Axeviathon - Son of Dragons: A Pantheon of Dragons Novel

by Tessa Dawn

  The Cult of Hades, whatever it truly was, had taken advantage of a fifteen-year-old girl in order to staff their corrupt credit union.

  No, Amber wasn’t an idiot.

  She got it—she really did.

  But she also got the power of the familiar: the comfortable duvet on her king-sized bed; the feel of snuggling beneath a throw on the living room sectional; the sound of hard, plastic pool balls breaking on the table when Zeik, Grunge, and Tony relaxed in the rec room during a Friday night game…the warm burn of a shot of brandy flowing down Amber’s throat. She had learned to live the life she had been given, and she knew how to play the hand she’d been dealt. Her routine was familiar; her life was comfortable; and love her, hate her, use her, or betray her, she knew Zeik’s deep voice, recognized Grunge’s flared nostrils, the way they twitched when the guy got angry, and she knew the feel of Tony’s strong hands. Even if his touch was sometimes caustic, she knew it better than she knew herself. And the fact that Zeik and Grunge were demons? The fact that Tony worshipped some underworld god?

  What could Amber say…

  They were the same men…the same males…she had known for a decade.

  Nothing but the context had changed.

  Hell, she couldn’t explain it, and she didn’t want to—Amber’s life was hers, and hers alone. And over the years, she had made her peace with it. She didn’t want this unfamiliar world. She didn’t want Axe and all his words of compassion…tenderness…or desire. Frankly, his passion and intensity scared the shit out of Amber. She knew coldness and darkness, how to be somewhere—and with someone—yet remain inherently alone.

  The aroma of fresh coffee overwhelmed her senses, and Amber felt drawn to the kitchen, even as she felt exposed.

  Too exposed.

  She had said too much…divulged too much…when she had no intentions of making this place her new home. She would have to keep her deepest thoughts to herself, going forward.

  Ambling to the kitchenette, she climbed onto a barstool, picked up the fork, and forced an amiable smile. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For the breakfast and the company.”

  Jordan took several wary steps back and leaned against an interior counter. “What just happened?” she asked. “The sudden shift in your demeanor?”

  Amber raised her brows and then quickly spread some cream cheese on a bagel and stuffed it in her mouth. She couldn’t talk if she was eating, and hadn’t Jordan encouraged her to eat? Jordan crossed her arms over her stomach and stared, but Amber pretended not to notice. She continued to sip her coffee and take slow, careful bites of the assorted fresh fruit.

  “Trauma bonds,” Jordan finally blurted.

  Amber set down her fork. “Excuse me?”

  Jordan closed her eyes and nodded, and when she opened them again, they were dark, serious, and fixed on Amber like she was staring straight through her, to her soul. “Trauma bonds,” she repeated. “That glassy, faraway look you just got in your eyes; that sudden defensive posture in your shoulders; the way you appeared to be pining for home—”

  “Were you reading my thoughts?” Amber interrupted, her voice growing icy. Of course, she was pining for home—anyone would be. Hadn’t she just been kidnapped?

  Again…

  “No,” Jordan insisted. “I would never do that, Amber, but then again, I didn’t have to. Do you think I didn’t want to get the hell out of this Pantheon? You think I didn’t actually try to escape?” She waved a slender, elegant hand through the air, her fourth finger adorned in the most exquisite ring Amber had ever seen, and gently shook her head. “Before Zane…before all this…I was a prosecuting attorney for years, and in that capacity, I saw a lot of things, met a lot of people, and I learned a few things about victims…and crisis.” She pushed off the counter, took several steps forward, and bent over the bar, resting her upper-body weight on her elbows. “Amber, when someone is thrust into a crisis, when their entire life becomes a high-stakes venture—all about chaos, turmoil, and self-protection—when you never have control, and your well-being is constantly threatened, whether physically, emotionally, or otherwise, the mind and the body find a way to adapt.”

  Amber leaned back on her stool and stared at her plate, even as her stomach began to curdle. She didn’t like where this was going. Despite her impulsive confession earlier, this woman still didn’t know her, and she didn’t want to hear Jordan’s...insight.

