“I will make you suffer as she did,” he announced. “I will ensure that you die alone and in pain. And when your flame extinguishes, you’ll know you brought this upon yourself. Both figuratively and literally.”
He smiled as he told me this, his golden eyes gleaming with hate. And then he began what would become my daily torture.
Every morn he pummeled me until at least one bone in my shell broke with a sickening crack. Then he scored the knife along the worst of the bruises he’d made, just as I had with the Betrayer King, while telling me exactly what I’d done to invite his wrath.
He spoke the old language in a soft, melodic whisper. But the slow slashes of the knife between each pronouncement made his words sound as harsh as the music the cattle called thrash metal.
“This is your punishment for never properly revering your fated mate.” Slash. “You must suffer as she suffered.” Slash. Slash. “You deserve this and worse.” Slash. Slash. Slash.
However, after the knife play, there came one divergence from my previous torture protocol. Instead of leaving me to heal in my shell, he snapped my right arm. The same one the North Dakota queen broke when she charged into me that first night of her capture.
The unexpected break from my protocol had surprised me into yelling out that first morning, my voice slamming into the duct tape he’d placed over my mouth. But I quickly learned not to show such weakness again.
“Remember how you stood over her and watched her like a bug until she passed out?” he asked. Before breaking my other arm as well. “This is what will happen when you protest your most deserved punishment. I will hurt you double-fold.”
I had relished the so-called protests of those I’d tortured. I often hadn’t stopped until they cried out as I had, or even better, begged for mercy. So no, he was not quite like me.
But somehow he was me.
He had my face and he wore my clothes. His golden eyes were no longer hidden by custom contacts. And his forked tongue was no longer capped to appear and sound the same as a human’s. But other than that, he looked exactly like me.
It was unfortunate that I was unable to talk, for I had many questions.
Questions like why are you doing this? And perhaps more importantly, how are you doing this?
The first few mornings, his eyes glowed bright with a crazed gleam I recognized well after keeping the Betrayer King imprisoned for so long. But as the weeks went by, his mad eyes calmed. And then one day he came down the stairs with a large smile upon his face, and he once again broke from my original torture protocol.
Usually, he beat me first, but that morn he picked up the butcher knife straight away. He kept the knife the gatekeeper had used to slash his throat on a little worktable by the stairs. Close enough for me to see, but too far for me to reach in my shackles.
“She has honored me as she has never honored you,” he told me with particular relish that morning. Slash. “By choice and enthusiastically.” Slash. “And this makes me want to hurt you even more.” Slash. “How could you have failed so horribly to pay our fated mate her due reverence?” Slash. “She is everything you do not deserve.” Slash. “She is worthy of her new title, Queen of Drakkon. But you…the only thing you have earned is this.”
As if to punctuate his point, he raised his fist to punch me.
“Damianos…?”
My tormentor froze mid-blow, his eyes snapping to the ceiling at the sound of Ola calling out his name.
Your name too, I reminded myself. That was the first time I realized I was beginning to forget who I was. A living being who used to be called Damianos Drákon.
This was how my torture protocol worked. I made sure my victims were in so much pain, they couldn’t think clearly. Eventually, the mental degradation would become so great, they would barely remember their own names, much less formulate a plan to escape.
There had been a drakkon from Zone 5 who had thought to overthrow me. But after enduring similar torture at my hand, he’d slunk back to the region now called Russia and had never been heard from again.
Would I ever be heard from again?
My prospects seemed grim in those moments of remembering what I had forgotten.
But then, my torturer suddenly dropped his fist. Without another word to me, he bounded up the stairs, heeding the she-wolf’s call. And the next thing I heard was the door clicking shut.
Which left me alone in the dark basement. Shackled to the wall and bleeding, while I waited for my shell to repair the damage he’d done with his butcher knife.
Yet my wounds were not the source of my most excruciating pain.
She’d given herself to him.
Given herself to him in a way she’d sworn she would never give herself to me.
Despite my attempts to detach myself from the she-wolf who would surely die in birth as my own mother had, a new feeling crackled inside my flame at the thought of them coupling outside of breeding… then settled like a black lump of coal at the bottom of my fire. I’d rather he had broken both my arms than relayed that knowledge.
The next morning, my torturer came down even earlier than usual. He beat me, cut me, and broke my arm without uttering a word.
Be careful what you wish for, as the upright primates say. For I discovered then that the silent torture was much more brutal than what came before it. Without him to provide commentary, I was left with nothing to do but imagine him and the she-wolf I had claimed as mine copulating in the bed I had custom ordered. And our torture sessions continued in this fashion for weeks and weeks.
Him silent. Me left to imagine with more and more coal forming inside my fire, like cancerous lumps.
But then, on what I believed to be the eighty-third day of my capture, he once again broke protocol. This time by showing up at night, before I was fully healed from that morning’s torture.
He silently beat me all over again. Then cut me deeper than ever before, then once again broke both arms, even though I’d made no noise of protests.
