by Jasmine Walt
“I don’t recognize your scent,” he murmured, slipping a hand beneath her chin. Terror froze Dareena’s throat, and she could barely draw a breath. “I admit to not knowing all the maids by sight, but your scent is new…and the fragrance I smell on you is not the common soap that the servants use.”
He leaned in and took a deep whiff, his nose brushing against the sensitive spot right beneath her ear. Dareena jerked—it was as if a bolt of lightning had hit her, searing her nerve endings and igniting a flame inside her. Goosebumps broke out over her skin, and it took everything in her not to spin on her heel and run away.
If Dareena had learned anything from living in the countryside, it was never to run from a predator. And dragons…well, they were the fiercest predator there was.
“No,” the prince murmured, his warm breath ghosting across her flesh like an invisible caress. She sucked in a sharp breath and inhaled the prince’s own scent—it was rich and masculine, and tingles raced across her skin. “You are not a maid at all.” His big hands clamped around her shoulders. “What are you, then?” he growled. “Some elven spy? Speak, girl—I’ll know if you’re lying!”
“No!” Dareena gasped. “I…I’m one of the Chosen!”
The prince instantly recoiled. “The Chosen?” he echoed, his eyes wide. “But you…”
“I’m the wrong color, I know,” she snapped. “I assure you, Lady Maude and the other noblewomen training us have not failed to remind me.”
The prince stared at her for a long moment before he finally blew out a breath. “Fine. Let’s get you back inside now, before anyone sees. The last thing you need is for the ladies to catch you out of bed, least of all with me.”
Dareena wanted to object, but the tone in the prince’s voice brooked no argument. Besides, he was right—Lady Maude would have a conniption if she knew that Dareena had encountered one of the princes before the ball. She allowed him to march her back to her room, and though his face was taut with anger, the grip on her hand was gentle enough. If she didn’t look up at him, she could almost imagine that they were lovers, taking a stroll—albeit a brisk one—through the castle at night.
Finally, they arrived outside her room. He pushed the door open, then leaned inside, his nostrils flaring. “The room does smell like you,” he said grudgingly. “You’ve told the truth, then.”
Dareena bit back a sharp retort, not wanting to anger the prince further. But she struggled against him as he ushered her inside, not wanting this to be over just yet.
“Wait.” She wedged herself in the doorjamb before he could close it completely. “At least tell me your name.” How could she possibly end this encounter without knowing which prince she’d run into?
His eyes glimmered as he hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Drystan,” he said. “Now go to bed.”
He closed the door in her face, and Dareena flopped onto her bed, a grin quickly overtaking her face despite the fear still pounding in her veins. She’d had a run-in with one of the princes and had not made an utter fool of herself! And moreover, he was incredibly handsome. She wondered if his brothers were equally so—they had to be, since they were triplets, but she had been told they were not identical, so she had no idea what they would look like. Tariana and her sisters all shared the same amber eyes, and she imagined it was a dragon trait. But what else did the brothers share? If the other two were anything like Drystan, they would be imposing—Drystan had seemed to suck all the air out of the space when he’d approached Dareena. Every inch of that man oozed with power.
Sighing, she pulled off her clothes and slid beneath the sheets. But sleep was a long time coming—all she could see when she closed her eyes was Drystan’s handsome face, and her heart pounded once more at the strange feelings he’d stirred in her when he’d leaned in to sniff her neck. Gods, that man was magnetic. And there were two more like him…
As Dareena slipped off to sleep, it dawned on her that she might not be content with sampling this small slice of royal life. Whichever of the Chosen turned out to be the Dragon’s Gift would be one lucky woman, and for the first time, Dareena envied whoever that woman would be.
9
Alistair was in a sour mood when he came to dinner.
It was customary for the royal family to dine together at least once per week. Oftentimes they were too busy to do so, especially during this time of war, but the king insisted on gathering his family around him periodically. Alistair liked to think it was about tradition—family dinners used to be cozy gatherings where everyone would trade stories about what they had been up to during the week, and they would all laugh and trade jokes. It was the one time the brothers really got to see their sisters, since most of the time their paths did not cross.
