by Tessa Dawn
But that kiss…
The one she had given him before Axe had left for the temple.
Amber was in deeper than she knew…
Axe prickled one more time, then opened his eyes. As the clock had just struck midnight, it was now technically Thursday, and that meant Axe had twenty-four hours to heal completely and get his shit back together. He would let Zane know that Amber’s plan was a go—go ahead and take both dragyras through the portal, let Amber attend the concert, and give Jordan a heads-up that Amber planned to escape—Axe would be ready for the meet-up. He would follow his dragyra himself. As it stood, unless Zane brought another mercenary with him, he couldn’t step out of that portal without an escort of his own—first-generation shit, the Seven had forbidden it—and Axe did not want to let on to Amber that the jig was up. So yeah, he’d follow via a parallel portal or perhaps show up a little early—either way, he would be back to full health by then, and a 100 percent dragyri male was more than capable of extinguishing a duplicitous human male.
“Thank you, Father,” he said in a surly tone. “I’ll handle the business tomorrow night.”
Lord Saphyrius nodded, and then his features grew curious. “And what is your intent?”
“To end the human piece of shit, once and for all,” Axe growled. “To kill the worthless bastard.”
Lord Saphyrius nodded. “Very well.” He paused for the space of several dragon heartbeats and then inclined his head in sorrow. “Son, Lord Ethyron is ready. I regret the unpleasantness of the night’s event, but promises are promises—and debts must be paid. However, I will not stay to watch. I cannot. I trust that my emerald brother will not supersede his bargain—take more than he is allowed to take. The repercussions would be epic. Nonetheless, it is not my place to police the matter this night. Be strong, Axeviathon, and know this: At the culmination of your sentence, Lord Ethyron will offer you a sacred discus, fashioned from his own flesh, blood, and scales. You will soon possess the powers of three sacred lairs: your birth lair, citrine; your consecrated sapphire home; and Lord Ethyron’s emerald magic. Your fire will burn brighter; your dragon will be stronger; and you will be able to draw energy from all three lords in battle. Perhaps such knowledge will strengthen your resolve.” With that, the sapphire dragon disappeared. He didn’t amble away from the throne or linger—he simply vanished into thin air, retreating to his temple chambers.
And just like that, Lord Ethyron took his place.
He stood in front of his emerald throne and sneered at Axeviathon like he was already deriving enormous sadistic pleasure from the torture to come.
Axe bowed his head, once again; only this time, he resented the hell out of the gesture. “My lord,” he murmured, trying mightily to keep his tone respectful.
“Ah, Axeviathon…” Lord Ethyron held out both hands, talons fully extended. “So good of you to grace me with your presence this night. Welcome…welcome…to the Temple of Seven. Shall we get on with it, dragyri?”
Axe bit his bottom lip.
That sick, twisted, son-of-a-perverse-putrid-bitch! Axe thought. He felt sorry for his emerald lair cousins; he really did.
A deep, guttural growl filled the throne room, and Axe’s heart clenched in his chest—oh shit, what if the dragon lord had heard him? What if Lord Ethyron was reading his thoughts?
But oh well…
What if?
What was he going to do?
Torture the dragyri—come at him even harder?
It was doubtful that Lord Ethyron had planned on holding back to begin with.
A grating, creaking noise filled the sanctuary, and Axe glanced upward, over his head, only to see a large metal pulley-system descending from the cathedral ceilings—what the heck was it attached to? The medieval-looking contraption came to a halt about four feet above Axeviathon; two sets of thick chains, iron bolts, and wrist cuffs dropped down from the center of the bar; and Lord Ethyron’s malevolent voice filled the sanctuary. “Hands up, Axeviathon.”
Axeviathon retreated inside: mentally, physically…spiritually.
He crossed his wrists over his head and stretched out his arms, and without preamble, he was floating upward, propelled by Lord Ethyron’s power. The iron clasps opened and shut around Axe’s wrists, squeezing four to five inches of his forearms like a supernatural fist, and then the dragyri was hanging from the temple ceiling, dangling from the archaic pulley. A large, winding tail whipped out from the emerald throne and zigzagged across Axe’s body, whirring through the air as it rent, and Axe’s clothing fell from his body, leaving his muscle, skin, and bones exposed, save only his skin-tight, thigh-length boxers.
