Dragon's Blood: a Reverse Harem Fantasy Romance (The Dragon's Gift Trilogy Book 2)

by Jasmine Walt

  Yes, and don’t let that imposter fool you into thinking otherwise, the dragon god said. It is a good thing you came to me right away—if one of you dies before Dareena gives birth to her child, you will ruin all chances of lifting Shalia’s Curse.

  Lucyan felt as if someone had yanked the rug out from beneath him. “Dareena…what? Are you saying she’s pregnant already?”

  Indeed. She is a few weeks along. Alistair has already informed her.

  The heavy weight that had been sitting on Lucyan’s shoulders dissipated, and he wanted to dance. “A child!” he cried, his heart filling with elation. “Do you know which of us is the father?”

  Does it matter? the dragon god asked. All three of you will care for that babe as though he were your own. I brought the four of you together because this situation is far too complicated for a single ruler to handle. Working together, you may just have a chance.

  A son. Lucyan stared up at the god, stunned. They were to have a son, on the very first try. It was unheard of. “I…thank you,” he said fervently, bowing his head again. He had never felt so humbled in his life, but as he knelt before the dragon god, gratitude overcame him.

  “You said the oracle was an imposter?” Lucyan asked, his brain finally catching up. “Has he always been one?”

  No, the dragon god growled. His real name is Mathias Black, and he is a warlock. You should kill him sooner rather than later, as he murdered the real oracle some six years ago and took his face and name for himself. He has been subtly manipulating the population, turning the masses against us, as part of a larger plan to take over both Dragonfell and Elvenhame.

  “I knew it,” Lucyan spat. “The warlocks killed my mother, didn’t they?”

  Yes, the dragon god confirmed. They are the true enemy, though after all that has transpired between Elvenhame and Dragonfell, the elves are not your friends either. Dareena and Alistair are not safe at Castle Whitestone—you must get them back before it is too late.

  “We’ll need to recover the treasure first,” Lucyan said, his mind racing. “The ransom—”

  Never mind the ransom, the dragon god said. Arolas is a petty bastard—he has not said as much to his father, but he would sooner see the dragon line end than accept any sum, no matter how high. If you play your cards right, you can get them back without paying, but much depends upon the elves. They must do something treacherous or dishonorable so that their goddess will be forced to concede a boon.

  “And how am I supposed to make that happen?” Lucyan demanded. “I cannot very well manipulate the elves into doing such a thing from all the way over here.”

  All in good time, the dragon god said, sounding amused. He waved a hand, and the world turned hazy again. Lucyan tried to speak, but his mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. The world turned black around him as he sank to the ground, and the last thing he heard was the dragon god’s chuckle before he lost consciousness.

  14

  By the time Alistair and Dareena were escorted back to their rooms, his sickly pallor had returned, and he was beginning to sweat with fever again. A healer was sent to look at him, but once determining that it was dragon sickness resulting from the spell, she merely gave him a potion to cool his temperature, then left him to suffer.

  “You have to let me in to care for him,” Dareena snapped, flinging her door open so she could scold the guard posted outside their chambers. She could hear Alistair moaning in pain, and it was driving her mad with anger and fear for his health. “Someone needs to mop his brow and make sure he’s comfortable.”

  “We’ve been given orders not to leave you two alone together,” the guard said sternly. “Prince Arolas doesn’t want you tupping each other again.”

  Dareena’s cheeks burned with anger. “Does that sound like a man in the mood for ‘tupping?’” she demanded, stabbing a finger toward Alistair’s door. Some protective instinct surged inside her, eroding her common sense, and she marched right up to the guard, close enough to grab his sword. The guard merely looked down his nose at her—he dwarfed her by a good head and a half, and obviously did not consider her a threat. “He’s sick, and if he dies on your watch, there will be grave consequences.”

  The guard’s eyes flicked toward the door, then back at her. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “But no funny business. I’ll be right outside.”

