by Zoey Ellis
The dragorai had other ideas.
One afternoon in the library, heat closed in on I’mya’s back and she turned to see the dragorai hulking over her shoulder, peering at the book she was holding.
She almost screamed in shock.
“What are you doing here,” she whispered fiercely. “It is not… I’m not due to see you until tonight.”
“si kme bomkekh ‘et kvi ha si av” was the reply, but there was no magic to assist in her understanding of it.
He grabbed the book she was holding and flicked through it.
“I was looking at that,” I’mya objected.
The dragorai simply put it back on the shelf, in the wrong place, and looked at her. “ko’ nu ‘et bi pe?” His voice boomed around the library; he wasn’t even trying to be quiet, and he still insisted on talking to her in his native tongue.
I’mya scowled at him. She turned and walked to a new aisle and began looking along the shelves. But when she turned again, the dragorai stood behind her, leaning against the shelf looking at her ass.
Out of the corner of her eye, I’mya saw the other people in the library noticing them, slowing down once they saw the dragorai. “Why are you here?” I’mya whispered. “What do you want?”
The dragorai said nothing, but the familiar dark hunger deepened his warm gaze. He stepped toward her, and I’mya stepped back until her back hit the shelf behind her. No. This was not supposed to happening now!
“Umm, Lord…. Master…” I’mya suddenly realized didn’t know how to address him. What were they supposed to call him to his face? She didn’t recall Dayatha ever explaining that.
“Nyro.”
I’mya blinked in surprise. He had said his name! “Nyro,” she said slowly.
A grin spread on his lips, and for a moment I’mya was stunned. It wasn’t a smirk or a dark smile; the grin completely transformed his face, and he was truly gorgeous. He held her gaze and she stared at him transfixed, unable to drag her eyes away.
He leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. “I’mya.”
Her name on his tongue sounded rich and decadent, sinful and delicious… A powerful thrill surged through her and she completely forgot what she had been trying to say.
Nyro lowered his head farther to the base of her neck and then once again scented her—running his nose up her neck to back of her ear.
I’mya’s knees buckled, and she almost moaned. Why did that feel like such an intimate thing for him to do? Was this an alpha and omega thing? Or was her neck just unusually sensitive. That was another thing she had to find out.
Nyro chuckled and then walked away, leaving her clutching the bookshelf and slippery between her thighs.
That night, they didn’t speak; they didn’t tussle. From the moment I’mya entered his chambers, she was on his cock. He didn’t relent all night, and she didn’t want him to.
After that, he appeared randomly throughout her day to either scent her or simply watch what she was doing. I’mya wasn’t sure which was worse.
Once, he made her so nervous during an incredibly easy game of Dao that she lost. He mercilessly teased her about it that night, thinking she couldn’t understand him, but she made him pay for it by bringing herself to orgasm before he could stop her. He was furious the rest of the night.
Another time, he followed her when she visited the garden and simply watched her. That night, all the flowers, vines and plants she had touched and smelled, appeared in his chambers, decorating the walls or in pots in corners of the rooms.
Another afternoon when a steward asked her to go to the crafting room, Nyro stood with his arms crossed waiting for her next to a blank canvas. Everyone else in the room was silently getting on with their own sculptures and paintings, but I’mya didn’t miss their furtive glances.
She approached him hesitantly, confused as to what he was doing there, until he held out a brush and gestured to the canvas.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m not very good at it.”
“gi si abnug kleshakh kle si kem. ’et pe gi dvaskha.”
A steward seemed to appear from nowhere. “Master said you destroyed the painting on his wall and you must replace it.”
“That was my painting,” I’mya exclaimed, “that he took without permission! I can destroy it if I want!”
Shock slammed into the steward’s face. But Nyro responded, barking out a series of hard words.
“He said… Um.” The steward looked between them, then took a moment to compose himself. “Master would like you to replace it. Refusal will incur consequences.”
I’mya mouth tightened, but she noticed the entire room had hushed, all openly staring at the exchange. Grabbing the brush, she painted furiously, slapping the paint on the canvas without any thought or care. When the canvas had no empty areas remaining, she put the brush down and turned to Nyro, grinning. “There is your replacement,” she said, knowing it was an utter mess. It was worse that the first one. “I hope you are happy with it.”
Nyro had to drag his eyes from her paint-sloshed breasts to look at the canvas. And when he did, he muttered an incantation, forcing magic into the painting. I’mya’s face dropped as the paint absorbed magic, rearranging into a stunning abstract, glimmering with many shades of all the colors she’d chosen.
“shaf lulo nu,” he said, lifting the painting from the easel. The echo followed. “This will do.”
I’mya fumed as she watched him leave.
But things finally came to a head when she decided to go visit the massage lounge. She tended to avoid it because that seemed to be where the most sexual activity was happening in the lair. Probably because it wasn’t just the kon’ayas who were naked, everyone was.
