by Tessa Dawn
“Look at you!” her mother exclaimed, anxious for a hug of her own.
Mina released her father and enfolded her mother, tunneling her hands in Margareta’s long auburn curls. After all these years, her mother’s hair had not faded; it was still as cinnamon as ever. Mina had little doubt that Raylea’s secret teas, infused with droplets of a dragon’s potent blood, had everything to do with it…
Everything to do with why both her parents still appeared to be in their fifties or sixties.
Speaking of Raylea, Mina’s beautiful sister, whose hair was the color of their mother’s—she appeared as if out of the shadows and wrapped her slender arms around both Mina and Margareta, creating a trio out of the familial embrace. “My queen…” She breathed the words against Mina’s hair.
“Oh my gosh!” Margareta jerked back as if Raylea’s words had just snapped her out of a daydream. She pushed Mina away, held her at arm’s length, and surveyed her up and down. “What happened? What in all the Realm just occurred? I could hardly believe my ears.”
Soren Louvet pushed his way into the circle of women and gestured wildly with his hands. “My daughter…a queen…wed to King Dante! I was just telling your mother: This can’t be true.” He patted Mina on the shoulder, thumbed a plaited coil of her hair, and lightly brushed the sapphire brooch pinned to her ornate bodice. “What about Prince Dam—Prince Matthias? What about Castle Umbras? Serving as the Sklavos Ahavi? What about all those years that we visited?” His brow furrowed, and his lips grew taut. “And Ari, Azor, Asher…they’re King Dante’s sons? Mina, I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Before Mina could answer, Margareta Louvet reached out to tenderly cup Mina’s cheeks in her hands. “Oh, my baby girl, my sweet, sweet baby girl. I had no idea. Both princes…” Her voice was solemn and sad as her words trailed off and she sighed in angst. “How could they treat you like that…use you like that…all of these years? And as if that weren’t enough, the prince of Umbras shared you with his brother, and now he wants your sister?” She slowly shook her head. “Oh, my sweet baby girl”—her eyes shot to Raylea—“my sweet baby girls, both of you.”
Raylea looked directly at Mina. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last half hour, but I think Mother is overwhelmed. Too much information.”
Mina nodded. She took a thoughtful step back and considered her words carefully. “No, Mother,” she said softly, “you don’t understand. Prince Matthias never used me, at least not like that. The male never touched me as a woman.” Soren averted his eyes, obviously uncomfortable with the subject of the conversation, yet Mina pressed on. “In all honesty, Mother…Father…King Dante never used me, either. He loved me, even as Prince Matthias has loved Raylea all this time. The king loves me still.”
Margareta frowned, her features falling into a dubious expression. “I really don’t understand,” she said. “Raylea and the prince of Umbras…while you were his consort? Prince Dante—King Dante—since the very beginning? And this sudden renaming of the dragon prince, calling that savage Matthias, gift of Lord Nuri? It’s almost sacrilegious, and it breaks my heart. I knew a proud boy from Arns who once carried that name, and he was nothing like the heartless monster we met that first day in the Warlochian square.”
Soren cleared his throat, and his eyes swept anxiously around the grandiose foyer. “Margareta. Have a care. Remember where you are, who it is that surrounds you, and your place in this hall, full of mages, witches, and dragons, powerful, often vengeful beings. Do you wish to get us all killed?”
Margareta pressed her hand over her mouth, briefly closed her eyes, and then nodded. “Later. In private,” she whispered. Allowing several moments of silence to pass, she leaned forward and placed her hand on Mina’s arm. “Is it at least allowable for your father and I to inquire about our grandsons? I feel the same as Soren—oh, Mina, why didn’t you tell us they were King Dante’s offspring?”
Mina exhaled a slow, measured breath. “First and foremost, no one in this foyer is going to harm either of you. You have my word and my pledge. Do not forget, I am the queen of Castle Dragon now—only King Dante himself could supersede me, and he would never lay a hand on either of you. He knows such a thing would destroy me.” She paused to order her thoughts because her mother was right: The history—especially the details of Prince Dante, Prince Damian, and Matthias Gentry: which soul belonged to which body, who was whom, and why—was far too detailed, too involved, and much too convoluted to go into in the foyer of Castle Dragon.
