Dragon Lover

by Karilyn Bentley

  “When is the execution?” Fafnir asked.

  “Three hours past sunrise on the Hill of Death.”

  Aryana shivered. Spirits of the executed haunted the Hill of Death since the hill itself prohibited the souls from crossing to the afterlife. Seldom did a Draconi perform an act requiring execution, so many years passed between her visits to that place. Good thing.

  She hated going there.

  Until today.

  Fasolt deserved his execution. More so than anyone else she’d seen sentenced. And Latham. What Watcher in his right mind told humans about the bane of the Draconi? Watchers lived on the same land as the Draconi. Did they really want to give humans a reason to visit? Even the Watchers responsible for the village attacks weren’t that stupid.

  She hoped.

  “Then I better go change.” Fafnir took a step toward the door, only to come to a halt. “Wait. Do I have other clothes?”

  “I’ll bring you some. Go to your room and I’ll be there after I check Aryana.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “No, I need to speak with her. Alone.” Annaliese opened the door, gestured between her brother and the doorway.

  Aryana grinned. Leave it to her friend to force Fafnir to do something. A bristling Fafnir at that. Clearly someone did not like to take orders.

  “We can go together to the Hill.” Ari grabbed his hand, giving it a little squeeze. “I’ll stop by your room after getting dressed. All right?”

  He returned her hand squeeze, his fingers a warm heat against her skin. What would it be like to be held by him for real and not in a dream? As their gazes met, a thrill of pleasure shot from their clasped hands into her core, as warmth filled her veins. How long since she’d last wanted a male? Since desire tingled across sensitive nerves?

  Years?

  Yes, that was it. Years. Years since she desired a male’s touch, since her body readied for his possession from only a gaze. Years.

  And she actually thought the power of the High Priestess a better trade?

  When he released her hand, the moment faded like fog over water, strengthening her wish to keep her magical powers. But a ribbon of want remained, threaded through her heart, a plea to take a chance on love, a chance on her mate.

  Since when was a mating match so complicated?

  The door snapped shut behind Fafnir, leaving bird song to fill the silence. Annaliese stood by the door, head tilted, regarding Aryana with a look that sent a shiver down her spine.

  “What?”

  Annaliese blinked. “You are mates, you know. I’m not sure what to do about it. You’re the High Priestess. You can’t take a mate.”

  Aryana shoved the covers off, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Don’t remind me.”

  “You have to make a decision. It’s evident you are mated.”

  “I am not mated. I merely have a mate. There’s a difference.”

  “Only because you have not bedded him.”

  Aryana grabbed her gown off the bedside chair and held it up. Torn. Well, she needed to get bathed anyway. “I need to dress. We can have this discussion later. After the executions.”

  Annaliese nodded. “As you wish. But don’t try to run this time.”

  As if that was an option. The High Priestess did not run from discord or danger. But then she was to no longer be the High Priestess, right? So maybe she could run all she wanted.

  Which wouldn’t solve one thing.

  No, facing her problems headfirst was the only way to get them solved.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Annaliese snorted. “I know you better than that.”

  “Then you know what a difficult choice this is for me.”

  “What choice? Not a choice. A decision. The choice is already made.”

  Her lip pulled into a snarl, and Aryana fought against the involuntary expression. No use in snarling at her second in command when she failed to like her words.

  “I’m getting dressed. I’ll see you at the Hill.”

  With a thought, she transported out of the healing room, away from the voice of truth, materializing in her own room.

  Frolicking dragons danced across the ceiling, painted years ago, before her birth. A window overlooked the Courtyard. Open, it let in the scents of spring flowers, or the smells of a cool autumn breeze. Opposite the window, a door opened into a private bathing area, a courtesy shown the highest-ranking priestesses.

  A large mahogany, four-poster bed stood in the center of the room, curtains concealing the mattress from prying eyes.

  Not that any prying eyes would dare come into this room.

  Her reward for amassing the most magical power. For testing better than Annaliese. For meeting her dream. Not everyone could say they had achieved a childhood dream.

  And of those who did, how long did they keep it? Was a dream forever, or only until it became reality?

  Aryana pitched the torn gown on a chair as she walked into the bathing room. Warm water heated from an underground hot spring lapped against the sides of a tiled pool. The relaxing energy running through this room always helped her work through problems.

  But could it help her with the biggest problem of her life?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fafnir ran his fingers across the smooth linen fabric of the folded shirt. His shirt. More specifically, his shirt from prior to his capture. Kept for him by his sister. Delivered to him moments ago in a bundle of clothing.

  “I couldn’t burn them as Father instructed,” Annaliese had said, laying the clothing bundle on his bed before leaving him alone to dress.

  Tears burned behind his lids. To be given a shirt to wear until he had his own made was one thing. To be given his own clothing meant he had not been forgotten. That his sister mourned his loss and waited for his return. Even though the titanium in his cell prohibited mind-speak outside of the dungeon, Annaliese knew he lived. Otherwise she’d have thrown out his clothes.

  Her gesture touched the doubt smothering him, the doubt that whispered his family did not accept his return, sliced right through its snaking tendrils, allowing acceptance to take root. He was wanted. He was needed.

