by Ava Sinclair
War Bride
A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy
Ava Sinclair
Contents
Prologue
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
Excerpt from Rebel Bride
Other Books in this Series
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About the Author
War Bride
Copyright 2018 Ava Sinclair
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any written form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Ava Sinclair
www.avasinclairauthor.com
Cover design by Maria Solis Carmona
Images by Adobe Stock Photos
Created with Vellum
Prologue
I am darkness. I am rage.
They say I have no name, but I do. Only my kind know it.
Soon, my enemies will know it too, and will speak it with quavering voices as they kneel before me.
I am Seadus, King of the ShadowFell, and I will have my victory. I will have my vengeance.
In the time before time, it was the ShadowFell who gave others of our kind their first taste of fear. Dragons think themselves invincible until faced with the only thing that can best them—a stronger dragon. There used to be clans of them on this side of the world. One by one, we drove them all away.
Only man and beast remained. For the ShadowFell, mankind served a minor purpose. Just as Night Bears do not kill the bees that produce the honey they crave, neither did we kill the humans who produced the cattle and sheep we occasionally took. The humans would try to defend their flocks, shooting clumsy spears in our direction, but their weapons were no more effective against dragons than bee stings against bears.
Then a new race arose, created by the God and Goddess of the Wyld. Drakoryans. Half man, half dragon.
It was those meddlesome hybrids that saw a broader use for the humans. In need of both meat to feed their dragon side and grain to feed their human side, they brought the humans under their protection and rule.
This was not to be borne. Only we were allowed to rule, and thus began the first war between the ShadowFell and the Drakoryan.
I, Seadus, who had never known defeat, finally tasted it and found it bitter.
There have been three wars with the Drakoryan. Each has ended with our defeat. Our enemy battles not with dragon strength alone, but with the tactics of man.
A dragon can hem another dragon into a crevasse. But a dragon that shifts into a human can land and disappear into the mountains. A dragon commands other dragons alone, but a dragon who turns into a man can command an army of men with weaponry designed by those who know a dragon’s vulnerability.
After our first defeat, the God of Deep Places sent his emissary with an offer of aid so offensive that I drove him away with fire.
I am proud. My kind is proud.
But he came again after the last defeat, taunting us in our sleep. Without help from the God of Deep Places, the next defeat would be our last. There was a path to victory for the ShadowFell, he whispered, not just of the Drakoryan Empire, but of the whole of the magical realm above. The God of the Deep Places promised us more than glory. He promised us dominance and limitless power.
Did we not realize, he asked, that the Drakoryan rely on humans for more than just cattle and grain? They used human females to perpetuate their numbers. Then he repeated the offer I’d found so offensive.
Victory for the ShadowFell would mean becoming man-dragons ourselves. The she-dragon — the mother of us all who produces without a mate— would no longer produce the great dragons of old. Dark magic would change her offspring into smaller, quicker dragons. Dragon soldiers that we would command come time of war.
As we awoke, we would begin raiding the villages ruled by the Drakoryans. We would take the maidens.
And when all the soldiers were hatched from the Mother Eggs, the God of Deep Places said we would take the Mystic Mountain and plunder its magic to transform into dragon men with an army of mindless dragon soldiers. We would defeat the empire, kill the Drakoryans, and put the humans under our rule to grow our food and serve in our armies.
We would be dragon lords, commanding armies of dragons and men. We would be invincible.
Ultimate power. Ultimate rule. Ultimate vengeance.
After ages of defeat, the promise of victory was too tempting to ignore.
When we began to wake again, one by one, the whispered promise of the God of Deep Places was fresh in our minds. We began the first of our raids on the outer villages, refining our plans.
We’d planned to attack the rest of the villages at once, ready to fight the defending Drakoryans if we had to. But on the night of the final raid, we found the villages empty. The Drakoryans did not stand in defense of the villages. They had evacuated them to the stronghold of the Drakoryan Empire.
Our fury was great. We burned all the village cottages in our rage. We roared our displeasure at the God of Deep Places. But he only laughed. The Drakoryans had played into our hands, he said. We would use fire to turn the villagers they protected against them.
Chapter 1
ISLA
When I was a little girl, a man of our village lost his lower leg to a Night Bear. His misfortune became a macabre fascination for me and my friends. We would gather around, querying him about the attack, cringing as he described the bear’s teeth tearing through flesh and bone. The bear was as big as a tree, he said, perhaps bigger. His account both terrified and enthralled us, but even more interesting than the bear’s savagery was the injury itself.
“Does it hurt?” we’d ask, marveling at the scars that remained where the village healer had sewn the skin together over the bony stump. Some adults would have boxed our ears for such rudeness, but the crippled man was kind, and bore our questions with humor.
