it,” she answered as she moved to the bed, and eyed it with trepidation. She bent her knee, and moved onto it, turning on her unwounded side to stare up at him.

  “Check her side, and after that, fetch some bandages.”

  Remy moved to the bed and pushed the cloak away; lifting the side before his breath hitched and his eyes grew wide.

  “Gods, what the fuck?” he swore as he backed away from her as if she was a monster.

  Ciara looked at her side, already expecting the worse. It was wide open, the skin severed in a clean cut from the relic she wore. Her eyes smiled as her lips lifted and a laugh bubbled in her chest. She was wearing death’s rope around her waist, created to torture and sever the wearer in half, slowly. It wouldn’t even be a quick death.

  “Ciara,” Blane whispered as he watched her carefully.

  “What?” she asked, but her tone was lifeless, as cold as she felt.

  “Remy, get Wren, now,” he swore violently. “Gods, woman, do you want to die?” he demanded.

  “Not particularly, but sometimes death is better than the other options,” she said tonelessly. “You should go, you were busy tonight. I’m fine, pain I can handle. Pain is nothing.”

  “You’re cut wide fucking open, your side isn’t attached.”

  “I’m aware,” she said as her eyes left his to stare at the wards on the wall of the tent.

  Commotion sounded outside, and then Fyra and Wren were standing inside the tent as well as Remy. Wren cussed and stared down at her as Fyra gagged against the carnage.

  “Heal it,” Blane demanded.

  “That’s massive, Blane. That’s not an easy fix, and we don’t even know if sealing it will save her. How is she even awake? That’s more than men can handle in battle without falling to the pain.”

  “I don’t know,” he said as he bent down and stared into her eyes. “How are you not screaming?”

  “I told you, I’m good with pain, dragon whelp. Alazander was artistic and creative in dishing it out. Your little magic belt here has nothing on my father. It lacks imagination.”

  He stared at her with unease. “What did he do to you?”

  “Let’s just say I know what every organ in my body looks like,” she said firmly as a small laugh bubbled from her throat. “I can tell you what it feels like to have them removed. I can tell you how long you can live without them before a mortal death takes you down and each one regrows to full maturity and begins working again. As I said, you knew his horror for a moment, but I lived with it. I got creative in dealing with it, so if you’re worried about me, don’t be. Get on with it, or get out.”

  “Wren,” he whispered as he watched her. Wren’s hands touched her flesh, and she stared into Blane’s eyes, finding a focal point and holding it. She never screamed, never cried out as the pain bit at her flesh. Her mind wandered aimlessly, high above the pain, far away from the tent and what was happening to her body. “Gods, woman, scream or do something,” he demanded as he shook her as if she’d lost consciousness or had given in to death.

  “What would it help?” she asked and the entire room gasped that she was still awake through the pain of the fire burning her flesh back together. The moment Wren finished, Blane moved to take his place. “Not you, anyone but you,” she whispered as her eyes narrowed at Blane. “You don’t touch me.”

  “Remy,” Blane growled as he stood and backed away from her.

  “Got it,” he said as he lowered his mouth to her flesh and ran his tongue over her red flesh. Ciara closed her eyes, ignoring the heated look from Blane as Remy sealed the wound, healing the damaged muscle and tissue until nothing remained of the injury.

  Ciara turned in the bed, slipping off the bloody gown as she moved to the far side, lying against the soft mattress as sleep finally claimed her. Her dreams were no better than her current reality, a price she paid for finding the dark place in her mind, that painless place that she’d hid from her monsters.

  Alazander watched her with golden eyes, but where Ryder’s had flecks of black mixed in, his were lifeless. His hair was jet-black, but where Ryder’s held a bit of color mixed in.

  “You’ve been bad again, slipping out of your cage, haven’t you?” he purred as he moved closer to the table which he’d secured her on.

  “I didn’t leave it,” she said. She couldn’t, he held the only key to her cage. He knew that, but to him, this was fun. This was what he did to pass the time when his women were broken from the endless pleasure he took from them.

  “Oh my precious daughter,” he whispered as he smoothed her black hair so much like his away from her face. “So beautiful, so pure. You know what I have to do now, right?” he mumbled as he pushed the tools on the metal table around, searching for one to cause the most pain.

  “Please, please don’t, I’ll be good,” she pleaded as tears rolled down her cheeks. She struggled against the restraints, praying that Danu would take her this time, that she’d end the pain and spare her anymore. “I promise, I’ll be good,” she cried.

  “I think a rib,” he murmured as he brought the scalpel up and stared down at her exposed ribs. She closed her eyes, waiting for the burn of the cutting flesh and when it came, a blood-curdling scream escaped her lips. “One day, daughter mine, you’ll handle pain in silence. I promise to make you stronger.”

