by J. D. Monroe
“I hope the rumors of my prowess didn’t set you up for disappointment.”
She walked her fingers over his sweat-damp chest, smiling to herself at the light twitch of muscle beneath her fingertips. “Well, we had feared your cock was covered in scales.”
“And the truth?”
“Surprisingly unscaled, but much better than advertised,” she said. “Quite beautifully sculpted and wielded expertly.”
He laughed again. Then his smile softened, as he reached to touch her cheek. “You are so very beautiful. Is it selfish for me to be glad for our arrangement?”
“If it is, then we are both selfish,” she replied. “Now, husband of mine, what do you want?”
“Well, I was thinking I’d like to do that again, but I’m not sure my legs are working at the moment,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You might have broken me.”
“My apologies,” she said. She sat up, relishing the way his eyes followed her. “Well, I’m going to take a bath. And when I’m finished, I want you ready for me again.”
He sat up, leaning on his elbow. “Or?”
She trailed her fingers over his hip, then down his thigh as she slid out of the bed. Her legs were shaky as she stood. His warm eyes swept over her. “Oh, I’m not sure you’re ready to find out what kind of punishments I can inflict.”
“Perhaps I’ll join you and try to convince you to show mercy, then,” he said. The covers rustled as he rose to his feet and grasped her shoulders. Without turning back, she took his hand and led him into the warmth of the bath.
Tendrils of steam rose from the stone tub. Her legs trembled from as she sank into the hot water. He frowned as she beckoned to him. He hesitated, then joined her. He groaned with pleasure. “I thought I should be where you are,” he said.
“Well, you don’t always get what you want,” she said.
“I think I do, actually,” he said as he rested his broad back against her chest, sinking lower into the water so he could lean his head against her shoulder. As he did, she toyed with the sweat-damp hair at the back of his neck. He groaned with unabashed pleasure, caressing her thigh as she wrapped her legs around him. “Wicked wife of mine.”
“You are mistaken, husband of mine. There is no wickedness in me.” He leaned back into her touch like a cat in search of a good scratch behind the ears. The fire burning in him made him deliciously warm, as if he’d just come in from the sun.
He chuckled, a pleasant rumble against her chest. “Oh, I much prefer your wickedness. The meek, agreeable version of you was pretty, but rather boring. I rather like your dangerous side.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d ask that you keep it a secret. Most people except for my family don’t know what I am. They assume I’m a nice little bird.”
“And it suits you to keep it that way?” he said, his voice lilting into a question.
“It does,” she said. “A serpent form is considered an ill omen among my people, though my father says it’s foolish superstition. Even so, I much prefer for people to underestimate me.” She switched to Edra. “I think we have that in common, don’t we?”
“You’ve figured me out,” he replied in perfect Edra. “It will be our secret. I like it that way.”
“Do you?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “It means there’s a part of you that only I know. Something I can protect.” She kissed his temple, and he simply chuckled. “Thank you. For speaking openly. I was certain you would be miserable here and thus did not even allow myself to entertain the idea of liking you.”
“Then I’m glad I corrected you.”
“As am I,” he said. “I’m sure it will not be the last time.”
“It will not. But I look forward to teaching you anyway.”
“I told you that marriage would suit you, brother,” Tarim said as he approached to kiss her cheek in her sitting room. His nieces sat together, reading from a large illustrated parchment spread over the low table.
“Whatever do you mean?”
She raised one thin eyebrow. “You’re much more pleasant to be around now that you’re having sex on a regular basis.”
“What can I say? I am a simple man,” he replied. Two months had passed since his wedding to Ohrena, and he no longer regretted his promise to Tarim. Sacrificing his freedom to tomcat around the palace was nothing compared to the gift of his wife, who was intent upon making up for two weeks of lost time. He was certain that they had long made up for those lost weeks, but he was more than happy to answer to her carnal demands.