  “There are actual chemicals released in the brain every time we experience trauma,” Jordan continued, “epinephrine, norepinephrine…cortisol…and like a roller coaster that goes up and down, the body changes its chemistry to adapt to the never-ending ride. It gives us what we need to survive in a crisis, but when that crisis never ends, it turns it into a drip-line of sorts. It spikes or dilutes on a regular basis, depending upon the level of stress, until we literally develop an addiction…or a physical need…to use those chemicals to get through our daily lives.”

  Amber rolled her eyes. “And I suppose you call those trauma bonds,” she mocked.

  Jordan nodded. “When being afraid wakes you up every morning; when being hurt, or used, or mistreated defines your afternoon; when lying beside a man you really don’t want to sleep with, night after night, is always on the menu; yeah, your brain creates a brilliant chemistry to get you through each terrible event. Hell, just to get you through each day. Problem is: Over time, you need those chemicals every bit as much as someone on meth needs their next fix. You need it to wake up, to get through the morning, and as crazy as it sounds—you need it to feel sane, to feel safe.” She stood up straight and shrugged her shoulders. “All I’m saying, Amber, is if you’re feeling homesick…if you’re idolizing your life…if you think that going back where you came from would be better than Axe and the Pantheon, then part of that, at least some of it, might not have anything to do with what you’re processing here, or how you’re weighing your newfound circumstances.” She held up two fingers to halt any protest, before she’d had a chance to finish. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m not implying that you liked the trauma, deserved the treatment, or preferred the betrayal you were living—I can’t imagine what that was like for you. I’m just suggesting that part of what you’re feeling…experiencing…is withdrawal, a need to have your daily fix of the chemicals you’ve relied upon to survive for so long.”

  At this, Amber picked up her fork, slid the tray across the island, and threw the utensil. She didn’t aim the fork at Jordan, though it came fairly close to the woman’s head, and she didn’t mean to make such a clatter as the silver tray—and all its contents—tumbled to the galley floor and spilled all over the hardwood.

  Patient as a saint, Jordan didn’t flinch. “Those trauma bonds, and the need for those chemicals, are every bit as strong as your need for food, air, and water.”

  Amber practically snarled. “So, what happened in my house Monday night—that demon who stole my eyesight; Axe taking me away from my life and whisking me into some foreign portal; you standing here, now—a total stranger—lecturing me about something you know nothing about”—her voice rose with her angst—“that’s not trauma? That’s not abuse? That’s not going to make my fight-or-flight chemicals shoot through the roof? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Jordan stepped up to the island and placed her hand over Amber’s. “Why are you crying?”

  Amber sniffed. “I’m not crying; I’m angry.”

  “You should be,” Jordan said softly, and then she slowly removed her hand. “But as long as we’re putting everything out on the table, there’s something else I think you should know. It’s something Zane asked me not to tell you, but I get the sense you’re tougher than you look. You’ve survived a hell of a lot more than the last thirty-six hours…”

  Amber blinked away a reservoir of pressing tears and bit down on her lower lip, which was trembling. She wasn’t sure she could take much more of this, and she was a little bit ashamed of her outburst.

  “When Axe saw you
in that house,” Jordan continued, “when Trader took your eyesight…the dragyri almost came unglued. You were surrounded by pagans, demons, and shades, and they could’ve killed you in an instant, faster than Axe could’ve moved to stop them. So, he called out to his lair mates to ask for backup, but there were too many pagans in that residence. Axe needed a second lair, just to be certain. Some of the males who fought that night—who fought to get you safely out of that dangerous situation—were from another lair, and their lord, their ruling god, charged Axe a pretty heavy tax for their assistance.”

  Amber blinked three times. She had no idea where Jordan was going with this. “What kind of tax?” she whispered. “What are you talking about?”