  She screamed as hands grasped for her, his blade burned her flesh, and she fought against him. Her mind raced with how she could get free, and then someone else was there, in the room. He screamed at her from across the room, grabbing her as if he was some sort of ghost that was there one moment, gone the next. Each time, he moved closer as she bellowed and screamed through the endless pain. The sound of bone crunching as it snapped apart. She watched in horror as he held it in front of her line of sight.

  “What is this?” he demanded coldly as her eyes moved to the rib he’d removed, which was carved with dragons flying across it. “You whore!” he snarled as he brought the scalpel up, intending to end her life for a little while. She wasn’t afraid to die, she was scared of what happened before it took her.

  “Ciara!” Blane’s voice entered her dream as someone shook her on the table. “Wake up,” he demanded. Her eyes opened, and she stared up at him as he straddled her body, staring down at her with a horrified look in his eyes. “Gods, woman,” he snarl
ed as he flinched away from the tears. “What were you dreaming of?”

  “My father,” she whispered. “A price I pay for going where he can’t hurt me,” she admitted as she rolled over and let sleep take her back to the horror of which she’d survived. Being born a female to the Horde was a weakness, one he’d cut out of her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Blane stared at the form curled into the fetal position on his bed. His mind grasped onto the dream she was lost within, and when he entered it, his blood ran ice-cold. She was pacing in a cage, one barely large enough for her to fully stand in. A smile pile of blankets was laid out in the corner, and she paced in front of it aimlessly like a wild creature.

  She was pale, her hair a mess of black curls. His eyes searched her face. The dark circles which covered her violet eyes were something he couldn’t imagine her having since she was Fae. Yet here she was, in a fucking cage terrified of something. A noise sounded from across the room, and she froze. Trepidation filled her eyes, tugging her features into a look of absolute terror.

  “Daughter mine,” a deep voice cooed from the shadows. Alazander stepped from them, his features crazed as he took in his daughter with a look no parent should ever carry for their child. Ciara straightened, closing her eyes before she opened them and looked into golden eyes. “You’ve been naughty, haven’t you?” he growled as he ran his fingers over the bars as he walked around it.

  “No, I’ve done as you told me to, father,” she whispered barely loud enough to be heard. Her hands trembled as she balled them into tight fists at her sides to prevent him from seeing how they shook.

  Blane swallowed hatred as he watched Alazander produce the key to her dirty cage. His heart raced with what he thought he was about to watch. His stomach roiled and bile pushed at the back of his throat as Alazander held his hand out for his daughter to accept.

  His fingers raked through his hair as he stepped back, preparing to exit her dream. He wouldn’t, not because he wanted to watch it unfold, but because he’d used a lot of magic to enter her fortified mind. She’d used a barrier to forget her past. One he hadn’t been able to breach before tonight when she’d lowered it to escape the pain she’d been in. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to drop them again if it took what it had taken tonight to accomplish it.

  Fuck, she’d not even flinched when Wren had used his dragon fire to heal her. She’d looked bored as it had melded her flesh together; as if she hadn’t even felt the white-hot flames licking her flesh. Then when he’d stepped closer, she’d told him no. It had taken strength to allow Remy to use his mouth on her flesh, but the need for the wound to be healed outweighed his pride.

  He lifted his gaze from the floor, watching as Ciara placed her hand in her father’s and let him lead her across the room to a long table. Blane swallowed hard as she climbed onto it, spreading her arms so he could shackle her to it. Next, her legs were parted, and Alazander’s fingers caressed her calves before moving to the head of the bed to stare down at her.

  Alazander pushed his jet-black hair away from his face as he stared down at Ciara, narrowing his eyes at her as he spoke clearly. “You’ve been bad again, slipping out of your cage, haven’t you?” His words flowed flawlessly as he stepped closer to the table.

  “I didn’t leave it,” she answered.

  “Oh my precious daughter,” he whispered coldly as he pushed her hair away from her face. “So beautiful, so pure. You know what I have to do now, right?” he asked as he turned, pulling a metal table closer as he pushed through the tools set out on it.

  Blane stepped from the shadows, his hands balled into fists as the bile threatened to come up. He’d watched torture before, hell, he’d even done some of it himself, but this was different.

  “Please, please don’t, I’ll be good,” she pleaded as she turned and watched her father laugh coldly as if he didn’t care that it was his child tied to the table before him. “I promise, I’ll be good,” she cried as tears slowly rolled down her cheeks.

  “I think a rib,” he said, and Blane winced as his eyes searched Ciara’s face. She’d looked…relieved? He watched as Alazander used the scalpel, slicing down Ciara’s chest as he exposed her insides. She screamed loud enough that he was sure those outside her nightmare could hear it. “One day, daughter mine, you’ll handle pain in silence. I promise to make you stronger.”

  Her screams intensified as his hand entered her body, digging around in it until his eyes closed as a smile played on his lips. The sick bastard was getting off on playing with his daughter. Playing with her organs. Her name left his lips before he could stop it.