“You most certainly are not, but I’m pleased that you’re happy,” Tarim said. “I know it was not what you wished for, but it has been a critical move for our people.” Her brow was furrowed in concern, despite her pleasant words. “Kaldir heard from the Firestorm. The Arik’tazhan are moving once more, which means war is not so distant.”
His heart thumped. “Will you let him go if she asks?”
“If it was entirely my choice I would not, but even I cannot deny the Arik’tazhan,” she said. She shook her head. “He assures me he will do whatever he can to stay here. We need him. I fear for nothing so long as the three of us are here.”
He nodded. “Then we will see that it happens.”
Tarim nodded, but there was still a hint of fear in her eyes. The smile she wore was fake, though it was so convincing it might have fooled anyone but him. “Tell Ohrena I was very appreciative for her tip yesterday evening,” she said cryptically.
“Which was?”
“She knows,” Tarim said. “Go, I’ve kept you long enough.” He bent to kiss her cheek, then left her to her reading.
There was a vigor in his step as he headed downstairs to Ohrena’s workshop. While he certainly enjoyed falling into bed with his enthusiastic paramour, he was equally pleased for her company when she was clothed. To the rest of the world, she still appeared to be the elegant princess on his arm, who was eloquent on the rare occasion that she offered an opinion. But in private, she was vibrant and bold. She made him laugh, sometimes made him angry, but always surprised him. She’d just begun to show some of her more inquisitive, slightly sarcastic nature when Kaldir was around.
He was trying to surprise her, but he was still four feet from the door when her bodyguard Teviri opened the door and announced, “The prince to see you, su’ud redahn.”
He suppressed a groan and sauntered into the workshop. Inrada, her red-haired attendant, sat in a corner writing in a ledger. She glanced up and nodded at the prince as he entered. Once the Thorn had vacated the city, he had sent word to Val Legarra to bring back her two close friends. After much debate, Pamin and her sister had been sent home for the al-Katiri family to deal with. They had received word that she was safe but being put to work in the kitchen where she could be watched carefully.
Much to Ohrena’s pleasure, her Flock were once again given permission to collect information, so long as it was passed along to the queen. There were also hard limits on where they were allowed to go, which they had obeyed as far as he knew. He had realized quickly that Ohrena was not interested in the information to gain power, but simply because she liked to know everything that was going on. It didn’t bother her a whit if Tarim knew it too. As he had guessed, they had grown close and enjoyed gossiping quietly during feasts. The vicious whispers came to a halt when the rumor-mongers saw Ohrena next to the queen, thick as thieves.
Inside the cool workshop, his wife was hunched over her workbench as she buffed a gleaming blade with a filthy rag. Her eyes widened as he walked in, and she hastily tucked the blade under her apron.
He pretended he hadn’t seen it and kissed her cheek, which was dusty and smelled vaguely of metal polish. “What are you working on today?”
“A gift.”
“For me?”
“No,” she said with a faint smile. “Not for you.”
“Give him the bloody thing,” Inrada said. “You’ve been polishing it for two days. You’re going to rub th
e damned thing out of existence.”
“You write notes and let me handle my work,” Ohrena said playfully.
“Is it for me?”
She brought out the blade and sighed. “I had intended to present it formally.”
“Well, you don’t have to—”
“But I want you to have it now,” she blurted. She drew the blade from beneath her apron and held it up from him. His breath caught in his chest as he examined the beautiful weapon. The actual blade was almost as long as his forearm, with a graceful curve and a wickedly sharp edge. But the hilt was a masterpiece. The handle was a serpentine body, but at closer glance, he found two distinct scale patterns, bodies twisted in a spiral up to the guard. Wings arched out to the sides, while a snake’s hooded head formed the center. It had green gems for eyes. Tiny shards of ruby were laid into the outstretched wings, glittering like his own scales in the sun.
“Did you…did you make this?” he breathed.
