by Ava Sinclair
“Why do you cry, little one?” Beti uses the pad of her thumb to wipe away the tear that has trailed down to rest on the ledge of my cheekbone, and my heart twists anew at this maternal gesture.
“Just homesick.” I sniffle, feeling a a flare of renewed anger. If only my mother knew I was alive. “I envy you. You have your family.”
“As will you,” Beti says. “Perhaps not the one you left, but a family nonetheless. How glorious!” She towels me dry and brushes my freshly washed hair to gleaming before reaching for the blue gown and slipping it over my dead. “Think of it. Four strong mates whose devotion will be solely to you? Sons to nurture and cherish? Sisters?”
“I have no sisters,” I say. “I was the only child.”
“The other chosen females will be your new sisters,” she says firmly, and I think of Enid, how serene she seemed, how she spoke of life here with dreamlike wonder. I should be comforted, I know, but part of me remains repulsed by her acceptance, by how easily she has put aside all that should have mattered most — those who raised and loved her.
Then I think of the two men who have already roamed my body like some uncharted landscape, how they succeeded in conquering it, drawing waves of pleasure from a reservoir I never knew existed. I think of the hands, so warm and large, roaming my curves, the long fingers that tested my virgin barrier before a mighty cock breached it, the feel of a hot tongue on places I never thought to feel a man’s mouth. Even now I can feel the throbbing between my legs, unbidden but undeniable. I ponder how — when absorbing the splendor and comforts of this castle — I find my old life slipping away, supplanted by this surreal existence where fruit as large as my hand is mine for the taking, where my rags have been replaced by shimmering gowns, and my love-bruised body is replenished by dips in magical pools.
It will, I realize, take a concerted effort to remember where I come from, and to fulfill my secret plan, which is to ease the suffering of my mother and aunt and the others who think I’m dead.
I am not dead. I am very much alive, and one way or another, they will know.
But I cannot think on that now. For now, I must focus on my own survival in this place, where I’m smart enough to realize that I am helpless to leave the path I’ve been set upon.
“You’re so beautiful.” Beti pivots me towards a mirror and I gaze at the woman staring back at me. It’s the first glimpse I’ve had of myself since coming here, and the image staring back at me is both familiar and strange. I recognize my face as the one reflected in the small hand mirror at home. It’s less pale, flushed now with a healthier glow. And my body… The dress, the fabric molding to me with a strange fluidity, glitters like a jewel. My hair cascades down my shoulders in a golden wave; when Beti asks if she can plait it. I let her, watching in the mirror as she works it into a thick braid that hangs down to my lower back.
“One more thing,” she says. “Close your eyes.”
I do, and feel something light settle on my skin. When I open my eyes, I realize she’s tossed some sort of dust over me. It clings to my hair, my skin, reminding me of the gray silt of my village, only this is finer, and glitters, the colors changing as I move — the faintest, iridescent sheen that catches the light. Now I am a jewel, too.
Mother, if you could only see…
I don’t have to wonder who knocks at the door moments later. When Zelki walks in, he stops when he sees me. The front of his leather skirt rises in carnal salute. He does not try to hide this, but smiles as he approaches me and offers me his hand.
“You are wearing my color, announcing that I have had you. When we walk into that hall, realizing every Drakoryan male knows this will fill me with pride beyond measure, for there is no fairer female in the kingdom.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
I drop my eyes from his. The way Zelki looks at me — I fear were I to hold his gaze a moment longer, he’d surely ravage me. I feel heat coming off his body, like some sun-warmed desert stone. Who are these strange men with dragons at their command, and why do they burn so?
The distance to the hall does not seem so long now. The celebration is still ongoing, and Zelki tells me it will continue until the final brother has claimed me. A cheer rises when we enter. Hands reach out to clap Zelki on the back. He leads me between the tables like a prize. It is a strange ritual, and I find myself wondering at the accolades. Why should they cheer a man for fucking one woman when he as fucked hundreds? Then I remember what Drorgros said, that they cheer for me, and add this to my list of things I must seek to understand.