They would need to sit down…
For hours…
Later.
However, she could address Ari, Azor, and Asher, at least peripherally. “And Mother…Father…I wanted to tell you both about your grandsons. Trust me, I did. But it was far too dangerous at the time. Always, we had to think of King Demitri and his dragon’s wrath. Always, we had to be so very careful.” She shook her head from side to side in a fleeting show of regret, and then she forced a hopeful grin. “But all the lies, all the deceptions, they’re over now. Trust me: At last, we can all move forward in peace.”
Soren folded his hands together and carefully considered his daughter’s words, even as Margareta Louvet stared at Mina like she had just grown two heads. “Move forward in peace?” she echoed. “Mina, that dragon, the king”—she lowered her voice to a hushed, conspiratorial whisper—“he just flayed a man with his tail, hung him upside down by the throne-room ceiling, and decapitated him before all of Castle Dragon. I would hardly use the word peace to describe King Dante’s reign…”
Soren sighed in exasperation. “A dragon can hear you, even when you whisper, Margareta.”
Raylea chuckled softly; apparently, she couldn’t help it. She cast a sidelong glance at Mina and shrugged her slender shoulders, but she didn’t offer her parents any further words of comfort or advice.
“That man,” Mina spoke plainly, raising her chin in a severe, no-nonsense slant, “the one King Dante flayed—he muscled me out of a storeroom and dragged me before King Demitri in order to have me flayed, as well, thirty-one-years ago in that very throne room. So forgive me if my heart does not go out to him.” She placed both hands on her hips. “Forgive me if I understand the nature—and the burdens—placed upon the shoulders of the dragons, the necessity of keeping order, and yes, even instilling fear in their servants. And I don’t say that lightly. I am a Sklavos Ahavi—I’ve served the Realm for many years.”
Margareta angled her head to the side, regarded Mina circumspectly, and studied her like a hawk. After several pregnant moments had passed, she reached for Queen Mina’s hand. “You are quite…protective…over the king, aren’t you?”
Mina lowered her voice out of respect. “Yes, I am.”
Margareta nodded slowly, her eyes alighting with a mother’s understanding. “Do you…do you…love him, Mina?”
This time, it was Mina who sighed. “With every beat of my heart, Mother. I have loved him since before Ari was born.”
Margareta opened her mouth to reply, then slowly closed it, ostensibly unable to find the right words. She turned her scrutinizing gaze on Mina’s sister and studied Raylea’s eyes—her posture, her features, her expression—with equal fascination. “And you, Raylea? All those visits back and forth to Castle Umbras, all these years…you never wanted to marry. Are you in love with the prince? With Prince…Matthias?”
Raylea’s innocent smile lit up the hall like a golden ray of sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. “My visits were innocent, Mother. There was much I didn’t know until recently.” She twisted a lock of her hair in a simple, almost adolescent gesture. “Things I will tell you—things we will tell you—soon, in private. But to answer your question: I love him dearly, and I feel as if I’ve been given a second chance at life.”
Margareta smoothed the front of her tunic, and Soren took a ginger step forward.
But before either of the senior Louvets could speak, King Dante Dragona strolled up
to the private family circle, sidled behind Mina, and openly wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her back against him and pressing a chaste kiss along the slope of her neck, just beneath her jawline.
Margareta Louvet gasped, and Soren Louvet dropped to one knee and averted his eyes. “My king,” Soren said gravely, his voice audibly trembling.
Dante released Mina, stepped forward, and pulled Soren to his feet with one hand, as if the elder man were weightless. “Please…rise,” he said in that familiar commanding-yet-silken tenor. “I believe we have seen enough of both of you on the floor for one day.” He punctuated the sentence with a casual smile, and Margareta staggered backward.
“Mother,” Mina called, laughing. “Please, try to relax, just a little.”
