by Tessa Dawn
“We’re wanted on the dais!”
Cassidy, again?
For the life of her, Mina could not make sense of all the random words and sensations, the pain in her face, the pressure on her arms, the words…the words…the faraway words.
And Dante?
What just happened?
At someone’s insistence Mina took a tentative step forward toward the dais, and then, the next thing she knew, she was lying on the floor, cocooned in darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
Dante Dragona was seething inside, still stunned by the recent proclamations, but he couldn’t process it now. He couldn’t feel any of it. There just wasn’t time. The Warlochian army—his army—was marching from the east toward the northern shore, toward the port of Dracos, and he wanted to catch up with them before they got to the sea. While the warlocks and their gargoyle pets might be formidable foes, far more dangerous than their human counterparts, they were still no match for preternatural shifters, for the Lycanians hordes. They would need a dragon by their side, even if Dante couldn’t fully shift.
He stormed down the upper hall of Castle Dragon, gathering the last of his important belongings: his heavy lance, his great sword, and a series of strategic maps. As he rounded the hall to descend the grand staircase, he glanced over his shoulder toward Mina’s bedchamber and stiffened. Gods, he could still see her beautiful face, the glazed-over tears in her emerald eyes, the shock that widened her pupils, and the trembling in her bottom lip as fear took a firm and inexorable hold on her heart. He could still hear that piteous scream: “Noooooo! Dante please…help me.” He cringed at the memory. She had cried out in such despair—in front of the entire castle court. She had recoiled at the mere thought of being mated to Damian, and her strong, tenacious mind had literally shut down rather than embrace the reality of her fate.
Damian would beat her bloody for the public insult.
A deep, primal snarl rose in Dante’s throat, and he clenched his fists at his sides. His father had gone too far—perhaps for all the right reasons, perhaps not—but it just didn’t make any sense. Why had King Demitri done it? Why had he chosen Mina for Damian, and Cassidy for Dante; and why had he been so closed off to opinions? Yes, there were much more important matters to attend to, things that couldn’t wait, but the king had made the call. He had chosen to conduct a lesser rite of the Autumn Mating, now. The least he could’ve done is hear his sons’ opinions.
All his sons’ opinions.
“Dante. Dante!” Cassidy Bondeville came prancing down the hall, hurrying in his direction, her thick blond hair brushing the tops of her shoulders and swaying like a pendulum in response to her eager motion. “Ah, I’m so glad I caught you, my love.”
He planted his feet and squared his shoulders. “My prince,” he snarled.
“Excuse me?” she drawled in that infuriating, sugar-sweet voice.
“My prince,” he said coolly. “Don’t ever call me your love. That is not what we are.”
The Ahavi blanched, clearly taken aback by his blunt words. She opened her mouth to protest, but apparently thought better of it. “Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me.” She curtsied…perfectly.
“I don’t have time for this, Ahavi. What do you want?”
“Cassidy,” she said softly, smiling. “You may call me Cassidy.”
Dante bristled from head to toe. He took a menacing step in her direction, allowing his dragon to heat the pupils of his eyes, and then he leaned forward. “Think carefully before you tell me what to do. What. Do. You. Want?”
Cassidy took one wary look at his glowing eyes and stole a cautious step back. “I…I simply wanted to see you off, and I had hoped”—she bit her bottom lip like a petulant child and tried to bat her bright blue eyes—“I was still hoping you might take me with you to the cove.”
Dante was finished with the conversation.
He had not lived 169 years as an immortal dragon to explain himself to a foolish human who wore a ball gown to a war conference, Sklavos Ahavi or not. Ever since that insignificant, regretful night when he had passed her in the hall—the one and only time he had fed from her because he was on his way to spar with Drake and didn’t care to bother Mina—Cassidy had acted like she had some clandestine claim on him, like he had some carnal interest in her. She had acted brazenly and wantonly every time she saw him, as if she were the monarch and he was hers to command…
As if every female in Castle Dragon—nay, all of the Realm—was not his to take at will.