But this family dinner was full of tension. The only sound in the dining room was that of knives and forks scraping across plates and throats swallowing the food and drink piled before them. For once, all thirteen siblings were gathered around the table—these days, Tariana was the only one who usually made it back from the fighting, while the others continued to captain their squadrons. But their father had pulled them all back from the fighting for the Dragon’s Hunt. It had always been tradition for the king’s female offspring to lead the Hunt, and even the war hadn’t convinced their father to break that tradition.
“So,” the king said after he’d swallowed a mouthful of roast beef. All eyes turned to him. “I see that you have concluded a very successful Hunt, my daughters.”
Alistair’s sisters bowed their heads. “It was an honor to serve the kingdom, as always,” Zaria, the third eldest, said. She was the biggest suck-up, always the quickest to jump to their father’s tune, and she nursed a grudge against Tariana, who was their father’s favorite. “The Lord of Rowanvale sends his regards, along with a gift that I had delivered to your office.”
“Which I received,” the king said with a pleased smile that made Zaria’s chest puff with pride. But the levity from his expression faded away, and he swept his narrowed gaze over them. “I noticed that there is one amongst the Chosen who does not fit the preferred guidelines. A woman with coal-black hair. Who amongst you selected her?”
The room fell silent. “She was my choice,” Tariana said, and all eyes fell on her.
“Your choice?” Their father scowled at her, and Alistair noticed Zaria’s lips twitch as she tried to hide a smirk. No doubt she was pleased that, for once, their father looked on Tariana with disfavor. “I thought you had more sense than that, Tariana. Is this why we have not yet crushed those elven scum?” he demanded. “Because you are incompetent? Did I make a mistake in making you my general?”
“Of course not,” Tariana said, unfazed by the outburst. Alistair admired the way she kept her composure—everyone else in the room had stiffened. “There is nothing written in any of our scrolls or texts that says the Dragon’s Gift must have particular features. Even so, I did not initially intend to pick that girl. My intention was to choose Lord Hallowdale’s daughter, Lyria. She fits the parameters exactly—perfect figure, beautiful face, long, flame-red hair.”
“Then why is she not standing in my Keep right now?” the king sputtered.
“Because she is an impudent little bitch, and she would make a terrible consort for any of our brothers,” Tariana retorted, her eyes flaring. “She struts about as if she owns the place and terrorizes her father’s subjects. Dareena—the woman I chose—was the only one who stood up to her the entire time I followed her around. We cannot afford to bring women like that into the Keep. It would be an insult to the dragon god.”
The king stared at her for a long moment. As the seconds ticked by, Alistair exchanged furtive glances with his brothers. They were all thinking the same thing—that their father was teetering on the verge, and was either about to punish Tariana or praise her.
Finally, the king threw back his head and laughed. “A perfect response as usual, daughter,” he said approvingly. “You are quite right—the dragon king would
never pick a harpy like that to bear my grandchildren. Clearly, Lord Hallowdale has not done a good job of raising his daughter. I imagine I will have words with him when he comes to court to complain that his offspring was not Chosen.”
The siblings said nothing to this—everybody knew that Lord Hallowdale would say nothing if he knew what was good for him. Nobody dared question the king anymore—even Tariana treaded with caution, pushing only where she felt she could get away with it, as she did in this case. The conversation moved on to talk of the war, and the sisters gave their reports. So far it was a stalemate, the Dragon Force winning as many battles as they were losing, but Tariana assured the king that the elves were beginning to tire and that Dragonfell had vastly superior resources.
“We will best them,” she said with such confidence that Alistair nearly believed her. “It is only a matter of time until we win.”
