by Ava Sinclair
I know he’s right, but there were five hundred villagers here, and dozens of maidens. I want to know if those maidens are among the dead, or if — like Kenrick — they are missing.
We begin the grim task of walking to the end of the village. A small shed and fence are destroyed but not burnt. There were milk goats here, but they are gone, likely eaten.
A bridge leading to the other side of a narrow river is burned; on the opposite side, all that remains of a small mill is the wheel and smoldering timbers. But the houses are the worst. Not one was spared. Villagers were either slung apart in the air or dashed against the walls of their own homes. The ShadowFell spared neither old nor young. These villagers suffered the same brutality as the denizens of Kenrick. But there’s a difference; this dragon was careful to thoroughly incinerate. Identifying male from female is impossible. All that remains of the crushed or dismembered bodies are crumbling skeletal remains.
I lean down to pick up a little stone animal lying in the ash — a carefully crafted toy given by loving parents to their child — and am suddenly heartsick and overwhelmed by guilt as I recall Zelki’s words. He was right; it was not just my fear of inflaming drunken Drakoryans that had me withholding information about the burning of Kenrick. I didn’t want anything to jeopardize our claiming of Lyla, or the Deepening.
The House of Fra’hir is not like other houses. Other lords have more than one father. We only had one — Rymoth Fra’hir — and he died defending King Vukurcis in the last Battle of the ShadowFell. I have taken it upon myself to lead my brothers, even though we do not always agree. But I feel that my judgement here may have made things worse, by putting the interests of our house above the Drakoryan Empire, which has sworn to protect the humans it rules.
“Something vexes you?” Imryth is at my side.
“I have a bad feeling,” I say.
“I know, brother. I have it, too.”
A wind sweeps through the village, raising a small cyclone of ash that spins furiously before dissipating into a gray cloud. I can only think of how the villagers must feel when we punish them, when they come out to find their homes or fields burnt. We justify the burning. But seeing it now, done by the enemy, gives me an appreciation for the horror we inflict on the humans we rule.
The wind howls again, the sound high as it whistles through cracks in the battered walls of a stone house nearby. But when it dies down, the keening continues and I realize it’s another noise — a thin, reedy wail.
Turin, who has been helping us inspect the bodies, has detected it, too. “Did you hear that?”
The three of us strain our ears to listen, and for long minutes the only thing we hear is the sound of ravens pecking at a charred timber. But there it is again, more distinct this time.
“It’s coming from the well!” Turin heads to a pile of rubble. Nothing remains of the well now save for a hole in the ground. When we reach the edge, Turin lays down, staring into the depths.
“There’s someone down there!” He looks up. “A rope! I need a rope!”
A rope? That seems like an impossible request with everything burnt. Then I remember the small goat shed. I race through the village and into the shed, where I find a rope tied to a rail in one of the stalls. I grab it and run back, tossing it to Turin. He loops it around his waist, tying it. Imryth and I take the other end and lower him into the well.
“I hope it’s long enough.” Imryth keeps an eye on the rapidly dwindling rope as we continue to lower Turin into the open maw of the well. We’re nearly at the end when we hear splashing. There’s another cry, then the sound of Turin’s voice comforting someone. My brother and I exchange concerned looks. We cannot see into the well.
“Bring me up!” Turin’s words are accompanied by a firm tug.
We pull. The weight is heavier this time, but not by much, and when our burden reaches the top, we realize why. Turin has a barely conscious female draped over his shoulder. She’s clad in a soaking shift. Long red hair is plastered to her back.
Imryth steps forward, holding out his arms to take the woman so Turin can climb from the well. But I can tell he’s reluctant to hand her over. Already, the closeness of a female — even one in a faint — is enough to stir his blood. It is with some effort that he finally relinquishes her to my brother, who lays her on the ground.
She whimpers pitifully and her eyes flutter open long enough for me to determine that they are green. She is delicate, with a heart-shaped face. But despite her small stature, the shift clinging to her full breasts, slim waist and pleasantly flaring hips leaves no doubt that this is a maiden ripe for the plucking.