When she entered, there wasn’t much of that kind of activity going on. One of the massage servants was bobbing his mouth up and down on the cock of a man lying on one of the massage tables, but other than that everyone else was getting a massage.
I’mya padded to the only empty massage table near the back of the room where a lilac-robed male servant smiled at her and beckoned her to come closer.
“Looking for a massage?”
I’mya nodded. “Just a massage,” she said clearly.
He laughed. “Nothing happens unless you want it to in here,” he reassured her. He gestured to the table. “Lie down on your front and I’ll start with your shoulders.”
I’mya walked round the cloth-covered table and climbed on top of it. Next to it was a little shelf filled with jars and bottles.
“Close your eyes,” the servant instructed as he poured a floral-scented oil into his hands and lathered them. “When you leave here, you will be completely relaxed,” he promised.
That was just what she needed. She sighed and relaxed into the table, and when his hands rubbed into the base of her neck, his fingers kneading her muscles in small circles along her shoulders, she exhaled a long heavy breath.
He was certainly very good at what he did. He worked along all areas of her shoulders until they felt loose and completely free of tension. Just as he was pouring a different smelling oil, he gasped, and the entire room fell silent.
I’mya opened her eyes to look at him and was surprised to see the color had drained from his face, a twisted deathly horrified expression as he stared toward the door.
Lifting her head up, she saw Nyro stalking into the room, a rage hotter than anything she’d seen, pouring from every inch of him, his face contorted into something so menacing she almost screamed.
I’mya’s heart jumped into her mouth as she wondered what had upset him, but then she realized he was looking at the servant.
Stopping a few feet away from the table, he took a breath, his chest expanding as his tan skin reddened. And when he exhaled, a cone of fire flared out from his mouth across the space.
I’mya flattened herself onto the table, wrapping her arms around her head and screaming as the fire shot over her back. It was so hot she felt the radiating heat even
though it was way above her skin.
As soon as the heat faded, she turned to look at the servant, hoping he’d managed to escape, but he hadn’t. Half of his head and one shoulder had melted away, the remaining flames still eating into his flesh. He stumbled back against the wall, his blackened, charred clothes and skin flaking and as he collapsed onto the floor, the remaining half of his mouth still open in a gruesome silent scream.
Horror and fear slammed into I’mya and she froze, suddenly unable to speak. Screams echoed in her ears, and heat brushed her skin. She closed her eyes as the horrid stench of burning flesh made her gag—both the memory of it, and the presence of it. Strong arms lifted and carried her out of the room. All she could do was curl up into a tight ball. Blood pounded in her ears and no sound could penetrate while suspended in the dread of the moment.
Finally, the thumping in her ears faded and her breathing calmed. She found herself in Nyro’s arms, tight against his body as he charged back to his chambers.
She refused to look at him until they reached the chambers, conflicting emotions building that he had just attacked a man and killed him right in front of her. It was horrifying that he could breathe fire just like his dragon! No one had ever mentioned dragorai were capable of doing that, but it wasn’t as if she was an expert about them.
As soon as they reached his chambers, Nyro threw her down on his bed and roared in an outburst of fury. But I’mya was no longer in a state of shock. She sat up on the bed and got to her knees as she watched him pace the room.
“hul si ‘iguyo is a bnahakh ’et!” The dragorai was wilder than she’d ever seen him. Every muscle tensed and bulged, his hands kept closing into tight fists, his agitation bleeding into the air around him.
“Why did you kill him!” I’mya said, bewildered. “You just killed him in a room full of people! What did he do?”
“a gimnef bnum da bnahakh ’et!”
“I can’t understand you,” I’mya snapped. “Why do you refuse to speak my language?”
The dragorai turned and walked toward her, his fury sending a shiver down her spine. “I will speak your language just this once to be sure you understand me and do not make this error again,” he said, his voice so low and raspy it sent a chill up the backs of her arms. There was something thrilling about hearing him speaking to her in her language. “He had his hands all over you. No one should be touching you. No one!”
I’mya frowned. “He was just giving me a massage. That’s what that room is for.”
“It is not for you to have your bare skin handled by another,” the dragorai bit out.
“So I’m not allowed to benefit from that room?” I’mya snapped. “Am I the only one here who is restricted from using a room?”
“You will not allow anyone to put their hands on your body,” the dragorai bellowed. “Do you wish for me to close that room so no one can benefit from it or will you fucking obey?”
Obey? How dare he! I’mya glared at him, her own anger soaring. “You just killed a man in front of me, in front of the entire lair. We came here to get away from the war. Do you think—”
“Do not lecture me about any war,” he bellowed, lunging forward until he was right by the bed towering over her. “I want your obedience. Now! Do I have it?”
I’mya was shocked when she saw his face up close. His lips were charred; blisters and red skin covered them, as if his own fire had burned him on the way out. It had to be painful. “Yes,” she replied.
The dragorai moved away from the bed, a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat.