Of course, it had hurt, he said, and while it no longer did, he’d discovered there was something worse than physical pain. Sometimes, he told us, he would wake and forget he did not have a leg. He fancied he could still feel it. His knee would ache, even though there was no knee. His foot would itch, even though there was no foot. The sensations were so convincing that he would rise from bed only to fall to the floor, his stump throbbing with hurt.
As a child, I found this all very fanciful. How could a man forget he had no foot? How could he feel something that was not there?
Only after my village was destroyed by the ShadowFell did I finally understand. Some mornings as I stir awake I move to the left side of the bed, expecting to feel the warm body of my sister Zara, or imagining that I smell the morning porridge Mother is cooking, or that I hear my father’s cart rolling away as he heads to the fields. I smile, ready for another day as steady and dependable as a leg.
Then, like the man in my village, I remember. And
the loss comes crashing back, the absence pulsing through me like an ache.
I was the only one left alive in the village of Branlock after the black dragons stole away my fellow maidens and slaughtered everyone else. The Drakoryans who found the carnage saved my life. They say I belong to them now, that they will become my new kith and kin. The Lords of Za’vol — Jayx, Turin, and Zyvis—are big men, light of hair and bronze of skin. When I sit surrounded by them, I feel as small as a child, and as helpless. They exude raw power that would make me feel protected were I not so afraid of them, of what they want.
They want me.
“Isla of Branlock,” they’ve said each morning since I arrived at Castle Za’vol. “How does this day find you?”
Each time, I try to force a smile, but it is still so hard. Even when solicitous, the smoldering in their eyes reminds me that these three huge dragon lords took me for a reason. They will have their due, grief or no, for they burn with a lust that cannot be contained.
After the Drakoryans had pulled me unconscious from the well where I’d hidden, they’d returned with me to Castle Fra’hir, where they’d been holding council. It was there I’d met Lyla, Lady of Fra’hir, who’d once been a villager like me. From her, I learned the truth about my rescuers.
She said there are bad dragons in this world, like the ShadowFell, but that there are good dragons, too, and that it was the good dragons who had borne me to safety. She said those good dragons were Drakoryans – a race that could transform into men. It was the Drakoryans who claimed village maidens from the Altar Rocks. For centuries, we’d assumed our sisters, daughters, and friends had perished. But they had not died. They’d lived and been mated to dragon men.
Now, she told me, the Drakoryans are going to war with the ShadowFell that slaughtered my people. The villagers have been brought into the Drakoryan valley for protection. Many things would change, including the Drakoryan tradition of claiming virgin sacrifices from villages. With conflict looming, some lords would be allowed special permission to take war brides.
I would be mated to my rescuers – the Lords of Za’vol. This was, she assured me, an honor. But I did not feel honored. I did not want to hear this. I wanted nothing to do with any dragon.
The Lady of Fra’hir had remained quiet as I’d swept all the pretty bottles and vials from her dressing table in a helpless rage. Only when I calmed myself did she approach me. She did not condescend, but neither did she indulge my pity.
“You cannot change the past,” she’d said. “But you can shape your future. You cannot bring your village back, but you can forge a legacy that honors those who built it.” She’d taken my hands and looked in my eyes. Her gaze was braver than any man’s. “You will go with the Lords of Za’vol. You will learn that just as not all men are noble, not all dragons are monsters.” She’d smiled then. “And you will find your strength. The girl who clung to life in the bottom of a well survived for a reason. She has a purpose. Go with them. Go and find it.”
This morning it is the eldest, Lord Jayx, who comes to greet me.
“Isla of Branlock? How did you sleep?”
He is sturdy and broad-shouldered with sun-kissed skin and a silver scar that traverses the muscle mounds of his chest. He has hair the color of summer wheat and eyes the color of ice.
He seeks to be gentle, but underneath I sense a fraying rope of tension holding something back, something wild and dangerous. When he asks me if I’d like to walk with him, he does not even try to hide the erection that tents his leather skirt. None of them do, these lords.
Today he tells me the history of Castle Za’vol. Drakoryan lords are not named for their fathers or mothers, but for the mountains they claim when they reach adulthood. There are many castles on the ranges around the Drakoryan Empire, all ancient, all carved by witches’ magic. Castle Za’vol is a steep, cloud-shrouded peak that overlooks a plain to the south dotted by growing villages of refugees saved before the ShadowFell could attack any more villages.
Mount Za’vol overlooks smaller peaks to the north. A higher one looms to the west. There is a flanking wall on this side of the castle. This is where Lord Jayx takes me today.