He knew he couldn’t stand her then, and he couldn’t stand her now. As for the fact that she was his mated female, well, he would sort that out later.
Much later.
Perhaps when it was time to procreate.
He turned on his heel and began to descend the staircase, dismissing her with a sidelong glance.
She ran after him.
“Dante. My prince.” She caught up to his side and reached out to take his arm.
He spun around and snatched her by the throat, moving so quickly she never saw it coming. He was hardly aware of what he was doing—his dragon was teetering on the edge. “Is this what you want, Cassidy?” he snarled, digging his claws into her delicate skin until the tips scored her flesh and her neck trickled with blood. He released his fangs and hissed. “If I bite you, you won’t enjoy it.”
She was no longer his Ahavi.
She was his prey.
“My prince,” she whimpered plaintively, her eyes wide with fright. “Forgive me if I’ve displeased you.”
He snorted and fought to release his angry grip. “The sands of port Draco are no place for a woman.” He softened his savage tone on purpose, calling back the beast. The scent of her fear was heady; her heart was pounding in her chest; and her blood was swirling like a siren’s song in her veins, just calling…calling…calling…
Take me.
Drain me.
End me.
In an effort not to harm her—not here, not now—he retracted his claws, grasped her by both arms, and tossed her to the top of the landing, away from his beast and his rage.
She froze, uncertain, as if she had no idea what to do next: Should she run, try once more to appease him, or beg for his mercy? And Dante knew—oh, great dragons of old, he knew—if she moved even an inch, he’d strike.
“My prince?” she whispered cautiously.
He cocked his head to the side, pressed his finger to his lips, and growled deep in his throat. “Shh. Don’t speak.” She scooted backward on her rear, and he held up his hand to stop her. “Don’t move.”
She froze.
“Good girl,” he finally whispered, and then he took a deep, steadying breath. He would unleash his dragon soon enough—on his formidable enemies, the Lycanians. There was no need to attack one piteous, misguided, self-important woman. “Cassidy,” he said evenly, finding his voice as a man.
She sniffed. “Yes?” At last, she was completely submissive and without guile.
“Your place is not at Dracos Cove, and it is not by my side. Never by my side. Don’t ever test me like that again. You may be mine, but I am not yours. Do you understand the difference?”
As she slowly nodded her head, he wondered at the cruelty of his words: Setting boundaries was one thing—and this female needed it, badly—but there was something else inciting him, something just beneath the surface, something larger than one woman’s careless behavior. Something—no, someone—with hair the color of a raven’s wing and eyes the shade of piercing emeralds. Someone whose defiance once infuriated him; whose stubborn, implacable will needed to be broken; someone who hovered on the verge of insanity and the edge of walking tragedy because she didn’t know how to constrain her heart, to live in the eye of the storm with her gaze fixed on her duty, or to see herself—and her role—as simply one or many threads in a much larger tapestry…someone he could neither love nor let go.
His dragon wanted to roar with defiance: to hunt, maim, and destroy.
Damian might claim her. He might take her, use her, and destroy her. But he would never have her.
He would never own Mina’s soul.
She had already given it to Dante.
That first day in the courtyard…the night he had given her Raylea’s doll…
And yet again today, not less than an hour earlier, when she had cried out Dante’s name in the throne room before all of Castle Dragon, before Damian and the king.
Yes…
Whether she knew it or not, Mina had ceded her soul to Dante Dragona, despite all of her stubborn will…
Despite all of his perilous warnings to do the opposite.
She had led with her heart, yielded to her emotions, and now she was paying the ultimate price.
Indeed, she had always been a walking tragedy.
*
“Get up!”
A cold splash of water to the face, followed by a boot to the ribs, sent Mina jack-knifing off the floor and scrambling into a seated position.
What?
Where?
Oh gods…
“Get the hell up!” Damian shouted. He sounded insane.