  “Of course,” Dareena said sweetly, stepping aside. The guard opened Alistair’s door for her, then waved her in. He was tangled up in the sheets, tendrils of hair clinging to his sweaty brow, and Dareena felt a wave of pity as she looked upon his pain-contorted face.

  “There now,” Dareena said soothingly as she untangled him from the bedding. She was tempted to undress him again so she could give him skin-to-skin contact, but she was acutely aware that the guard could come back in to check on them at any moment, so she merely climbed under the covers with him and snuggled up against his big, trembling body.

  “I-I’m supposed to take c-care of you,” Alistair chattered as he wrapped his arms around her. He tucked his face into her hair and breathed deeply, likely soothing himself with her scent. “Not t-the other way around.”

  Dareena kissed the top of his head. “We are partners, Alistair,” she said as she rubbed his back. “We take care of each other.”

  He only sighed deeply, relaxing into her embrace. Gradually, the shivers subsided, and the next thing Dareena knew, he was snoring lightly into her hair. Smiling a little, she played with the ends of his hair, twisting the silky blond locks around her fingers as she used her presence to keep the warlock spell at bay. She knew another bout of sex would rejuvenate Alistair again, but with that guard listening in the hall?

  A knock came at the door, followed by the sound of a familiar voice. “Hello?” Princess Basilla called. “May I come in?”

  Dareena blinked in surprise. She tried to get up to answer it, but Alistair mumbled something unintelligible and tightened his grip around her. “Yes,” she called back, even as an apprehensive shiver came over her. What would the princess say when she saw them together?

  The princess entered the room, still dressed in the same pale green and gold gown from before. She looked a bit startled to see Dareena and Alistair in bed together, but the surprise morphed into a small smile as she pulled the chair out from beneath the small writing desk and sat down next to the bed.

  “The two of you look cozy together,” she said, sounding almost wistful. Her green eyes, a shade lighter than Dareena’s, trailed over Alistair’s sleeping face, and she kept her voice low. “Almost as if you belong together.”

  “We do belong together,” Dareena said possessively, pulling Alistair tighter against her.

  “Then why is it that you are married to Drystan instead?”

  “I’m not married,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice. “There has been no time for a wedding. But when we do marry, I will be wedding all three of the brothers, not just one. I am already bound to all of them—I can feel the connection in my heart, just as clear as they do.”

  “That’s right,” Alistair said, finally opening his eyes. He pinned Basilla with a fierce stare that said there would be hell to pay if she tried to separate them, anti-dragon spell or no. “We belong to Dareena, and she belongs to us.”

  Basilla stared at them for a long moment, her eyes round with shock. “I have never heard of such a thing,” she finally said, “but I suppose I myself would not mind having three lovers, so long as they do not boss me around too much. Unfortunately, my father has other plans.” Her voice colored with displeasure as she flicked a skein of hair over her shoulder. “He plans on marrying me off to Mordan, the crown prince of Shadowhaven. There is no formal engagement yet, but Father has been strongly hinting at the possibility—I imagine I am to be some form of payment in exchange for the help the warlocks have given us recently.”

  “I met Mordan once,” Alistair said, sitting up with a frown. Dareena propped some pillows beneath him and slid he
r hand in his own, afraid of breaking contact with him. “Long ago, when he was still a youth. He was a pale, sly boy, and liked to slink around and eavesdrop on his betters. He always looked like he was up to something. Animals tended to go missing when he came to visit—cats and dogs and the like. One time, my sister Ara scolded him when she noticed him sneaking pastries out of the kitchens without the cook’s leave. The next morning, she found her beloved calico out on the terrace, the body wrapped up in its own entrails.”

  Basilla recoiled, and Dareena clapped a hand over her mouth as her stomach pitched. “That is beyond awful,” Dareena said, her lip curling in disgust. “How could a young boy be capable of such cruelty?”

  Alistair shrugged. “Some people are born bad,” he said. “Others are made that way by their fathers. I don’t know the warlock king very well, but my impression of him as a young man was that he was not a man to cross, and he had a dark aura around him.”