She nodded. “I wanted to have it for your birthday, but I had to start over,” she said. “The first version wasn’t right.” She smiled shyly at him. “I know you don’t need many weapons, considering you sort of are one. But let this be a reminder.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
She laughed, her green eyes creasing with mirth. “Not like that. A reminder that I am with you. A promise.” She pointed to the snake’s head. “You will always have my strength, should you ever need it.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said. He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you. I will treasure this forever. It’s the…sixth best gift I’ve ever received.”
A look of consternation furrowed her brow. “Oh. Well, that’s nice.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Inrada. The queen wants you,” he said.
The red-haired woman snapped her head up and jumped to her feet. “Does she now?” She gave him a knowing look, then bowed politely. “Right away.”
When the door closed behind her, Zayir turned to regard Ohrena. Her expression was vaguely hurt, though she did well to hide it. He’d picked up on the subtle tension in her face, the way her brow betrayed her hidden emotions. “Do you want to know the other gifts I’ve received?”
“I suppose,” she said.
He grasped the hilt of the blade. “Six,” he said. He ran one hand up her side, then snuck it under her loose tunic to grasp her breast. Her head lolled to the side as a half-smile pulled at her lips. “Five.” He repeated the motion with his other hand, teasing at her with his thumbs. “Four.”
“You’re quite sure of your order,” she murmured.
He squeezed each hand in turn, attempting to look thoughtful. “I may reconsider,” he said. “I may need more time to acquaint myself. For the sake of thoroughness, of course.” She laughed. Her body pressed into him as he ran his hands lower, until he settled on the warmth between her legs. Her thighs clamped down on his hand. “Three,” he said, savoring the way her lips parted faintly, eyelashes fluttering.
“Are you quite sure?” Her eyebrows lifted, as if she was still trying to look serious.
“Oh yes,” he said. Still grasping her gently, he leaned in to kiss her lips. “Two,” he murmured against her lower lip.
“And the first?”
He lifted her up to sit on her workbench. Her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him close. “This,” he said. He ran his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head. “You. All of you.”
She laughed, pushing her hands against his chest. “How do you always do that?”
“What?”
“How do you always say the perfect thing?” she asked.
“It’s easy when I have you.” He kissed her forehead. And it was true. “If I get nothing else right, I know that when I speak plainly of how I feel for you, it will always be right. My words cannot be anything but perfect.”
She chuckled. “I love you more than I thought possible.”
He stole a kiss, savoring the sweetness of afternoon tea on her tongue. “And I love you more than either of us thought possible. That’ll teach us to underestimate one another, won’t it?”
“It will indeed.”
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Continue reading for a sneak peek at Wings of Frost,
Book 4 of the Dragons of Ascavar series!
Warfare had changed over the last century. In his prime, Velati Rimewing had flown into battle with an armored rider on his back and a scaled chest full of icy rage primed to freeze a battlefield. Now he had a gun loaded with tranquilizer darts on his hip and a tiny wireless earpiece transmitting disembodied voices directly into his head. And it grated his nerves to take orders from some young upstart who was born barely sixty years ago.
A thick veil of cloud cover dimmed the daylight to a dim gray, darkening the blue-green expanse of forest in upstate New York. A mélange of scents hung in the cool morning air; rain-damp earth, the natural rot of things dying and returning to the soil, and the distinct smell of dragon blood running hot in his companions’ veins.
Four people lingered in cover, waiting for the report from the two forward scouts. Velati and his hybrid partner, Rihz, stood shoulder to shoulder. The smaller man’s heartbeat accelerated with each passing minute. The hybrid swore this wasn’t his first mission, but if he’d done anything more dangerous than driving transport, Velati would cut off his own wings.
“We’re in range,” a quiet female voice said over the radio. “Two sentries at the front, two at a loading dock on the side. Mounted speakers just like Skyblaze said.”