Mina arched her back to appear even taller. “I’m up,” she panted, shielding her waist with her hands. “I’m up.” She glanced anxiously around the room, trying to regain her bearings. Where was she? What had happened?
“Well, it’s about time,” Prince Damian snarled.
What the heck?
Why was she here…in her room…and with Damian of all—
Oh gods…
They were mated.
The king had made the decree in the Great Hall.
“Prince Damian,” she whispered, desperate to subdue his anger, hoping to make reparations. “I…I…forgive me. I don’t know what to say. How may I serve you? What can I do?”
“I should kill you,” he drawled nastily, and then just like that, his voice grew chillingly calm: “Right here. Right now. I should take your life. But I don’t have the time.”
She looked up into his dark, ominous eyes as he lorded over her with that massive six-foot-four frame and shivered. There was nothing behind those pupils, no soul in their depths, no spark of empathy, just two empty orbs: deep brown, hollow, and demonic.
He meant what he said.
“Shouldn’t you be on your way to Port Draco?” she asked, almost wishing he would just get on with it—his fury—and her death.
He grinned like a proverbial cat, toying with its prey. “I should. Yes, I should.” He looked around the room and turned his nose up in disgust. “My brother, Prince Drake, is on his way to Castle Commons to meet up with his cavalry and head to the cove with Tatiana. I believe Dante is leaving Cassidy here, but he’s probably already on the road.” He gestured regally, and then held up his hands. “But me? I’m standing in the bedchamber of a slave, trying to awaken the poor swooning wench so we can get on with the business at hand—the imminent invasion of our lands.”
Mina sucked in air and tried to avoid direct eye contact.
“A slave,” he continued, still speaking in that falsely tranquil, utterly petrifying voice, “one who howled my brother’s name in front of all Castle Dragon’s courtiers. A slave who fainted at the mere thought of being mated to me. A slave who begged Prince Dante to save her.”
Mina shut her eyes. Goddess of mercy; just get it over with. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. What else could she say?
“You’re sorry?” he repeated, the echo coming out as a hiss.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”
When he didn’t respond, she peeked at him through barely raised lids. He was terrifying in his placid fury: On one hand, he was obviously riding a razor’s edge, demonstrably unstable, yet his voice remained so calm—so entirely controlled—when every pore of his being radiated madness. “If I thought you could still ride a horse, I would break every bone in your body,” he purred.
Mina winced, but she didn’t reply. When he took a sudden step toward her, she flinched like he had struck her and curled into a ball.
He laughed, a humorless sound, and then he reached into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew a small vial—the fertility elixir from the velvet-lined tray—and snorted. “The high priest administered this to Tatiana and Cassidy, but I guess we’ll just have to do it our own way.”
This couldn’t be happening.
This just wasn’t happening.
In a series of long, supple strides, he stepped over to the mantel and smashed the tip of the bottle against the heavy, broad stone, sending tiny shards of glass scattering in all directions, and then he strode back toward Mina, squatted down in front of her, and grasped her harshly by the hair, yanking her head backward. Forcing her mouth open with his fingers, he barked, “Drink this!” And then he poured it into her mouth.
The concoction was bitter, and she had to force her throat to swallow.
When the contents were all gone, he tossed the flask into the fire and strode to the door. “The house servants will pack our trunks and other necessities. As for you: one minute; three items; pack, so we can be on our way.”
Mina jumped to her feet, rounded the corner of the bed, and grabbed her woolen satchel from atop a nearby chest. She snatched a heavy cloak for warmth, tucked Raylea’s doll into the bottom of the bag, and, for reasons she couldn’t comprehend, grabbed an ivory-and-bone hair comb off the dressing table and stuffed it in her pocket. She tried to slink by him as she rushed through the door, but she wasn’t that lucky. His heavy, muscular arm came around her, encircling her from behind, and without warning or initiation he tugged her firmly against his chest, bit her in the throat, and began to siphon her essence, taking her warmth and her blood in a furious, continuous gulp. When he had finally had enough—and frost began to form on her skin—he withdrew his painful fangs and blew a thin stream of blue fire over the bite to seal the wound. “Do you speak Lycanian?” he asked, completely out of the blue, spinning her around to face him.