Axe tightened his muscles and sucked in his stomach, staring dead ahead at Lord Ethyron, waiting for whatever was coming next: a second swipe of the tail, more lethal; a lunge, followed by iron-sharp teeth; or the perverse use of webbed wings, searing flames—whatever. Axe was prepared for anything.
Until the pulley spun him around to face the temple doors.
What the heck?
Axe shuddered and tried to maintain his courage—his grit. So Lord Ethyron was going to strike him from behind? He wanted to add the elements of surprise and blindness to the excruciating, unrelenting torture he was about to dole out…
So be it.
Then the massive, twenty-feet-high, temple doors flew open, and Ghostaniaz Dragos stormed into the sanctuary: The male was dressed in battle leather, his feet adorned in heavy, spiked boots; his fists wrapped in crude, lanced gloves; and his glowing diamond irises—his strange phantom-blue pupils—were as dead as the gaze of a killer shark, as cold as the arctic snow. His muscles were twitching; his lips were drawn back into a snarl; and his jaw was set in an implacable line. For all intents and purposes, the male was empty…soulless…locked and loaded with lethal intent.
“I owed Lord Ethyron a favor.” That was Lord Dragos’ hellish voice, echoing throughout the sanctuary! He had come out from his chambers to watch! “Ghostaniaz is here to make recompense for me,” the diamond dragon bellowed.
The words settled over Axe like a winter’s frost.
He tried to meet Ghost’s barren gaze, to make some sort of eye contact and plead with his eyes: Brother, dragyri, it’s me—it’s Axe!—keep your bearings, Ghost! Don’t lose it completely. Please.
Why the hell had Lord Saphyrius trusted Lord Ethyron to play by the rules, to keep to the seven pounds of flesh, the seven pints of blood, and the seven broken bones—as if the emerald dragon lord possessed that much honor? And even if he did, all bets were now off.
Ghost Dragos was a completely different beast…
The broken male did not possess a conscience, let alone a rational mind—he didn’t have an off lever; he didn’t have the capacity to know when to stop.
The male was nothing but pure unfettered rage, darkness, and brutality.
Whatever courage Axe had once possessed swirled down a drain of terror and dread.
Ghostaniaz Dragos stormed into the temple, tossing the heavy stone doors aside.
He was focused…determined…channeling the devil—he would give Daddy dearest the shit-show he desired. He had practiced the bludgeoning in his mind, a dozen times, prepared to strike swiftly, efficiently, and with exacting precision.
His father wanted savagery—he would accept nothing less—and Ghost was more than prepared to deliver. He had learned that lesson the hard way, more than once. But what he would not give Lord Dragos—or Lord Ethyron—was a mindless puppet on a subjugated, sadistic string.
Ghost was no one’s lackey.
He would take the seven pound, pints, and bones so quickly—so ferociously—that the whole damn twisted event would be over as soon as it began. And Lord Dragos could say nothing about it: Ghost would stick to the letter of the law, and then the fucking demented party would be finished.
He strode across the luminescent glass floor like his legs were being propelled by automation; leaped all seven steps to land on the dais; and circled
Axe three times.
He was studying the male’s physique, his musculature, choosing and marking targets in his mind, even as he made an absent mental note of Axe’s horrified sapphire peepers. Shit. The dragyri was utterly terrified.
But then…
Good.
Ghost could feed on that fear.
He took a long, deep sniff of cortisol and channeled it through his blood, and then he struck like a scorpion with a blunt, rotated fist—the sternum, two ribs, the upper-left clavicle—Ghost’s arms were like two military-grade jackhammers, pounding away at Axe’s skeleton. Axe’s chest caved in; his body sloped to the side; and his left shoulder dropped at least three inches.
Four bones down; three more to go...