Margareta looked like she had seen a ghost as she stared at King Dante, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “My king,” she mimicked her husband.
King Dante lowered his head in a gesture of acknowledgment and mutual respect.
“Then it’s true,” Margareta rambled, almost as if she were talking to herself.
“What is true?” King Dante asked her.
She gulped. “Oh, forgive me; I was just thinking aloud.”
King Dante placed his hand on the small of Mina’s back. “And what were you thinking—what is true?”
Margareta bit her bottom lip, hesitating. “Then it’s true…there is something other than service between you and my daughter.”
Dante barked a harsh, unrestrained laugh, and both Soren and Margareta jerked at the sound. “Mm.” He practically purred the words, though it was likely unintentional. “Let me see…” He stroked his handsome jaw with his thumb. “Ari, Azor, and Asher…there’s that between us, and then the matter of making her my queen.” He nodded like a lazy feline. “Yes, I would say there is something more between myself and your daughter, Mistress Louvet.” And then, in a rare demonstration of emotion, he drew Mina beneath his arm and nuzzled his chin in her hair. “Truth is, I am hopelessly and forever besotted with this strong-willed female the two of you raised. I might have to keep her…forever.”
Mina pinched his arm and snickered. “It’s too late for him—he can’t get away now, not even if he tries. I would never let him go.”
Soren and Margareta stood before King Dante and Mina like twin statues, their eyes glazed over with shock, their mouths agape, their complexions growing rapidly sallow. And then Margareta tipped to the side and began to sway like the trunk of a linden tree beleaguered by a gale-force wind.
Dante caught her by the elbow and waved to a nearby servant. “Water!” He ushered the lad their way, and then he pointed at the wing-back chairs. “Have a seat,” he said to Soren and Margareta. “Please, take a moment to catch your breath.”
While the lad attended to Mina’s parents, Dante bent to her ear. “I met Mina Brouchard.”
Mina drew back in surprise and turned to face him. “That beautiful maiden from the commonlands? She actually approached you? I’m surprised.”
“No,” Dante murmured. “I approached her.”
Mina raised her brows in question.
“Thomas—my regent—has been following her around like a lost duckling ever since we exited the throne room, filling her glass with wine and tending to her every fancy like he’s one of the castle’s meager servants. I have never seen the squire this smitten.”
Mina giggled. She took Dante’s hand in hers and squeezed it lovingly. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you how relieved I am.” She absently rubbed her thumb over his smooth, strong fingers. “’Tis true, I cannot count the number of sideways glances I have gotten since your not-too-subtle announcements, but to me, it all feels liberating.”
Dante’s voice dropped to a lethal purr, and he bent to whisper in her ear. “Pray that your king never sees such a sideways glance cast in your direction. Should anyone in this realm treat you with anything other than veneration, I want to hear about it right away.”
Mina pursed her lips in a gesture of disregard. “Honestly, it doesn’t bother—”
He reached out with all the swiftness of his savage lineage and grasped her by the jaw: firmly enough to command her attention, gentle enough not to harm or bruise her. “I did not ask if it bothered you, sweet Mina. I asked to be informed right away.” The pupils of his eyes glittered the barest hint of red. “Lest you forget: I am still your lord.”
Mina brushed the backs of her fingers along the back of his rugged hand, lowered her lashes, and dipped into an infinitesimal mimic of a curtsy. “My king,” she whispered softly.
In thirty-one years, she had learned how to dance with the dragon…
And the dance was as seamless as it was beautiful, lethal, and captivating.
Mina knew when Dante was playing, when he was brooding or serious, when he was riding the edge, when his dragon took over—in an instant—and rose to the surface. Truly, he was all he had claimed to be that first day at Castle Dragon, and those words he had spoken still resounded in her memory: “…you must proceed with caution…when you run, sweet Mina, the dragon gives chase. When you tell him no, he imposes yes. When you tell him he cannot have you, he needs to dominate you. He is not human. He does not think or reason. He is master of this realm, and if you tell him he is not, he will show you otherwise. Do you understand what I am saying?”