“She was clinging to a beam that had fallen into the well.” Turin cannot keep his eyes off the woman, who’s fallen back into unconsciousness. “The water saved her from the fire.”
“I see none alive save for her.” Imryth looks around. “We can’t leave her.”
“We won’t leave her.” The rumble in Turin’s voice indicates the matter is settled. He’s already protective of her, and this is no time to tell him that he cannot just claim this woman, that there is an order to pairings, that he does not have permission. I look to the sky and for the first time realize the sun is getting low.
“She needs to be kept warm,” Imryth says. “She’s weak, and feverish, Drorgros. She may not survive the trip back grasped in a dragon’s claw.”
“There has to be something we can cover her with.” I leave Imryth and Turin with the woman and walk back through the village, flipping over stones and charred wood in hopes of finding a blanket. It seems impossible with everything burned, but miraculously, I do. Under a collapsed wall is the charred edge of a tanned cow hide likely used as a rug. I pull it free and rush back.
Turin lifts the woman and places her gently in the hide. We each remove our belts and use them to bind the hide around her.
We step away then and — one by one — change into our dragon forms. Imryth steps forward, preparing to carry the human, but Turin lowers his mighty head and issues a threatening growl.
“We may have a problem,” my brother conveys, arching a golden brow. But there is no time to think on that now. With Turin holding the bound woman maiden firmly but gently in his grasp, we rise and head for home.
Chapter 8
LYLA
I’ve been practicing the cuddling of babies. Fyrn has a seven month-old son with hair as fine and wispy as dandelion fluff and eyes as blue as cornflowers. This morning I bounce him on my knee, wondering why my heart isn’t melting when he rewards me with a drooly grin. Is there something wrong with me?
I have met another unbred Fire Bride named Kell. She will breed this year, she tells me, and can think of nothing else. She sits on the other side of me, fidgeting as she awaits her turn to hold Fyrn’s baby. When I pass the child to her, he protests vociferously. The babe is obviously more comfortable with me than I with him.
I’d hoped to compromise today, to balance my reading with a bit of time steeped in the contentment of other Drakoryan mates, to perhaps absorb it by osmosis. But I can’t relate to Kell’s elation when Fyrn’s baby stops fretting and snuggles contentedly in her lap.
“Can you imagine anything more wonderful than giving your lord sons?” she asks wistfully as she strokes the downy head. Her eyes are dreamy.
“It would indeed be wonderful,” I say, and excuse myself.
The other women smile as I pass. Since the awkward moment when I asked questions about the military exercises, I’ve sought to rehabilitate my image in the eyes of the other brides. I sent gifts of scented oils and candied plums to each of their rooms, invited them to enjoy the pools should they wish to refresh their bodies. I keep servants hovering around the young mothers, ready to take a fretful child should one need a break. My unseemly curiosity about the men was quickly forgotten. The other brides stop me in the halls to herald my domestic skills. Several tell me they’ve never enjoyed a council meeting so much.
But this, too is by design. Conte
nted guests do not need to be entertained, and after a period of interaction, I reward myself with a walk through the castle. I find myself straying repeatedly to the stone bridge, although I know I won’t look down to find Tythos engaged in his drills. Now that he knows I was spying on him, he’s found another place to practice.
It’s getting later in the day, and I’ve not laid eyes on any of my mates, save for Zelki, whose bed I left this morning. I smile at the memory. Had I not chosen him last night, I fear he may have combusted from frustration.
I ‘d expected him to tear my gown off as soon as the door had shut behind us, but instead, he’d told me he had a gift for me. The grin on his face implied that whatever he had in mind would be as pleasurable for me as for him. Whether it’s drizzling me with the juice of an aphrodisiacal melon or teasing me with a feather, the youngest Lord of Fra’hir can always be counted on to make lovemaking unique.
When Zelki produced a wooden box, I wasn’t sure what to expect. When I’d opened it, I couldn’t identify what he’d given me.
“Is it a …necklace?” I’d pulled out what looked like a necklace of large beads. But they were not linked. They were a single strand, graduated in size. I looked at him, questioning.