Two brothers remain. They are seated beside Lord Drorgros, the eldest. He rises with the others to embrace Zelki with a round of congratulations. Four sets of admiring eyes are fixed on my body, and I am guided to Tythos, a broad-shouldered serious lord who does not smile, but assesses me almost coolly. I shall wear his colors next, and I find myself wondering what will happen before I don his gown.
They seat me at the table, telling me I should eat. It’s another thing I must become accustomed to — the food. There is so much. This time, some sort of large birds — three, four times the size of the largest goose — sit baked to golden perfection on stone platters that line the massive tables. Each is surrounded by root vegetables drizzled with a sweet glaze. Smiling maids balance trays of breads and cakes or jugs of wine as they serve and pour. Each time one of the brothers looks away, someone raises a tankard or horn in their direction. The room is heavy with the mingled scents of food and the sounds of congratulatory cries. Tythos wordlessly piles my plate with food, explaining that the birds are a type of swan harvested from a forest pool each year for this celebration.
“Taste,” he says, and like Zelki, offers me a piece from his own hand.
Will I ever tire of having my knees go weak from these new and intoxicating flavors? The moist flesh tastes like a buttery beef, the skin crunchy and almost sweet. The vegetables, which I guess to be some sort of turnip, have a mildness that magnifies the spiced sugar glaze. The flavors seem to be coordinated, like the colors of a sunset, to form a perfect culinary palette.
I could easily eat to excess, but I don’t. I know what to expect now, and the nearness of the taciturn Tythos has caused a flurry of butterflies to fill my belly.
Where Drorgros wears his hair in a braid and Zelki leaves his loose, Tythos wears his in a tight bun. It accentuates his face, which is slightly more angular. His eyes are more almond-shaped than his brothers, and a darker shade of brown. His beard, while full, is more thick stubble than curls. I imagine it rubbing rough against my thighs and shift in my seat. Between my legs, my pussy is already getting wet at the thought of what awaits me with this third man. I would blame the wine for these wanton thoughts, but it remains untouched in its goblet.
After feeding me a few bites of food, Tythos turns his attention to his own food. I think of what I’ve experienced so far. Drorgros was gentle, instructive. Zelki was flirtatious, aggressive. Does Tythos now seek to increase my suspense by ignoring me?
I decide to ignore him, too. I turn to Imryth, who is to my right, and inquire as to the men who fill the hall. Why am I the only female, I ask?
He seems surprised that I am addressing him and glances around to Tythos, who is holding his tankard up to a maidservant coming by with a jug of wine. Of all the brothers, Imryth is the most unusual. His hair is long, but lighter, and he only has the shadow of a beard on his face. It allows me to see the line of his square jaw, the little cleft in his chin. Like the others, his is bare-chested, save for a metal-studded sash that runs around his chest, attaching to his leather skirt front to back. He is muscular, but where his brother’s muscles are mounds and bulges, his are sleeker. And his eyes, greenish blue, have a depth to them, and a certain softness.
At first, he is reluctant to answer me, but finally does, telling me that the Drakoryan Empire is one big brotherhood, and aside from military victory, the one thing that binds the males above all else is this ceremony, for it celebrates the strengtheni
ng of his people with the promise of new blood, new life.
“Why take women from the villages for your mates?” I ask. “Do you not have your own women?”
“You ask many questions,” he says, and unlike the dismissiveness of his brothers, there is something akin to appreciation in his tone. “I know it is difficult, not having all the answers you see.” His voice is low and he leans in towards me, but I don’t interpret the encroachment as flirtatious. I feel as if he’s taking me into his confidence, and I like it. He turns his attention to his wine. “I am much the same.”
“You understand?” I ask excitedly, perhaps more so than intended, and he glances back at me with something of bemusement in his eyes.
“My brothers chided me for it as a child. I was boundless in my curiosity, following my parents around, asking them all sorts of questions. I’d harry the servants, even my brothers, until they pushed me down. Their language is fighting…” His voice trails away.