“Well, well,” Lucyan said under his breath after dinner as they all filed out of the dining room and headed their separate ways. “I ought to thank our sister for making life around here interesting. I saw that girl the other day when she and the others arrived at the castle—she won’t become the Dragon’s Gift, of course, but she’ll be a nice prize for whoever doesn’t get picked, don’t you think?” He clapped Alistair on the shoulder.
Alistair gritted his teeth, refusing to respond. The taunt was obvious—Lucyan didn’t think that Alistair would be king. And perhaps he wouldn’t. But he didn’t need to speak about Dareena as if she were a consolation prize. Any man would be lucky to have a woman who looked like that, dragon or no.
“No response?” Lucyan asked as Alistair stalked ahead. “Where are you going?”
“To speak to our dear sister,” Alistair said.
“About what?” Drystan asked.
Alistair ignored them both and hurried to catch up to Tariana, who was halfway up the hall. “We need to talk,” he said, grabbing her arm.
Tariana’s eyes narrowed as she turned to face him. “About what? If this is about refusing to post you on the front lines, I won’t hear of it, Alistair. Father made it very clear—”
“It’s not about the bloody front lines,” Alistair growled. “It’s about Prince Ryolas.”
Tariana’s gaze instantly shuttered. “Why would you want to ask me anything about the general?”
“Because,” Alistair said as his brothers caught up, “I know the two of you used to be friends.”
“Friends?” Lucyan echoed. He stared at their sister incredulously. “You’re friends with the enemy?”
“Shut up!” Tariana hissed. She grabbed Alistair by the hand and yanked him into the nearest room, which turned out to be the linen storage area. Alistair wrinkled his nose at the strong scents of soap and starch, and Drystan actually sneezed. Tariana leveled scorching glares at each of them as she shut the door.
“Where the hell did you get the idea that I’m friends with Prince Ryolas?” she snapped at Alistair. “And why in Terragaard would you think it’s a good idea to blab such a ridiculous idea out loud, where anyone could hear you?” she asked Lucyan. Her cheeks were bright pink, her entire body taut with barely leashed fury. A lesser man would have quailed beneath her anger, but not the brothers—Tariana might have been their older sister, but they were still the princes.
One of them would become her new king.
“I have to admit, I am curious as to what brought you to this line of questioning,” Lucyan said to Alistair. “Does this have anything to do with the little visit the elvenspawn paid us?”
“I decided to do some digging, yes,” Alistair said tightly. “After what he said to us about Mother, I had to be sure that there wasn’t some truth to it.”
“What?” Tariana’s eyes widened. “You spoke to Ryolas? When?”
“Ryolas.” Drystan’s eyes narrowed. “You address him so familiarly. Are the two of you friends?”
“We used to be,” Tariana said tersely. “The elven king and his family have been to court on more than one occasion, and as Ryolas and I were of a similar age, we ended up spending the most time together. But that was a long time ago, when we were children. I don’t understand how you even know of it.”
Alistair shrugged. “There are rumors that you and Ryolas were more than friends,” he said. Indeed, he’d dug up that particularly juicy tidbit when surreptitiously questioning some of the older members at court. He and Taldren had decided to start by tracing back the political dealings between Elvenhame and Dragonfell before the war began, and lo and behold, he’d found this out. “You’ve danced with him on more than one occasion.”
“As I have with other nobles, back when I was forced to attend such parties,” Tariana shot back. “The one good thing about this war is that I don’t have to deal with such nonsense anymore. Ryolas and I may have been friends once, but we are on opposite sides of this war now. He is my enemy. Now, what is this about you three visiting him? If anything, it sounds as if you are conspiring with the enemy.”
“He kidnapped Taldren from the front lines, then infiltrated our borders and sent us a note demanding we meet with him to save our cousin’s life,” Lucyan said. “When we came to fetch him, your prince charming fed us a load of bullshit about Elvenhame not being responsible for our mother’s death, and that we should look into it further.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve never been quite convinced that Father’s findings were sound, have you? Is that because your lover has managed to pull the wool over your eyes, dear sister? Does his cock feel so good that you can forget how shriveled and wasted our mother’s dead body was when we burned her on the pyre?”