I have not been to this part of the castle. The wall reaches a dizzying height. Moist clouds surround us. Lord Jayx says it is not always like this, but on this day, the clouds make it difficult for me to see him. He looks like a shadow in the mist, even though he stands beside me.
“You are in mourning,” he says.
I don’t reply. Instead I strain my eyes to find a shape in the fog, a peak, a raven, anything.
“I will not pretend that you have not suffered great hurt, Isla of Branlock. I will not pretend that you will ever fully heal from your loss. But neither will I pretend that we can go on like this. Lady Lyla told you what would be expected of you here.”
“I know what is expected.” I peer into the swirling mist. “You and your mighty brothers will take me to your bed chambers and fuck me. I will endure it, because that is what I have been taught to do as a villager, isn’t it? To endure the rule of the great Drakoryans, or suffer the consequences?”
There’s a sigh in the fog. “What we did…”
“…was your right as rulers. I know.” I look over at him. “Lord Jayx, I will not pretend to want any of this if you will not pretend that your patience is kindness. In the end, you will get what you want. Dragons always get what they want, whether it is the daughters of villagers or the destruction of a village itself.” I pause. “Regardless of what the Lady of Fra’hir says, you are all the same.”
I can now make out enough of his features to see a spasm of hurt cross his face.
“No.” His tone is still kind, but there’s steel in it now. “We are not all the same.” He pauses. “But you are right. We do get what we want.” He looks away. “Tomorrow, my brothers and I will battle in dragon form for first rights to your body. In the past, this battle decided which brother claimed a virgin from Altar Rock. No villager has ever witnessed this combat. We want you to see your lords fight with flame and tooth and claw, so that you may know what we risk for the privilege of taking one so precious. We consider lying with you to be an honor, Isla of Branlock, an honor so great as to temporarily turn brother against brother.”
The mist is starting to clear farther out. I can see the mountain peaks, the craggy depths of the ravine below. I try to imagine dragon fighting dragon over me, a woman pulled half dead from the depths of a well.
I can feel Jayx staring at me. His gaze caresses me like hands. He is close enough that I can feel the heat from his body warming me through the mist.
“And after that?” I ask, although I know what will happen. I shudder. It is easier to imagine these men warring as dragons than to imagine them taking me with anything other than roughness.
Jayx doesn’t immediately answer.
“Afterwards, the victor will take his ease in the healing pools of our castle long enough to mend his wounds and regain his strength. Then he will come to you, Isla of Branlock. He will lay you on the bed and fight a new battle, one that has him control his lust, which is stronger than any dragon. And he will, for it will be his duty to introduce you to the carnal mysteries, to show you how a masterful lord can play the strings of your body’s instrument to perfect pitch, to use his fingers and tongue and cock to draw you away — even for a moment — from the awful pain of your loss. You will drift on an ocean of sensation. You will rise and fall on waves of pleasure. And the only cry you utter will be for your lover to end the misery of your virginity and to fill you with his cock.”
His words have the strangest effect on me. My legs feel heavy, as if rooting me to the mountain under my feet. I gasp and realize that I had been holding my breath. Yet, it is the soft, curious throb between my thighs that is most unnerving. It as if Lord Jayx has stirred something in me that had died the day the dragon destroyed my village.
I know what it is. Desire.
Oh, yes, I have felt it. In my vill
age, we were discouraged from experiencing such feelings. We were to stay as untouched maidens for three years after the age of claiming, to give the Drakoryans time to take or pass us by. If we weren’t claimed in that time, we could mate with one of our own. There were village boys who would return from the fields, their sleek, ropy arms and lean torsos glistening with sweat. I would draw water for them, and when I handed them a cup they would fix me with slow, easy smiles and hungry eyes. I remember their faces. I remember the tingling pulses of budding need I felt in their presence.
Those boys are dead now. Only I have survived, along with a need that feels like a betrayal of their memory. It is a need as primal as the dragon lords who plucked me from the well where I used to draw water for hopeful village lads.
Chapter 2
TURIN
Change is in the air. Change in the empire. Change in Castle Za’vol. Change in me and my brothers.
Sometimes I think all women are witches, and the most powerful are the ones working unintentional magic. Isla of Branlock was half drowned and close to death when I found her, but the mere flutter of her eyelids, the glimpse of her green eyes, cast a spell on me more powerful than anything conjured in the Mystic Mountain.
I barely slept last night, and when I roll from my side to my back this morning, I look down to see the sheet peaked across my aching loins. I wonder if my brothers woke with the same desperate need, but when I think of them, another feeling sweeps over me: hatred.