“And yours?” I’m suddenly curious about him, but before he can answer, Tythos rises to place a huge hand on Imryth’s shoulder.
“Trying to jump in line, are you, Imryth?”
I look up, piqued. “He was merely talking to me. It was pleasant, having a conversation.”
Tythos stares down at me. I cannot read his expression. Is he thoughtful? Angry? Both? He takes my arm, not roughly, but with enough force to raise me to standing.
“Imryth can charm you with his words later. For now, let us take a walk.”
Tythos is jealous. He has not said so, but I can feel it. There’s a tension to him, and he shoots Imryth a glare before departing. I am fuming. He has no reason to be angry with his brother for not leaving me ignored. I’m wondering if I can like this man who now leads me from the hall to the sound of cheers.
He doesn’t make small talk. He doesn’t stop to point out or explain artwork or sculptures that line the passageway, although I long to linger and examine what looks like a shrine set up in the alcove of one wall. When I stall, he wordlessly beckons me to follow, and I do so begrudgingly.
I grow more tense, and by the time we reach the heavy door of his bedchamber, it occurs to me that I’m angry. I’m even angrier when he shuts the door and turns his back to me without a word. Tythos undoes his sash and tosses it aside. When he turns back, he makes no move to approach, but just stands there, regarding me.
“Little human,” he says. “Do you have any idea how I envy your kind?”
“You? Envy us?” Whatever I expected his first words to be, they weren’t this.
He smirks. “Why, yes. When your kings of old took a mate, they were not required to be faithful. They could bed their bride and go back to enjoying the bounty of other females, a different one every night, should they choose. Of course, this meant littering the land with bastards, but a Drakoryan would not have been plagued by such inconvenience. Our seed only starts to become potent when we bed our true mate. When we do, we are bound to her.” He frowns. “Only her.”
I stand stock still, digesting his words. “You’re angry…” I can barely get the words out, nor can I hide my indignation.
“Not angry,” he says, approaching. “But don’t expect caresses or kind words from me. The men in the hall may cheer all they want, but tonight is no celebration for me, so if you…”
Tythos’ words are stopped by the slap I land across his face, and if he is surprised, his shock is only second to mine. I have never struck anyone in my life, but I am furious with him, and can barely keep tears of rage in check as I address him.
“You’re angry? I ask. You? You dare indulge in self-pity? You? Were you tied to a post? Were you plucked screaming from a ledge while your sobbing mother watched? Were you taken to a castle and expected to spread your legs for strangers? The only thing that has made any of this tolerable is that your brothers – to this point, anyway – gave the appearance of understanding that this was not my choice. They endeavored, at least, to talk to me, to treat me as something other than a hole to fuck.”
He puts his hand to his cheek and begins rubbing it. “I’ve offended you.”
“If you must ask,” I say coldly, “then I know which brother is the slowest of wit.”
This insult seems to irk Tythos in a way that the slap did not. “I could punish you for that,” he says in a low, menacing tone, and I see a quick flash of yellow in his narrowing eyes. “I have a mind to put you over my lap, bare your ass, and smack you until you scream.”
My heart thuds with fear at his words, but anger pounds a harder beat in my brain.
“I am no child,” I say. “Treat me as one, and I will not submit my body. I will fight you, and while you will easily win, it will make you the only brother who had to take me by force. And I will make the others hate you for it. Mark me, Tythos.”
My umbrage may have made me reckless, but my words have an instant effect. Tythos is studying me now, and I see admiration replace disdain.
“Thousands of females,” he says. “They practically trip over me, eager to experience my prowess, to see if the rumors about me are true. I’ve had them beg me to fuck them, cry for my favor. Thousands of females, but never, ever, has one dared defy me.”
“I am no whore,” I say. “And I have no desire to cleave myself to you or any other man. I am doing my duty, too. If I feel an attachment, it’s only because you’ve earned it.”
“A challenge?” He smiles now, transforming his hard face into a handsome one. I see deep dimples beneath the short stubble of his beard. “I suppose we should make the best of this night, you and I.”