  Basilla sighed heavily. “At least I will be able to insist upon separate apartments if I am forced to wed him,” she said. “What of Shadowhaven itself? Do you know what the capital is like?”

  “My brother Lucyan told me it was a large, sprawling city full of magic and metal. There are as many metallurgists and factories as there are potion and spell shops.”

  “Metallurgists?” Basilla echoed, sounding horrified. “That sounds terrible! Elves cannot abide such things—they hamper our magic, and too much exposure can shorten our lives. Our own armor and weapons are crafted of mithril—the only metal we can stand to be around.”

  “Well, never mind separate apartments then,” Dareena said, alarmed at the thought of Basilla wasting away in a similar manner to Alistair. “If you marry him, you’ll have to insist on a separate residence entirely.”

  “Too true,” Basilla said firmly. “Outside the capital, and far away from all those nasty metals.”

  “You mentioned that your magic is earth-based,” Dareena said casually. “Can you tell me a little more about how that works?”

  “Oh, it’s the most wonderful thing,” Basilla said, her eyes lighting up. “We gather energy from our surroundings—some elves find it easiest to pull from the air, some from the trees or the oceans, and others from the ground itself. We can use that energy to perform certain spells, though nothing quite so advanced as the warlocks. We excel at healing, and can manipulate the elements—as I tend to pull my magic from the air, I wield air best, though another elf might be better able to control water.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Dareena said, leaning forward. “Would you be able to heal Alistair, then? Touching me seems to help him some, but the moment I pull away he begins to deteriorate again.”

  Basilla bit her lip. “There is nothing I can do to permanently undo the effects of the warlock spell,” she said. “However”—she leaned forward and pressed her hand against Alistair’s forehead—“I can help reduce the impact a bit.”

  The air in the room shifted, and Basilla’s hand on Alistair began to glow. Dareena watched as the tension bled out of his face and shoulders and healthy color seeped back into his cheeks.

  “Wow,” Alistair said as Basilla pulled away. He sounded deeply relieved. “I feel much better.”

  “See?” Basilla beamed. “It should last you for a few hours.” Her smile faded a little as she looked at Dareena again. “It is a pity that only elves can do it…and yet, you said that touching him keeps the sickness at bay. How does that work?”

  “I think it has something to do with being the Dragon’s Gift,” Dareena said. “The guard let me in to care for him, but I fear that he will separate us again and Alistair will fall ill over the night.”

  “Well, that won’t do at all,” Basilla declared, getting to her feet. “You are our guests, and we promised to keep you safe and healthy. I must be off now, before my lady-in-waiting comes looking for me, but I will tell the guard to keep the two of you together.”

  “Thank you,” Dareena said fervently. “You are too kind.”

  Basilla gave her a sad smile. “It is the least I can do after all you have been through.”

  “She seems quite sympathetic to our plight,” Alistair said after she’d closed the door behind her. “Not what I expected at all from Arolas’s sister.”

  “She is also Ryolas’s sister,” Dareena reminded him. “Perhaps the siblings get their temperaments from different relatives.”

  They listened as Basilla ordered the guard to leave Dareena and Alistair in peace and allow them to stay together. The guard sounded skeptical and told her that he would need to clear it with Arolas, much to Dareena’s consternation. She heard his armor clank as he strode off down the hall, followed by the soft pitter-patter of slippered feet.

  “Sounds like we are alone,” Alistair said, slipping his arms around her waist. He pressed a kiss into the back of her neck, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. “Shall we take advantage?”

  Dareena giggled, turning to face him. “We’ve got to keep up your strength, don’t we?” she asked, twining her arms around his neck. She kissed him deeply as he pushed up her skirts, his big hands making quick work of her underwear. He squeezed her bare bottom as she rubbed herself against his growing erection, and she moaned into his mouth as her pussy ached with need for him.

  “Already wet,” he murmured against her mouth, sliding his fingers against her folds. He undid the buttons on his trousers, then lowered her onto his waiting shaft. The two lovers moaned in unison as Alistair’s cock filled Dareena, and she gripped his shoulders hard, riding him.