In thirty-one years, Mina had learned what sparked Dante’s fire, what made the flames rise, and what made them retreat. She knew when she was speaking to the man versus when she was speaking to his beast. And most of all, she knew that Dante Dragona would never hurt her.
That he would kill for her.
That he would die for her.
That both he and his dragon would always protect her.
She knew that the sapphire serpent was part and parcel of the monarch she loved.
His hand fell away from her jaw, just as she knew it would, and his strong, muscular shoulders relaxed.
Just then, Raylea Louvet padded over to Dante and Mina. Far more comfortable with the dragon than her parents, she dropped into a full, graceful curtsy. “My king.” She spoke confidently. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did for me and Prince Matthias.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Not just our pairing, releasing him from the duty of siring children with a Sklavos Ahavi, but for his name…” Her eyes grew thick with moisture. “You will never know what that means to both of us. To call a soul by its name.”
King Dante reached out to grasp Raylea’s hand, and then he drew it up to his mouth. Lowering his head, he breathed into her palm and exhaled a thin silver flame: the hue of fire that granted immortality.
Mina watched in reverence, awe, and deep appreciation.
Prince Matthias Dragona would grant Raylea immortality at a time of his choosing, in a sacred, private ceremony, but what King Dante had just done was timeless and immeasurable.
His dragon had claimed Raylea as one of its own.
The flame had given him access to her soul.
He had shared his breath of life with Mina’s sister.
“We have come a long way since that day in the Warlochian square, since that day in the Shadow Woods,” he said solemnly.
“Yes,” Raylea uttered softly, “since you asked for my lopsided doll…since you brought me home from captivity.”
Dante nodded. “Welcome to the monarchy, Raylea Dragona.”
Mina brushed a tear from her eye and stood in silent reverence.
All that could be right was right in the Realm, for the first time in as long as she could remember.
Princess Gaia Percy flicked Prince Dario Dragona’s hand off her shoulder and stepped forward in the opulent foyer, pretending to study a vintage ivory statue much, much closer. “Do not touch me in public with such familiarity,” she chastised him. “You still have a very difficult decision to make.”
Prince Dario wrapped his arm around her waist, tugged her against him, and hauled her into a nearby alcove, where they were shrouded
from nosy, prying eyes. “Coy doesn’t suit you, Princess Gaia,” he drawled, pressing up against the curve of her back and drawing her further into him. “Mm,” he purred, sniffing her neck, “I can hear the blood rushing through your veins.” He twirled his tongue over her jugular. “By all my dragon ancestors, I can almost taste you.” The tips of his fangs descended just below his sculpted top lip, and he shuddered.
Princess Gaia stiffened, trying not to react to Dario’s closeness: to that deep, hypnotic voice, or that overpowering masculine presence. “My prince, this is indecent.”
He twirled a lock of her lush red hair through his elegant fingers and brought it to his nose. Your hair smells of lavender.” He stared at a thick grouping of luxurious tresses. “It has specks of gold in it—did you know that? Hints of scarlet and traces of sangria.” He dropped his hands lower to her hips and caressed them. “It is almost as exquisite as your body.” Then he nipped at the back of her neck. “But not quite…not quite.”
She squirmed from beneath him as best she could and spun around to face him. “My prince, do not.” She cupped his angular jaw in her hands. “I know that we have become much, much closer this last week and a half, but my heart is torn asunder. I am like putty in your hands, and I do not wish to be so. I think of you morning, noon, and night, and it’s positively terrifying.”
Prince Dario drew back, his placid blue eyes growing stormy. “Why would our closeness trouble you?” He traced a line from her chin down the front of her neck, over her collarbone, and between her breasts. “Why would being my lover disarm you? Is it not what you wanted?”
Princess Gaia kept both her voice and her chin level on purpose. “It is,” she answered honestly, for it truly was more than she’d ever hoped for: the way he came to her…touched her. Consumed her. Commanded her. He was like a wild tempest, and she was like the restless sea, tossing and roiling beneath his artful caresses: peaceful and calm when he wasn’t around, turbulent and wild the instant he showed up.