He steps back and bows low. “Lyla, Chosen Mate of the House of Fra’hir. Will you consent to mate with me this night?”
His tone is light, but not mocking. I cross my arms, regarding him. “I don’t know,” I say. “Thousands of females, you say? In my village, men who shared themselves so freely suffered from diseased cocks — rashes and such.”
Tythos pulls aside his skirt to expose himself. His cock is thick and veiny. I am still new to carnal delights, but instinct tells me he has every right to be proud. I think of his brothers; each wielded his cock differently. What, I wonder, will his do once inside me?
“You’re welcome to inspect it more closely,” he says, smiling when I blush. “It may bring you comfort to know that Drakoryans are hot-blooded, and resistant to illness. Besides, if I were carrying diseases, every maid in the hall would be on their deathbed by now.”
“Is that supposed to excite me?” I ask, quirking a brow. “Knowing that I’ll be another female for you to ride?”
“Oh, no,” he says. “I’ll not be doing the riding.” He whips his skirt off, tossing it aside and walks to the bed. Unlike his brothers’, his bed is made from stone, the frame carved from a solid piece rising from the floor. Across the room is the most massive fireplace I’ve ever seen; what looks like an entire small tree serves as a log. There are no furs on his floor, only tightly woven straw mats. And on the walls, weapons, hung like art. Conquering. That’s what he does. And I know what he wants as he lays down on his bed, his huge cock sticking straight up from a thatch of dark curls.
“Tonight, my brave little Lyla, you will ride.”
I don’t immediately reply. Instead, I turn, slipping the smooth fabric of my blue gown from my shoulders. It slips down, pooling at my feet. I turn, and see lust in Tythos’ eyes.
I approach the bed.
“I will ride you, Lord Tythos. But first, I have a question. And I know you may not answer, but it’s been vexing me.”
“Ask it, then,” he says.
“Those dragons.” I nod towards the window. “Do you ride them?”
“Ride them?” He puts an arm behind his head, raising himself a bit to look at me.
“Yes,” I say. I move to the bed and he reaches out an arm, which I grip so he can help lift me up. “I’ve been told so little.” I furrow my brow. “You Drakoryan control the dragons. You use them to subjugate my people, send them to
fetch women like me, I presume…” I look at his face, searching his expression for affirmation, but his is unreadable. I go on. “Do you command them, or ride them?”
He looks up at the ceiling, appearing to muse on my question. “Hmm…I would think it would be dangerous to ride a dragon.”
“You’re teasing me,” I say.
“No. I’m not. They are powerful beasts.” He looks back at me. “Tell me, Lyla, if you were to ride a dragon, how would you do it? Show me. I’ll not tell you another thing until you do.”
The room is warm. He is laying there, his cock stiff and straight. I remember his brothers, their hands, their cocks, their tongues. My nipples harden, my pussy begins to clench. I rise to my knees.
“Well,” I say. “I would think a tight grip would be essential.” I swing my leg over his, straddling his huge, hard thighs, the damp curls of my pussy just grazing his skin. He tries to hide his excitement, but I feel him flinch, see his mighty cock bob. I smile. I’m learning quickly.
“A tight grip?” he says. “Dragons dip and roll. They make unexpected moves. You would need strong thighs to hold on.” His gaze moves to my thighs, then between them, to my Venus mound. “Perhaps you’d need an even stronger muscle.”
“Yes,” I say. “One that is sure to make any beast do my bidding.”
I move up. He is so large that I must rise to position myself over his cock. For a moment, I worry it will hurt to take him so soon after Zelki, but my pussy is so hot, so wet, so slick with excitement that I glide down on him, locking our bodies together. He groans.
“Just another female, right?” My voice is husky, almost unrecognizable to my own ears.
“Little tease,” he says. “I should have spanked you.”
I lean over, snake out a tongue to lick his nipple. It brought pleasure to me when
Tythos’ brother did it. Will it bring pleasure to him? He groans again, and his hands move to my ass, squeezing, and then he slaps me, the stinging pain sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. He laughs throatily. “Minx,” he says. “I believe I may have underestimated you.”