  Jordan grimaced, and for the first time, her eyes reflected some real discomfort. “Axe has forty-eight hours—well, more like thirteen or fourteen now—to turn himself in to the temple in order to pay up. He has to be there by midnight.” She made air quotes with her fingers as she spoke the words pay up. “He owes Lord Ethyron, the ruler of that other lair, seven pounds of flesh, seven pints of blood, and seven broken bones as payment. And trust me, Lord Ethyron is going to collect.” She paused to soften her tone, even as her throat visibly convulsed. “I just want you to think about something the next time you’re missing home: What have Zeik, Grunge, or Tony ever sacrificed on your behalf? What would they be willing to give in order to keep you safe? What would they have traded for your protection…or your eyesight? And I also want you to think about this: Even when you answer those questions, you’re still going to want to go back. And that’s fine. I get it. No one is saying you should feel happy right now—you would be crazy to feel anything other than trapped, panicked…confused…even desperate. You’re nowhere near being ready to give Axe a chance this soon, not at this juncture; you’re still just coming to grips with all that has happened… But what I am saying is that the desire to go back… Amber, that may be something altogether different, and at some point, you’re going to have to deal with the trauma bonds as a completely separate issue. For the record, I think Axe could regulate your body chemistry—he could heal that imbalance for you, if you ask him…if you let him. And I know for certain that Lord Saphyrius could do it. You have a boatload of shit to contend with going forward, more than enough to consider and think about; fighting a powerful addiction doesn’t need to be part of the mix. And hate me if you will, but one woman to another—no one deserves the hand you were dealt. If I can help you with what’s happening here and now, please, just reach out.”

  As if on cue, three brisk knocks resounded against the twelve-panel door, and Axeviathon turned the handle and strolled in. He took several long, purposeful steps toward the kitchenette, then stopped dead in his tracks and frowned. Unerringly, his eyes swept over Amber, ostensibly making note of her pressing tears, even as he studied Jordan’s protective posture—and then his gaze surveyed the mess on the floor, and the tips of his canine teeth crept down beneath his raised upper lip. “What’s going on here?” He spoke in a chillingly calm and even voice.

  Jordan forced a tentative smile, rounded the corner of the island, bent over to retrieve the blue duffle bag, then hefted it onto the counter. The moment she released it, she placed her hand on the small of Amber’s back. “Probably not what you were hoping for,” she said, politely, to Axe, and then she immediately turned to Amber. “Women’s clothes, basic necessities, and fresh undergarments…let me know if you need anything else. And Amber?”

  Amber met Jordan’s hazel gaze and waited—there was nothing but true compassion, if not friendship, in those eyes.

  “I know I could’ve handled this better. Heaven knows, I didn’t mean to preach, but I took one look at you, recognized your character, and I just knew I needed to keep it real. If nothing else, you’ve had more than enough bullshit to last several lifetimes. I’m sorry if I added to your distress.”

  Amber stood up from the stool and backed away.

  She wasn’t sure if she was retreating from Jordan, from Axe, or from the whole damn situation—she just knew she needed some space. Still, there was one thing she wanted to clarify, and it was probably best that Axe didn’t hear her words. She crooked her fingers at Jordan and waited.

  The woman stepped forward silently. She bent her head and angled her chin, placing her delicate ear just inches away from Amber’s mouth. “What is it?”

  “The flesh, and blood, and bones,” Amber whispered, “that wasn’t just an analogy, right? You actually meant he’s going to be tortured?” She didn’t know why she cared. She didn’t know if she cared. She only knew that she had to be certain.

  Jordan mouthed the words: “It’s literal.”

  Amber raised her chin. “Then keeping it real…no bullshit, right?”

  “Right,” Jordan said.

  “He has to have skin in this game,” Amber murmured. “There’s something he wants, something he needs, something that only I can give him—is that true?”

  “Yes,” Jordan said. “That’s true.”

  “Will you tell me, later…whatever it is?”

  Jordan stood to her full graceful height and slowly shook her head. “No. I can’t do that, Amber—it’s not for me to tell. But Axe will tell you everything when the time is right.”

  Amber cleared her throat, then took a slow, deep breath.