She frowned, needing a moment to collect her wits.
Her mind was hazy, and she felt weak enough to topple over sideways in the doorway; yet she held herself together, steadied her resolve, and concentrated keenly on his question. “Northern or eastern?” she asked, wanting to answer correctly.
“Either.” He shrugged his shoulders with impatience. “Both.”
She nodded faintly. “I understand the basic northern dialect, at least well enough to get by, to translate what I’m hearing; but yes, I can speak the eastern tongue fluently.”
He seemed to go somewhere else in his mind, mulling over her words. When, at last, he met her gaze again, he was no longer a sadistic animal, but a calculating prince considering the needs of his realm. “Can you decipher and transcribe the syllabary as well?”
Once again, Mina nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Then you may come in handy should we capture any prisoners since I can’t be in all places at once.” He snorted, apparently satisfied with her answer. “I will let my generals know.”
Mina bowed her head and averted her eyes, still trying to maintain her composure and her balance, and that’s when he leaned back in the doorway and crossed his arms over his powerful chest. “Look at me,” he growled. His voice was no longer placid.
Mina met his heated gaze.
“I am not a merciful dragon, Mina Louvet. I hurt Tatiana because I could, because she was weak and pathetic and easy to hurt, and because it simply felt pleasurable. I killed Pralina because she challenged me—and scratched me—and frankly, I was tired of hearing her voice. And I will make the rest of your life a bitter pill to swallow, one long, monotonous day at a time, because that is your lot in life. You will pay dearly for calling my brother’s name; you will not go unpunished for embarrassing me in public; and I will eventually break you—your stubborn will, your pliant body, and your independent mind. But—and this is the part you really need to hear—I will also keep you alive as long as you are useful, as long as
you serve the Realm and give me dragon sons. And you will at least be safe from my corrections when you’re pregnant, so the sooner, the better…for you.” He stroked her cheek like a wistful lover, and then he grabbed a fistful of her hair. “But know this, my Sklavos Ahavi: If you ever defy me again, disobey one of my commands, or even hesitate to do what I say, the moment I say it, I will tear out your throat with my teeth and laugh as you expire, with your spine still dangling in my mouth. Are we clear?”
As an icy breeze of hatred and resentment swirled in Mina’s heart, wrapped around her arteries, and calcified to stone, she released every emotion other than determination—and she curtsied.
Yeah, they were clear.
Damian would spend his every waking moment making Mina’s life a living hell, and Mina, a commoner, a female, and a lowly slave, would spend every waking hour trying to solve an age-old riddle, one that had baffled the greatest of minds throughout time:
How to slay a dragon.
“We’re clear, my prince,” she whispered, waiting patiently for the evil fiend to release her hair.
Chapter Sixteen
King Demitri Dragona groaned from the pain in his gut, the fire that was searing his belly like lava, the poison that was scorching his veins. He stared at the rampant carnage before him, surveyed the bloodstained floor of the throne room, and gazed absently into the vacant eyes of the last corpse, the final prisoner he had consumed as a sacrifice.
The boy had been young.
He had been favored by the gods with a thick pelt of wavy blond hair that fell into deep blue eyes, and he had argued for his life like a seasoned counselor, rather than a powerless captive. Yet and still, he had also made a critical mistake, earlier that day: The courageous lad had dared to anger the king’s middle son, to trespass onto the grounds of Castle Dragon, uninvited, and to approach a Sklavos Ahavi.
King Demitri frowned, almost feeling sorry for the misguided lad.
Almost.
He stared closer and scowled. The boy’s forehead was still drenched with sweat, his divinely appointed crown of hair was now matted and plastered to his temples, and he didn’t look peaceful in death.