  Just not by his mate.

  Fafnir pressed fingers against the bridge of his nose. How was he to convince Aryana to want to mate him? If she didn’t want him, then the choice would be forced upon her, a breeding ground for resentment. Which was no way to start a mating.

  He shuddered. Resentment had no place in the mating bond. He needed to convince her choosing him meant greater happiness than remaining the High Priestess.

  He’d have better luck jumping off a cliff.

  Letting out a sigh, he left the stack of clothing lying on the bed and walked into the bathing room. After a quick bath, he chose the best linen shirt and leather trousers, amazed they still fit. As if nothing had changed.

  As if he could slip on Ragnor’s old life.

  Could his two selves be reconciled? Did he even want them to be?

  Fafnir pressed fingers against the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed. Returning to Draconia uncovered problems he never realized existed.

  A tapping at the door startled him from his thoughts. He didn’t need to open the door to know Aryana stood on the other side.

  Two strides to the door, a twist of the knob, and Ari stood before him. Dressed in a green gown with gold trim, she wore a circlet of elongated gold dragons on her head, which held dual purpose of holding her straight hair off her face and showing the status of her position. The scent of cinnamon and cloves clung to her skin, his own personal aphrodisiac.

  A jolt of attraction snapped through his system and he hardened. No chance of her not noticing his reaction. Leather pants tended to accentuate certain body parts.

  She offered a knowing smile. “Ready?”

  Stepping into the hall, he pulled the door shut behind him and reached for her hand. She stared at his outstretched palm as if it carried a soul-deep decision. O
ne blink. Two blinks. His breath froze in his lungs as he waited. Right when he feared his heart would burst, Aryana sighed, linking her fingers through his.

  Her touch played with his senses, a gentle tingling racing through his veins, giving his limbs a false sense of buoyancy. She lifted her wide eyes to his as they stood motionless in the corridor, as her gaze devoured him, as he tried through his eyes to express his love.

  Then she cleared her throat and the invisible ties stringing them together snapped. “We should go.”

  She spoke true, but he wanted to open his door, tumble her to the bed and prove his mating prowess.

  Fafnir closed his eyes, drew a deep breath through his nose. Mated males were dangerous.

  And idiots.

  A tumble on his bed would lead to them mating and she needed to accept him of her own free will, in her own time.

  Which hopefully would be sooner rather than later.

  She tugged on his hand and he opened his eyes, following her out of the Temple. Once in the Courtyard, she transported them to the Hill of Death.

  Draconi had already arrived, ringing the iron fence that surrounded the execution grounds, a breathing wall of magic. The stench of rot overlaid with dying vegetation permeated his senses and Fafnir slapped a hand over his nose. Did a spell exist to rid the air of foul odors?

  A quick glance around showed most with a hand or cloth clasped over their noses. Maybe a spell didn’t exist. Maybe someone needed to write one. How long did it take to become accustomed to a stench?

  He refused to view the execution with a hand held over his nose like a fragile hatchling. Dropping his hand, he sucked down an eye-watering breath. Then another. And another. And kept going until the stench faded like a background noise, present but not overwhelming.

  Fafnir stared into the circular area surrounded by the tall iron fence. Dying grass waved in a wind that howled but never escaped the barrier of the fence. Fafnir shivered. Despite knowing about this place, he’d never come, never watched an execution.

  Aryana squeezed his hand, pressing closer to him as if she also feared this place. And didn’t that make a male proud, knowing his female depended on him to protect her?

  Bloody Draconi sap.

  I hate this place.

  He nodded as her voice whispered through his mind. This is my first time here, but I understand what you mean.

  It always gives me chills. The other side of the fence is worse. All those trapped souls.

  Is that the wind?

  Yes. That’s why we aren’t feeling it blow. The wind is comprised of all those who were executed. Their souls are trapped here for all time, never to pass into the afterlife, only to see the world pass them by. That area, her chin tilted toward the fenced-in area, reeks of anger. Another chill shook her and Fafnir wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

  But they don’t perform all executions here, right? I seem to recall some in my youth taking place outside of the Council Chambers.

  That’s right. Only the Draconi who commit unforgivable crimes against Draconia are sentenced here. It’s not often that it happens. I’ve only attended two or three. If the crime isn’t as bad, then the perpetrator is only executed, not sentenced to remain trapped in this world.

  How do they prevent a soul from journeying to the afterlife? How was that even possible?

  I don’t know. That’s one power I don’t care to have.

  On that they agreed.

  Who is the executioner?

  Family members who have been wronged.

  Then how do they trap the souls?

  I don’t know. Ask your father.

  Did he really want to know that badly?

  Some things are best unknown.

  She tilted her face toward his, her lips turned in a grin not quite reaching her eyes.

  He wanted to stare into her eyes until the crowds fell away, until the wind within the fence ceased to blow. He wanted to wake beside her each morning, to see happiness in her eyes when she looked at him, to know she loved him as he loved her.

  Love. He had loved others, but none compared to the way Aryana affected him. A soul-craving love. Like ribbons threaded their souls together, a tightening bond, joining them together for eternity.