“They’re breech stones.”
I had put my finger on one. It was warm and slick, like firm flesh.
“What do they do?”
Zelki had grinned. “They go in the breech.” He’d reached behind me to run a finger up the seam of my bottom. “In the old days, before the Drakoryans took mates, they kept subjugated humans for pleasure. We had appetites the humans didn’t understand and the breech stones were part of the training.”
“Training?” I’d arched an eyebrow.
“Yes. Females would be bound with ropes going from here…” He’d traced his finger over my shoulder and down my back. “To here…” He moved it to my hip. “To here…” His hand finally came to rest on my thigh. “They’d be immobilized, helpless to move while their master showed them the pleasure that can come through submission.” He’d paused. “I could show you.”
“I’m no slave girl, Lord Zelki.”
“No, but you want to be, at least for tonight. You want me to tie you up, to bind you so that your legs are spread, so that your bottom hole and pussy lie exposed and vulnerable to your master’s touch, so that you are helpless to his every whim.”
I tried not to show my excitement, but I could feel the arousal trickling down my thighs at the imagery he painted with words. Zelki had glanced down. My nipples were hard peaks visible through my gown. He’d grinned, and I’d flushed as my body contradicted me.
He’d produced a length of cord and looped it over his hand. My heart was pounding as he rubbed the cord against my face. “The finest silk,” he’d said. “Only the best for my captive’s lesson.”
I didn’t protest as he slid the gown over my shoulders. It slipped to the floor and Zelki took my hand as I stepped from the puddle of fabric. He unlooped the rope and draped it over my shoulder. I’d watched, fascinated, as he moved it down, tying and looping it across my chest like a harness that fit snug against my breasts. He knotted it at my waist, pulling the length through, weaving it back over my shoulders. He turned me around, binding my arms behind my back so tightly that my breasts were thrust unnaturally forward. I was immobilized from the waist up, my breasts slightly squeezed by the pressure of my bindings. Zelki led me to the bed. He sat down. His cock was rock hard beneath his skirt. He took the left nipple of my taut, bound breast in his mouth, and I’d moaned against the hot, demanding pressure. The sensation brought me up on my toes. He sucked harder, and my hands reflexively sought to move forward, but couldn’t. I could only stand there, my pussy throbbing with aching need for the attention Zelki was giving my breasts.
When he looked up at me, his eyes were alight with the golden flame of lust. Zelki is beautiful, with long black hair and a close-cropped beard. There is an edge to him, even when he is playful, as if he has something to prove. When he lifted me to the bed and pushed me forward, I began to wonder if I should have agreed, if I should tell him I did not want to continue with this game. But as he took the rest of the rope and moved it down to pull apart and bind my legs, I had no words. I wanted this, not despite my fear, but because of it. I was helpless to the desire to be helpless, eager to feel my limits pushed.
I glanced back to see him behind me, completely naked. His huge cock was straining towards me from a nest of black curls, but it was his fingers I felt. Zelki was probing the asterisk of my bottom hole, testing it first with the pad of his thumb, and then with the smallest breech stone on the end of the cord. He rolled it against my bottom hole, pushing as he began to play with my clit. He pinched gently at the hood until the aching bud of flesh swelled and emerged. I was aching to be filled, and he slipped a finger into me just as the smallest stone slid past my resisting sphincter with a slight sting. I moved my hips back and forth, following the motion of his fingers. I felt an odd, internal pressure as the smallest stone, firm and flesh like, had begun to tingle and throb. I moaned into the bedcovers as the second stone slipped in.
He’d filled me slowly, alternately fucking me with his fingers or teasing my clit as he pushed the stones inside me one by one. I could feel them, pulsing and warm, the pressure heavy and erotic. I could not move. I was forced to completely focus on the throbbing fullness, the slow strokes, the teasing, circular stimulation of my clit.
Only when I was writhing with need did Zelki enter me, the length of his cock pushing into me, making me feel as bound inside as out. The flesh like stones were slightly pliable. They flattened, molding together as he began to fuck me. It was as if I had two cocks inside of me as Zelki began to fuck me hard, his hands cupping my ass as he drove me hard into the bedcovers. Amid his strokes, the warm, blended shaft created by the stones tingled and pulsed.