Ghost dropped back, left leg forward, same knee bent, his back foot extended in a perfect straight line, but turned out at an angle. He shifted his weight forward, onto his stationary knee, drew the back leg up to hip level, and snapped it forward like an iron lash, making contact with Axe’s right femur. The thigh bone snapped. Maintaining perfect balance with his leg still in the air, he snapped the tibia next—one shin to match—then struck the upper right ilium like a bolt of lightning, crushing the dragyri’s hip.
Axe’s head fell back, and he roared in agony, his once-strong, muscular body flipping and flopping like a fish out of water.
Ghost didn’t give a shit.
The worst was over—all seven bones.
And the fact that Axe was laboring to breathe, in so much pain he didn’t know which way was up—the fact that his bones were ruined and crushed—would make the next set of injuries like piss on a forest fire.
So-the-fuck-what.
The damage was done.
Seven pounds of flesh—this part would be easy—just so long as Ghost could measure the weight…at least somewhat accurately.
Rolling his fingers inside his gloves, he appraised Axe’s torso with X-ray vision: the pecs, the glutes, the quads, and the abdomen—these were the largest muscular areas, and they offered the greatest quantity of flesh. He gazed down at his spiked leather gloves and chose to release his talons instead. This way he could strike, dig deep, tunnel his fingers inward, and grasp the largest handful of flesh as he twisted and wrenched back.
Strike, dig, twist, wrench!
Twice to each zone and once to the abdomen.
Ghost worked like a machine, in and out, wrenching, tearing, rending Axe’s flesh until the male spit out blood and started to beg for mercy.
Not yet, Axe—not quite yet.
Ghost’s fangs descended to their lethal-most length, and the flesh of his lips curled back around them, and that’s when the thousand-year-old savage red haze took over.
He lunged for the prolific arteries, one at a time, tearing each open with his jagged teeth, then lapped at the blood and swallowed mouthfuls, which, truth be told, detracted from the overall pints on the floor.
Whatever.
Axillary, brachial, left and right femoral, renal, internal iliac, and finally, the coup de grâce: the carotid artery.
Axe’s body may as well have been a spurting fountain—or better yet, an exploding geyser—such was the overwhelming spray of gore, plasma, and dark crimson fluid spewing from the dragyri’s torso. And in that moment, the experience became transcendent, and Ghost fell to his knees and bathed in the splatter: He ripped off his gloves and lathered his hair in Axe’s blood; he scooped up a handful and slurped from his palm; he sniffed it, snorted it, and breathed it in…
And then a strong, harsh elbow thrust him aside. “Enough!” Lord Saphyrius was standing beside Ghost on the dais, in as close to human form as Ghost had ever seen him. He must have entered the sanctuary when Ghost wasn’t looking.
The sapphire dragon lord bathed Axe in silver-blue fire—he didn’t heal his injuries, and he didn’t close his wounds—but he stopped the flow of blood, tore his own radial artery open at the wrist, and poured his life-giving fluid down Axe’s throat. The dragyri male was half-unconscious, so the dragon lord stroked his larynx to coax the substance down.
“Ghostaniaz, take Axe home,” Lord Saphyrius commanded, and Ghost snapped out of it.
He shook his head to dislodge the cobwebs and stared up at the broken, bloody, hanging piece of meat that used to be Axeviathon Saphyrius.
Swallowing what could almost be described as the hint of something akin to an emotion, Ghost rose to his feet, leaped into the air, and grasped the chains above Axe’s wrists—he wrenched his fists downward, both tugging and crushing in one brutal motion, and the huge, heavy body fell forward with a moan.
Ghost hoisted it over his shoulder like a fireman.
Refusing to look at Lord Saphyrius, Lord Ethyron, and especially his father, Lord Dragos, the brutal dragyri male turned on his heel and carried Axeviathon out of the throne room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TWO O’CLOCK AM
“You can’t go in there, dragyra. Trust me, you don’t want to see what’s in that bed,” Nakai Saphyrius told Amber, his tall, lean frame blocking the door to Axe’s suite, even as the arcane tattoo emblazoned on his left temple seemed to glow with thermal light.
Amber got it.
She did.
Axe didn’t want her to see him like this, and his lair mates were in there with him, taking care of him, doing gods knew what to try to ease his pain, but the shit wasn’t working—the shouts, the groans, the deep, masculine keening—Amber could hear it through the door, and that was worse than actually being in the room…seeing Axe…up close and personal.