Velati glanced at Erevan Skyblaze, the flame dragon leading the operation. A satisfied smile crept across the younger man’s face. A petite woman with tightly braided dark hair was tucked behind the tree next to him. Sparks danced along her fingers as she raised one hand. “I’ll handle the speakers when we get there.”
“Stick to the plan.” The gruff, disembodied voice belonged to Sohan Shadowbane, who was remotely overseeing the mission from a cabin a few miles away. Velati and Sohan had been brothers-in-arms for many years, fighting to end the brutal war that had raged between the dragon shifters and the Raspolin, an upstart cult of self-appointed dragon-slayers.
It had been months since he’d heard from Sohan, but they often had long periods of quiet and caught up when they could. That was the nature of a friendship that had spanned nearly two centuries and two worlds.
This call had been different. Usually they picked up where they’d last left off, with Velati telling Sohan about ridiculous drunken tattoo requests, and Sohan filling him in on the latest bullshit surrounding the Queen at Skyward Rest. He’d known immediately something was up when Sohan didn’t have a retort ready for Velati’s greeting of “hey, asshole.”
“I hate to get serious after not calling for months, but I need your help. Things…things might be getting bad again,” Sohan said.
The smile that always materialized on his face when talking to his old friend evaporated. “What things?”
“You might have been right. We may not have finished the Raspolin.”
“Hold on,” Velati said. With cold dread trickling into his veins, he’d walked out to the lobby of his tattoo shop, where three clients were waiting to see artists. He told his shop manager, Molly, to reschedule his appointments, then locked himself in his office. “Tell me everything.”
For the next half hour, Sohan told him about the events of the last month, culminating with the discovery of a facility full of brutalized dragons being drained of blood, along with evidence that dozens more had been killed and dumped with no trace. The Raspolin methods were more sophisticated now, but it was a stark reminder of the darker days of war, when their enemy would slit dragon throats and catch whatever they could before death claimed the dragon and left a still human shell.
Sohan, Velati, and their other comrades
had spent decades after the war eradicating the Raspolin and destroying every bit of their knowledge so this would never happen again. Clearly, they’d failed. Just as Velati had feared.
And the Raspolin hadn’t just survived. Like an unholy phoenix, they’d been reborn more powerful than before. Calling themselves the Chosen, they’d pieced together long-lost magic and technology and upgraded it with new cruelties. They had successfully built a Crimson Elegy, a magical device that could force a dragon to lose control of their transformation. If they’d gotten that far, what else could they do?
“They already went after Dyadra.” Before Velati could raise a protest, he said, “She’s fine, don’t worry.”
“She didn’t tell me,” he said, indignant. “When was this?”
“Just a week or two ago. It’s been crazy, and she probably didn’t want to freak you out,” he said. “She and the family are headed here soon. I hate to ask, but—”
“Tell me what you need,” Velati said. Before Sohan even asked, he was already planning for an extended absence. The shop could stay open, and he would smooth things over somehow with his long-time clients who’d had appointments on the books for months. “This supersedes everything else. I’ll be there if you need me.”
There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. The quavering hint of fear lurked in his friend’s gruff voice. “You don’t know how good it is to hear you say that.” They’d once called Sohan Shadowbane the Black Fortress. Utterly unshakable, even in the face of impossible odds. Velati could count on one hand the times he’d sensed genuine fear in Sohan, and each time, they’d suffered a devastating loss. His instincts were never wrong. “This is bad. I don’t know how it got this far without us realizing. It may already be too far gone.”
“Nothing’s too far gone,” Velati said.
Another long pause. “I hope you’re right. See you soon, brother.”
A few days later, Velati arrived in New York, meeting Sohan and his team in a rental cabin a few miles from their target. While he worked with the young, inexperienced team to plan the mission, he caught a few furtive gazes of curiosity mixed with awe. What had they heard? The older ones might know Velati Rimewing as a hero. The younger ones would know him as a rebellious outcast, or maybe worse, depending on how the Queen had spun the story. Neither was entirely the truth.