I pride myself on being strong, but at that moment, I reveled in my own helplessness to his raw, male power, to his driving cock, to my inability to move or control the situation, of being so completely filled and dominated.
“Come,” he’d said. “Come now!” This was unexpected, jarring, but being ordered to climax had sent me crashing over the edge. Pleasure rippled through my body like an earthquake, and at that moment, Zelki grasped the end of the string and began pulling the breech stones from my body, the sensation intensifying the waves buffeting my body. I struggled to breathe, gasping, my toes curling, my body pushing back against him as he spent, too. The feel of his hot seed flooding my core had been the final reward.
Even now, hours later, I shudder at the memory.
Who will I choose tonight? I do not know. Drorgros or Imryth, I think. Both can take me hard and rough when I want it, but are more inclined to sense when I need them to be gentle. In the case of Imryth, should I need to just be held, he will sometimes forego his lust to watch me sleep in his arms.
I walk to the window and look to the skies. The sun is sinking. I miss my lords. I grow weary of guests, and look forward to the council coming to a close. I have made all the preparations for tonight’s feast, but because it feels useless to stand and watch the sky for dragons or the grounds for Zelki and Tythos, I head to the kitchens to bother the cooks.
I pass bedchambers along the way, hearing the cooing of babies some mothers chose to take to their rooms. Then when I round the corner I hear a different kind of noise. A moan comes from a hidden alcove up ahead, followed by a throaty female laugh.
I am hidden from view by the bend in the tunnel, but from where I stand I can see the couple, and although the man’s back is to me there’s no mistake that I’m looking at the broad back of Lord Jayx. I cannot see the maid he’s facing but I can see her lower legs wrapped tight around his waist. One is riding high on his back in a manner that has pulled his leather skirt up, revealing muscular buttocks that flex as he shoves into her, pushing her against the alcove wall. She’s not a small woman, but he lifts her easily. His hips thrust up
ward, eliciting cries of pleasure that increase with pitch and frequency until she shudders and sinks her teeth into his bulging shoulder to keep from screaming.
It is only when Lord Jayx lowers her down that I walk into view. The maid’s face goes ashen when she sees me, and upon noticing her shock, her Drakoryan lover turns. But rather than look chastened, his face splits with a self-assured smile.
“My lady,” the maid says. She’s close to tears.
“Inga,” I reply. “There’s a chill outside. Please go make sure the grates in the ladies’ chambers are well-stocked with wood.”
She curtsies, unable to meet my eye, then rushes away. Once she’s gone, I turn to Lord Jayx.
“The hospitality of House Fra’hir does not extend to use of the maids,” I say.
“My deepest apologies, Lady Lyla. I did not expect to be discovered. As for decorum, when your lords were unmated, they were welcome to fuck any maid at House Za’vol. In fact, the maids in our castle looked forward to their visits, especially Tythos.”
I can tell he’s trying to deflect my anger by making me jealous, but it won’t work. “I cannot speak for how your house is run,” I reply. “But I would prefer you leave my maids to work. If you absolutely cannot control yourself, then at least have the decency to find a private place.”
He smiles. “From sacrificial virgin to barking orders at Drakoryan lords.” He chuckles. “Zelki said you were fiery. I thought he was prone to exaggeration.”
When I don’t smile, his own fades. “I’ve angered you.”
“No.” I sigh. “I’m not angered. But neither will I be dismissed. Is it so hard, being unmated?”
“Why, yes, my lady. I am hard all the time.” Lord Jayx looks down at his skirt. His cock is still at half-mast underneath, and now I blush scarlet as I realize my comment could have been taken more than one way. He throws back his leonine head as his laugh fills the hallway. “I apologize for grabbing your maid. In my defense, she was willing, but I will endeavor to restrain myself during the rest of my stay, for you are not a woman to be denied.” He bows low, and I feel myself flush. He’s a rake, but he’s a charming one.