Up close and personal…
The thought made Amber pause.
What…why…how?
When had she decided that she wanted to be close to Axe, at least long enough to get him through the aftermath of the torture, at least until Friday night?
She couldn’t explain it.
Not even to herself.
But something in her heart—something in that kiss—made her kindness, going forward, almost imperative. She wanted Axe to know, once she was gone, that it wasn’t about him—what she had done. She wanted him to know that she had glimpsed his soul, and she had cared. She just couldn’t live in the Pantheon. She just couldn’t belong to anyone else…
“Nakai,” she pleaded, reaching once more for the handle to the door. “I know he doesn’t want to see me. I know you guys don’t want me to see him, but all of this—it’s because of me. I have a right to be in there with him.” She couldn’t believe her nerve, speaking to the dragyri male that way. Nakai may have been tall and lean, but the male was all hard, unforgiving muscle. And that damn tattoo—it gave Amber the willies.
Nakai sidestepped in front of the handle, jarring Amber’s hand away. “Sorry,” he said. “No can do. Why don’t you retreat to the guest room and come back around 8 AM? By then, Zane will have healed Axe’s injuries, and Axe will have had a chance to shower.”
Amber stepped back and crossed her arms over her stomach. She couldn’t believe she was about to do this, but oh well. It was time to take a different tack. “Call Lord Saphyrius,” she demanded.
Nakai’s dark-brown eyebrows shot up. “Come again?”
“Can you summon Lord Saphyrius? Ask him what he thinks? Let the dragon god decide the matter, whether or not I should be in there with Axe.”
The corner of Nakai’s mouth quirked up in a sardonic smile, and he swiped his bottom lip with his tongue. A harsh, masculine laugh escaped his throat, and he brushed the back of his neck with his hand. “No harm, no foul, Amber—I know you’re new to the Pantheon—but trust me when I tell you, that’s not how it works. We don’t summon the gods; they summon us. And this isn’t the kind of matter one brings Lord Saphyrius in on. Seriously, why don’t you—”
“Why don’t I what?” Amber snapped, balling her hands into fists. “Retreat to the guest room, try to get some sleep? I swear, Nakai, if you say one more dismissive, condescending thing to me, I’m going to punch you in your throat.”
> The male jerked back. And then that sardonic smile appeared once again. In fact, Amber could’ve sworn he tightened his jaw—and his throat muscles—preparing for the blow that was coming.
“So women like us, the ones you capture—people like Jordan and me—we serve a purpose, but we mean nothing to you? We’re like slaves, dogs, worms beneath your feet. That’s what you want me to know? That’s what you want me to get? That’s what you want me to tell Axe and Lord Saphyrius?”
Nakai just shook his head.
“My opinion is less important than yours…than Axe’s…is that what you’re trying to say?”
Nakai met her gaze, and his light-brown pupils nearly blended with his sapphire irises, both refracting a deep, pearlescent light. “No,” he whispered. “But you already know this. And if Lord Saphyrius showed up right now, you would be the first to scramble under the nearest piece of furniture. Truly, you don’t want to play Red Rover with the gods. As for Axe, he’ll understand.” He looked off into the distance as if collecting his thoughts before returning his regard to Amber. “Dragyra…” He let the word linger. “This isn’t an easy time for Axe, either, this claiming…and as for what happened to him tonight? It was beyond brutal, and for reasons you can’t possibly understand, at least not yet. Let the male have some dignity; at least give him his pride. I know he’ll be anxious to see you when the suffering is over. I’m not trying to deny you anything. I’m just trying to protect my lair mate.”
Amber pursed her lips together. “Nakai, I haven’t been straight with Axe. And I haven’t been kind to him, either. Whatever happens going forward, this thing that happened tonight—in the temple—will be part of our history. His and mine, together. And he will always know that he fought for me, suffered for me, but I didn’t fight for him.” She almost stumbled on those last words—it was such a load of bullshit—there would be no Amber and Axe going forward.
But Nakai didn’t know this…