  She had to feel the bonding. She had to want him. How was he to live without her?

  A Draconi male was nothing without his female.

  The poor, bloody sap.

  Aryana broke their invisible communion by shifting her gaze to the wind-blown grass. A second later a series of pops heralded the arrival of the Council and the condemned.

  Fafnir almost jumped out of his scales when a hand touched his elbow. Dropping his arm from Aryana’s shoulders, he turned.

  “Sorry.” Annaliese stepped beside him. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s this place.” He glanced over her shoulder. It looked like all the Temple priestesses stood in mass behind his sister. “Why is everyone here?”

  “One of the priestesses has a complaint against Fasolt,” Aryana said, drawing his attention back to her.

  Of course. He should have remembered. “Will she help execute him?”

  “No. Her father will stand in for her.”

  “Quiet!” Alviss’s voice boomed across the hilltop, echoing in everyone’s mind, sending a shudder through Fafnir at the amount of power in the command. The low murmur of voices silenced as all eyes turned to his father.

  “This execution will now come to order. We are gathered here today to condemn to death the Draconi known as Fasolt and the Watcher known as Latham for their crimes against Draconia and the persons herein. We of the Council have questioned these two and discovered their link to the village attacks of Tyne and Goleb and for those attacks alone, they should be condemned to death. Along with those crimes, Latham has told humans of titanium’s effects on Draconi, how the metal renders our magic useless.”

  Gasps rang out from the crowd, followed by a low hum of voices, the buzz of an enraged insect. Alviss waited until the crowd quieted before continuing.

  “His telling led to the capture of my son Ragnor and his resulting twenty-four year imprisonment in a titanium cell.”

  Once again gasps rang, but no one seemed to recognize the Draconi formerly known as Ragnor standing in their midst. Alviss raised a hand, quieting the crowd.

  “The Draconi Fasolt has been charged with physical injury to females.” More gasps, another round of waiting for quiet. “He beat the priestess Ella, drugged my granddaughter Keara, kidnapped and drugged Balthor’s daughter Jaythena, and kidnapped and drugged Aryana, our High Priestess.” Anger like a palpable wave slammed through the clearing, strong enough to momentarily calm the wind, strong enough to drive Fasolt to his knees.

  A shiver sank down Fafnir’s spine.

  “We are here today to balance these injustices. To right their wrongs. To execute them and refuse their souls entry into the afterlife.”

  Fasolt screamed, wrenching his arms as he pulled against his bonds, his voice a continual wail of no. But what did he expect? That he would escape punishment? Latham stood still, either not understanding Alviss’s words, or not caring to see the afterlife.

  As Fafnir watched Latham snarl at the crowd, a mixture of emotions roiled in his chest. Latham had been his Watcher, someone he had not liked, but trusted. To have that trust shattered, broken, snapped in two by betrayal, wounded him to the core. Stuck in his cell, he dreamed about Latham’s death. Dreamed about killing the male. Quick and easy. Slow and drawn out. His dreams depended on the day and in some small way sustained him during his captivity.

  But faced with the male’s impending death, he was not sure he could watch.

  “We ask if any family of the victims care to step forward to avenge their loved ones.”

  Balthor and Thoren stepped out of the circle of Council members, while a male stepped out of the crowd, pressing his hand against the iron bars of the fence.

  “I will avenge my daughter, Ell
a,” he said.

  “Then come in.” With a flick of his hand, Alviss transported the male into the circle.

  Steam built in the back of Fafnir’s throat as he stared at a screaming Fasolt. He might not be able to kill Latham, but he had no problem helping end Fasolt’s life. None at all. The male had hurt his female. His mate. Not even in his cowardly state could such an insult go unanswered.

  Fafnir stepped forward.

  “What are you doing?” Aryana whispered, grasping his arm.

  He placed a hand over her cold one. “Avenging you.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I’m your mate,” he hissed, the words warped with vengeance. “It’s my duty to avenge you. What kind of male would I be if I didn’t?”

  Her mouth opened, closed, her face reflecting fear and uncertainty.

  Then she squeezed his hand. Gave him a single nod, her face a pale contrast to her black hair. Fafnir stroked her cheek with his fingertips, a thrill of pride darting through him as she leaned into his touch.

  Turning toward the fence, he stepped forward until he touched the cold metal of the iron bars.

  “I wish to avenge Aryana.”

  Alviss’s bushy white brows shot halfway up his forehead. “You do not wish to avenge yourself?”

  “Perhaps. But I’m here to avenge the High Priestess.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “She’s…” He cleared his throat. Once he said the words, their path would be sealed. He glanced back to Aryana. She swallowed, took a deep breath and nodded. Permission granted.

  Facing his father, he tried the words again. This time they rang throughout the hilltop, carrying over the howling wind.

  “She’s my mate.”

  ****

  Aryana swore the wind stopped blowing and everyone froze at Fafnir’s announcement. Her breathing hitched, her stomach made a pit and shoved her body into the gaping maw while her heart tripped an uneven rhythm. No returning to life as she knew it. But what other choice did she have? Hide? Run? No, she must face her problems head first, even if doing so made her breakfast threaten a return appearance.