Tariana moved so fast that Alistair barely registered it before Lucyan went flying across the room. He slammed into a shelf full of linens and was quickly buried in a heap of bedsheets as he fell to the ground. Drystan and Alistair stared at her in shock as she leveled a glare at Lucyan, her eyes blazing red as all dragons did before they were about to unleash fire.
“The three of you may be princes,” she said in a deceptively quiet voice, smoke puffing from her mouth, “and one of you may very well become king. But I have bled and sacrificed more for this country than your ignorant, spoiled asses will ever know, and I will not allow you to impugn my honor or integrity. The next time one of you questions my loyalty to the king, I will send you to the infirmary in pieces for the healers to stitch back together.”
“Well, that went well,” Drystan muttered as Tariana stalked from the room. She slammed the door so hard, the walls actually shook. “I hope that was satisfying, Lucyan, because I doubt our sister will be speaking to us for the rest of the year at this rate.”
“Good riddance,” Lucyan grumbled as he got to his feet. “I could do with a bit less self-righteousness in my life.”
Alistair shook his head, leaving his brothers behind as he returned to his rooms. Tariana was loyal to Dragonfell—there was no doubt in his mind about that. As a fellow soldier, he knew her better than his brothers, which was why it had shocked him when he’d learned of her connection to the elven prince. But it was more obvious to him than ever that their eldest sister was hiding something…and being loyal to Dragonfell was not necessarily the same as being loyal to the king.
10
“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” Mira murmured.
“Of course you are. You’re going to do great in there.” Dareena squeezed her hand, as much for Mira’s comfort as her own, as the noblewomen ushered them toward the ballroom. From a bird’s eye view, Dareena was certain they looked like a sparkling sea of silk and lace and tulle—all of the women were decked out in dazzling dresses worth a king’s ransom, their hair styled to within an inch of their lives.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Mira groused. “You look breathtaking.” She swept her gaze over Dareena, who wore a garnet dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a skirt with so much fabric it seemed to go on for miles. The bodice was embroidered with black roses, and matching obsidian stones winked at her ears. Her long bl
ack hair had been curled, and the curls gathered up at the nape of her neck and off to the side, leaving the column of her throat on full display. She’d barely recognized herself when Rona had finally turned her toward the mirror—in addition to the gorgeous clothes, her lips had been painted a matching red and her eyes dusted with shimmery powder and lined in kohl that made her green irises stand out even more than usual.
Amidst a sea of blonde and red and pastels, she was a jewel in a bed of flowers.
“Don’t fret,” Cyra said, taking Mira’s other hand. She was dressed in deep green that offset her flaming curls to perfection. “You look beautiful, Mira. You’re going to knock the princes’ socks off in that dress.”
Cyra skimmed a hand along the silken blue fabric of Mira’s skirt, and Mira blushed. “I doubt they’ll take a second glance at me,” she said, her gray eyes sweeping through the other girls. “I’m just one of many.”
“Then you’ll just have to show them your stellar personality,” Dareena declared.
“Hush,” one of the noblewomen admonished them as they arrived. Light and music spilled through the open doors of the ballroom, and a crowd already milled about. Dareena’s back went taut with nerves as she realized Drystan would be there. Her skin tingled, and she could feel his breath on her skin, hear his deep, seductive timber echoing in her ears.
Don’t be silly, she told herself as the ladies ushered them in. He won’t even notice you in this crowd.
The chatter of conversation dimmed as they entered, necks craning as everyone turned to get a good look at the Chosen. The place was filled to the brim with nobles, all dressed in their finery. Dareena hid her shock as she spotted Lord Hallowdale and his wife in the crowd. She’d been told that all the lords and ladies of Dragonfell had been invited, but it hadn’t occurred to her that she might run into the Hallowdale family. Oh gods, was Lyria here?
“I don’t see Lyria anywhere,” Cyra murmured, echoing Dareena’s thoughts perfectly.