I’mya realized suddenly that he hadn’t touched her since he put her down on the bed. That was unusual for him. Although, this was probably the first time she’d seen him truly out of control.
She dropped down to sit on the bed. “Why are you so angry?”
Nyro paced as if trying to work off his anger. “No one touches what is mine.”
“Many kon’ayas use that room,” I’mya pointed out. “They all belong to you.”
He stopped in the middle of the room, the darkness of his glare piercing her straight to her stomach. “You are the only one who shares my bed. If I have to drench you in my seed, feed it to you until it is oozing out of your ears, your nose, and your ass so that everyone understands you belong to me, that is what I will fucking do!”
I’mya’s jaw slackened. So that was what he had been doing; marking her as his property. Before she had time to respond, he marched to the wide window and bellowed out words she didn’t understand. Then he turned to her and chanted an incantation.
I’mya waited to see what pain he was going to inflict on her, but once he stopped chanting, nothing changed.
A rhythmic whipping sound drew her attention back to the window, and she saw his enormous black dragon approaching the window. She watched in amazement as Nyro ran and jumped, landing on his dragon’s back as it swept by before they both soared out of view.
I’mya stayed frozen for a moment while processing everything that had just happened. He had been angry she tried to get a massage because he didn’t want anyone to touch her. That certainly sounded like he was being protective over her. But why? She was in his lair with his servants. Why did he think she could be in some kind of danger?
Sighing, she climbed off the bed and headed to the door so she could find out what happened to the poor man who was burned. The dragorai’s fire had penetrated his head in moments. The heat she’d felt on her back was probably three or four hands away from her, and yet it let off a blazing heat.
She turned the knob on the door only to find it locked. Frowning, she tried it again. This was the door that they just came through and he hadn’t locked it, yet it wouldn’t budge.
The other door was locked as well. Cursing under her breath, she marched to the window and looked out for him. The bastard locked her in here and then jumped on his dragon.
She clenched her jaw in annoyance—she wanted to check in with Elora and the other kon’ayas to make sure they knew how sorry she was about what happened. If she was stunned into shock from his violence, she was sure the others were too. She wanted to help, to explain, but there wasn’t much she could do until Nyro returned.
The sky turned a dark blue as the sun set over the mountain range, when there was finally a knock at the door.
“Hello?” she called.
“I’mya?” It was Dayatha. “Can I come in?”
“The door is locked. Do you have a key?”
The doorknob turned and the door opened.
I’mya breathed a sigh of relief as Dayatha stepped into the room tentatively, looking around. “Where is Master?”
“He jumped on his dragon and left,” I’mya said, irritation in her tone.
“Is he all right?”
I’mya gaped at her. “Is he all right? What about the man he killed? Is he all right?”
Dayatha shook her head. “That was my fault, I should have known.”
“Known what?” I’mya said her eyes wide. “He stormed in there unprovoked and burned a man to death.”
“I should have paid closer attention,” Dayatha said miserably.
“What are you talking about?” I’mya asked bewildered. “How is this your fault?”
Dayatha’s shoulders dropped, and for the first time I’mya saw her without her usual confidence. Worry was etched on her face. This was a woman who had seen a lot and who knew everything about the lair, trying her hardest to keep things under control.
“I should have known he would be angry about this,” Dayatha explained. “It is not unusual for dragorai to behave this way in certain circumstances.”
“You didn’t know that I was going to go into the massage room, Dayatha,” I’mya pointed out, but even as she said it she realized that Nyro had been told where she was. How else could he have shown up wherever she was? She peered at Dayatha. “Have you been telling him where I’ve been going?”
“Not me specifically,” Dayatha responded stiffly
. “But the stewards have been tasked with making sure he is aware of your activities.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” I’mya almost shrieked. “I just spoke to you yesterday!”
“We do not serve you,” Dayatha reminded her. “We serve him. He just wants to know where you are and what you’re doing. You’re one of his kon’aya. It’s not unreasonable for him to want that.”
“Why?” I’mya said incredulously. “Why does he need to know that?”
“I do not question him, I’mya,” Dayatha said gravely. “No one questions him. He is Master Nyro of the Vattoro clan. He only answers to his brothers, if that.” She turned away from I’mya, clasping her hands as she stepped toward the window as if looking for him. “But I should have been more sensitive to his needs. I shouldn’t have underestimated that, none of us should have.”
“I will leave you to make your apology to him, then,” I’mya said bitterly as she made her way to the door.
“No!” Dayatha yelled suddenly. “You can’t leave. The door is charmed to keep you in.”
I’mya glanced door. “What do you mean?”
“I believe he has placed incantations that prevent you from opening the door, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“That means, I can go in and out, but you cannot. He wants you to stay in here.” She glanced at the door. “The charm may hurt you.”
I’mya’s nostrils flared. So she was his prisoner.
“Anyway, I’m not here to make an apology—at least not right now,” Dayatha asked, the worried expression on her face returning. “How badly were his lips damaged?”