  Blane shouted for her, screaming her name to bring her focus to him instead of what her father was doing to her. It didn’t matter that this was only a nightmare, one she’d lived; she shouldn’t have to relive it in her sleep. Her violet eyes searched for him in the room, even though he wouldn’t be solid here, not in the past. His hands touched her face, framing it as his lips kissed her forehead, begging her to wake from the nightmare.

  The sound of bone crunching as it broke drew his eyes to the mess Alazander had created. Bile burned the back of his throat as he stared down at the screaming beauty. Her father lifted the bone he’d taken from her and spoke cruelly.

  “What is this?” he demanded in a tone so cold it scared him. Blane stared at the rib he’d moved, gasping as he took in the etched dragons flying on it. Blane swallowed as his eyes moved to Ciara who stared at it and then up at her father as sobs rocked through her. “You whore!” he snarled as he brought the scalpel down, slicing through her face and throat until she ceased to breathe. He watched the light leave her eyes and stepped back, exiting her dream.

  Once he reentered his body; he shook her sleeping form as he straddled her to forcefully pull her from the nightmare. Blane knew all too well how nightmares felt real, reliving his own family’s slaughter over and over again. “Ciara!” His voice boomed, meant to break her barrier which he knew she was rebuilding. “Wake up,” he demanded. He watched as her beautiful eyes opened, large and round like an owl’s. “Gods, woman,” he snarled, angry that she’d placed her tiny fucking hand in that monster’s and accepted the fate she had known was coming. He flinched as her eyes filled with tears, unable to shake the nightmare’s icy grip. “What were you dreaming of?”

  “My father,” she whispered as he climbed from her body and settled beside her, still on his knees in the bed. “A price I pay for going where he can’t hurt me,” she mumbled as she rolled to her side, facing away from him. Her words slapped him in the face. She wasn’t afraid to die: she was scared of what came before death claimed her. Something she’d probably whispered inside her mind a million times before.

  Blane lay down beside her, pulling her tiny frame against his as the air began to chill. She didn’t pull away from him, which he was grateful for. His mind raced, replaying her nightmare as her father had dissected her. Alazander had cut his own flesh and blood open, and she hadn’t fought him. She’d placed her tiny fucking hand into that monster’s and accepted what was to come, knowing what he would do. It meant that hadn’t been the first time it had happened, and it surely hadn’t been the last. Her words carried weight, words that he’d thought were nothing but lies meant to bring him to her side. She’d told them her father was a monstrous murderer, and never once spoke of him with anything but hate and derision dripping from her perfect, cherry colored lips.

  He held her tighter, wondering who had carved the images into her ribs, or had it been a mere image planted by her subconscious, unlike the rest of it? He knew without question her nightmare had occurred. Dreams you created, even when they were nightmares, blurred around the edges. The scenery was usually off, something out of place. You could look at the background of a dream and find elements that didn’t belong, and hers had been perfect. The way only memories were.

  His arm lifted as his fingers da
nced along her ribcage, touching the one which held dancing dragons. The symbol of an unmated woman had been on her ribs. Only dragon-born mates carried it, and yet this Fae princess held it perfectly on her third rib, which meant she’d been born dragon royalty, created to carry the next generation in her womb.

  “How’d you get it there, little princess?” he mused against her ear. “That symbol hasn’t been seen in over ten thousand years. Not even our women carry it,” he whispered as he brushed her hair from her face, kissing her ear. His dragon would have marked her first rib, a child, her second rib. No one but those who played with destiny could touch the third rib, ever. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re supposed to be here with me,” he swallowed as he readjusted her tiny frame and stared down into her sleeping face.

  Blane was supposed to hate her, but after seeing what she’d endured, he didn’t want to. But he couldn’t keep her, either. Or could he? A dragon’s claim was absolute. Not even the Gods could intervene if she carried that mark. How would her brother feel if he fully claimed Ciara? Their father had forced them to bond to stay alive, to remain whole through what he’d done to them.

  If he married and mated with her, she’d be his forever. Her family would lose her, and not even their Goddess could challenge his claim. The only way she could leave him is if he let her go. He doubted Ryder would survive whatever had happened to him, but his bride was as ruthless as he was if the rumors were true. She’d ripped out the throat of the strongest leader of the Horde in front of an army of them without fear, and then she’d taken several more down without breaking a sweat.

  They’d bowed to her, some newly birthed Goddess who hadn’t even used magic until the end. He’d been sure with the fall of the king, they’d scatter to the wind, and instead, they’d banded together, something unheard of in the Horde. They were cutthroats, created to turn against one another, and yet they’d done the opposite. As if they were a new breed of Fae, as if they’d remade the laws, and while he knew Ryder was a murderous bastard; he’d also heard that he spent hours redoing the world, rebuilding it, which meant he was more than anyone else knew, more than what his woman knew.