  She knew Jordan had told the truth earlier. Amber had heard about Stockholm syndrome, and she knew the brain produced chemicals to deal with stress and fear—she wasn’t so naïve as to believe she had come through the last decade unscathed. Yet and still, the nightmare behind her—the life she still preferred to return to with Tony, Zeik, and Grunge—seemed to pale in comparison to the nightmare before her, the fate she was facing with Axe.

  Dragon gods…

  A hidden realm…

  Supernatural warriors—or mercenaries—creatures unlike anything she had ever known.

  And this one, the dirty-blond standing ten feet away, staring at Amber with such an intense, piercing gaze, he was strong enough—determined enough—to offer his blood, his flesh, and his bones in exchange for a stranger’s freedom, for Amber’s freedom…

  Only to bring her here.

  What in the name of these dragon lords did Axeviathon want from Amber?

  Just what the hell had she gotten into?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Axeviathon watched as the door swung shut behind Jordan, and Amber made her way silently to the couch. He strode into the sitting room, picked up the ottoman resting in front of an adjacent oversized armchair, and plopped it down in front of her. And then he took a seat, leaned in toward Amber, and rested his elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands. “What the heck just happened here? You copacetic?”

  Amber visibly blanched and leaned as far away as possible, pressing her back into the cushions behind her and folding her arms around her stomach. “No, Axeviathon—”

  “Axe is fine,” he interjected.

  “No, Axe, I’m anything but copacetic right now.”

  He studied her tired features, the weariness in her dark amber eyes and the hard set of her beautiful mouth, and he wished he could give her more time…more space…leave her alone for a day or two so she could process what she’d learned so far. Problem was: They didn’t have a whole lot of time. It was already day three in the ten-day cycle—Axe had seven days before he had to take his dragyra to the temple for conversion—and almost worse than that, he had to meet up with Lord Ethyron before midnight.

  By eleven fifty-nine, to be exact.

  But who was counting?

  The point was: When the emerald dragon got through exacting his seven pounds of flesh, seven pints of blood, and seven broken bones, Axe would be out of commission for the next seven hours, if not longer. Lord Ethyron had forbidden the dragyri from healing his wounds any sooner than that time span; and that meant Axe wouldn’t be available to comfort, teach, or get to know his dragyra…at least not until he had fully recovered.

 
He would be no good to Amber.

  And whatever had happened during her conversation with Jordan—the tray of shit strewn across the floor was a small indication—if there was something he needed to repair, he had to do it now…today. True to his supernatural nature, he had heard the ladies whispering. He hadn’t tried to eavesdrop; he had even tamped down his hearing. But there it was—he had heard every word. So Amber knew about Axe’s upcoming torture, and she also knew that the dragyri wanted her for a very specific and selfish purpose: Thou shalt propagate the species by siring dragyri sons and providing the Pantheon with future warriors. In so doing, thou shalt capture, claim, and render unto thy lords whatsoever human female the gods have selected to become dragyra. And she shall be taken to the sacred Temple of Seven—on the tenth day, following discovery—to die as a mortal being, to be reborn as a dragon’s consort, and to forever serve the sacred Pantheon.

  Okay, so she didn’t know the latter…

  But the question would eat away at her until she did.

  And Axe wasn’t quite ready to divulge that much.

  Still, he needed to make some inroads…now.

  “Your conversation with Jordan was rough?” he asked her, knowing it was a rhetorical question. “Anything I can do to help?” He flipped a wayward lock of unruly hair out of his eyes with a sweep of his fingers and waited.

  Amber made fleeting eye contact, bit her bottom lip, and stared down at her lap. “I told Jordan a lot…things about myself…the kind of things you saw in my memories about Tony, Zeik, and Grunge, what happened when I was still a teenager.”

  Axe nodded slowly, reached out to squeeze her hand, then just as quickly withdrew his touch. “All right.” What else could he say?

  She sighed. “And Jordan told me about that green dragon god, the shit—the stuff—he’s going to do to you. That it’s happening because of me.”