  They made love three times—once for themselves, and twice more for Drystan and Lucyan, whom they both missed terribly. The third time, as Alistair pounded into Dareena while her legs were locked around his waist, he splintered the wooden headboard by gripping it too hard.

  “Blast it,” he cursed, wrenching his hand back. “That bloody hurts.” Wincing, he carefully picked the splinters out of his bleeding hand.

  “Let me see that,” Dareena said, sitting up. She gently took his hand in her own, and after fishing out the last few splinters, decided to try the trick that Basilla had told her about. Closing her eyes, she focused in on the air around them. At first, she felt nothing, but as the seconds passed, her chest stirred. She could sense a low hum in the air around her—an undercurrent of power, she realized with some excitement. She tried to grab hold of it, but it slipped out of her mental grip.

  “What are you doing?” Alistair asked.

  “Hush!” Eyes still shut, Dareena tried again. She was unsuccessful the second time, but the third, she managed to snag a small tendril of power. Holding tight, she envisioned it going into Alistair’s hand, merging with his flesh and encouraging his skin to knit back together.

  “By the gods,” Alistair said, and her eyes flew open. He stared down at their joined hands, an astonished look in his eyes. “You…you healed my hand!”

  “It works!” Dareena squealed. “It was quite hard, which makes me think that air may not be my element…though it could just be that having only a tiny bit of elven blood makes it more difficult to use the magic. Still,” she said, marveling at his newly healed hand, “this is very encouraging.” What else could she do with this newfound power? Would she be able to draw more from the air with practice?

  “Indeed, it is,” Alistair said. He pulled Dareena back under him, his eyes gleaming with renewed vigor, and she gasped as he cupped her between her legs. “Now,” he said, leaning in to nibble on her earlobe, “where were we?”

  15

  Drystan sat at the dining table in the royal suite, scowling at the array of jewelry spread before him. Several rings, heavy gold cuffs, a silver torque, a variety of gems…it wasn’t even close to the ransom the elves had demanded, but perhaps he could use the profits to pay the wages of the castle staff. He had a set of jeweled daggers that might also fetch a nice price, though he was loath to give those up—they had been a coming-of-age present from his mother and had great sentimental
value.

  What does it matter? Drystan thought gloomily, running a hand over his beard. He’d neglected to trim it the past few weeks, and it had grown longer, to the point that he could catch the thick strands and twirl them around his finger. If they didn’t find a way to get the elves to back off, there would be no staff left to pay. Even with their recovered numbers, the Elven Host could still annihilate them. Losing three of Drystan’s sisters had dealt a heavy blow—their bodies had been ruined beyond recognition, so the elves had burned them to ashes and returned them in urns. They would have a proper ceremony to mourn that loss once all of this was behind them.

  If such a day ever came when they had the luxury of time to mourn.

  The door banged open, and Lucyan stormed in. Drystan sat up in alarm—his brother’s shirt was torn, his hair was disheveled, and his face and clothing were smudged with soot.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Drystan demanded.

  “Fucking Black Cloaks,” he fumed, his teeth bared and eyes blazing. “A group of them ambushed me on the way back here, and I was forced to char them all.” His fists clenched and unclenched as he made his way to the liquor cabinet. “We’re out of whiskey,” he snapped, pulling out a bottle of port.

  “That’s because you keep drinking it all,” Drystan said as Lucyan brought the bottle over with two glasses. “Not that I have any room to talk, but with finances so tight, we should probably lay off the spirits.”

  Lucyan snorted, eyeing the jewelry on the table as he poured a glass for each of them. “Is that why you have all your valuables out?” he asked. “You’re trying to replenish the alcohol fund?”

  “More like I’m trying to figure out how to pay the staff wages,” Drystan said. They had spent a great deal of the petty cash fund on medical supplies to treat the wounded, and they needed to stretch their remaining funds until the taxes were brought in.