“I was warned to keep you alive, but in truth, I did not expect you to live so long,” he admitted when I was reduced to little more than a welted skin bag of broken bones. “But if the timeline is still correct, the hatchling will arrive tomorrow afternoon. Then I will finally be free to kill you the morning after that.”
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. He’d fractured my jaw in at least two places. If not for the duct tape, I suspect it would be hanging loose and cracked.
I had no desire to answer him in any case.
He knew as well as I that I would never lower myself to beg for my life.
Better to die, anyway, I thought as I watched him walk back up the stairs. If I could not have my ultimate revenge against my father’s murderers…or father the hatchling that would come from my congress with the she-wolf, what was the use of living?
At least I told myself those were the reasons for the despondency burning grey inside my flame. But as the severely overused healing agents inside my shell began their repairs, my mind was overcome with images. Of the pretender copulating with my she-wolf. Of the father who’d raised me bleeding out on the North Wolves’ field. Murdered in front of me by the wolves who sired the mate, who was currently pregnant with the hatchling I would never meet.
Indeed, this torture had been extremely well-executed, I had to give my persecutor that. My world had become a fog of both mental and physical anguish and pain, topped off by a hunger so great, I could no longer distinguish my impotent frustration from the crunching sensation of my shell feeding upon itself.
I had been depleted of everything, including the strength it would take to unshell and break these shackles. My original plans to travel to a time before the loss of my planet…my new plan to kill the dogs who murdered my father while their grandson flew over my head…
Everything was lost.
And though, I would never admit it out loud, yes, of course… I would like this torture to stop. But all I could do about it was will my
self to die before my torturer had the chance to deliver the final blow.
The eating sensation had turned to numbness. I suspected my body had finally ran out of muscle tissue to consume. I could only see out of one eye. My entire world view had become a slit with darkness encroaching on both sides.
It would not be long now. I suspected. And I closed that one remaining eye, resigning myself to my strange fate.
Only to snap it back open at the sound of Ola calling his name.
No, not his name. My name…the reminder comes back small and weak. She’s shouting out my name. My name…I’m still Damianos. Barely.
“If this is some kind of trick or joke, it’s officially not fucking funny. This baby wants out, and I don’t want to do this without you!”
She is about to go into labor, I realize. But can’t find Other Damianos.
“Damianos!” she yells.
My weak heart constricts with the need to call out to her. To tell her she is not alone in what will surely be her last act upon this earth. But the duct tape…
“Damianos…baby…please…”
My entire body jerks when her voice suddenly appears inside my head.
The torture…it made me forget. I can communicate with her like this. Over our mate bond.
“My queen...” It takes every single bit of mental strength I have left to formulate that answer. Pitiful and small.
“Damianos!” she calls out again, her voice excited.
There comes much clamor, then I hear the creak of the door at the top of the stairs opening.
“So you got magic tricks,” her voice calls down the stairs. “Good one. But can you come up here? I swear this baby is about to come flying out of my vagina like ‘welcome to the show!’”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Even as I hear the pad of her bare feet coming down the stairs.
“Damianos? Why aren’t you—”
She stops talking abruptly when she sees me.
I cannot stand up, or even fully lift my head, but I stare at her from my one working eye.
She is here, standing before me.
Collarless.
But how?
That is the last thought I have before darkness overtakes me.
Chapter Two
When I awake again, my world is no longer a fog of memories and pain.
In fact, my circumstances are much changed. I am still shackled, but not to a wall in a cold, dark basement. I’m lying in a warm bed with my wrist and ankle shackles attached to an iron frame. And, instead of a butcher knife, I can’t reach, I’m looking up at the ceiling. My arms are still thin, but my body no longer aches. And the gnawing hunger has disappeared, replaced with a strange bloated sensation.
But how has this come to pass?
“You going to stay awake this time?” a voice asks above me. “You’ve been fading in and out for the last week.”
Apparently, I’ve been here a week. Also, my jailor is no longer a dragon who looks and sounds like me.
I shift my eyes to the right to find Ola, with a strange device in her hand. It almost looks like the machines the last 20th century-born Colby used to steam the floors of my Greek estate, except there is no attachment at the end of its hose.
“Hey, don’t judge,” she says, following the direction of my gaze. “I had to figure out some way to get all this beef broth into you. And we’re not exactly set up for an IV.”
Her defensive words both horrify me and explain the strange, bloated sensation in my stomach. “You fed me broth…through that contraption for an entire week?”
She shrugs. “You weren’t up for eating, and I wasn’t up for letting you die. And here you are, still alive. So I’m thinking the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you.’”
I glare up at her. “I will not thank you for shoving a janitorial contraption into my mouth.”
I expect her to glare back. One of my most vivid memories of our brief time together was how adept she’d been at squinting up at me with murder in her eyes.
But instead, she scans my face, her eyes filled with a question. One I can’t put a name to, so I demand, “Why do you gaze upon me so?”
“I’m just trying to figure something out,” she answers.
“What? What are you trying to figure out?” I ask testily. The way she is looking at me, her formerly hard eyes soft and curious, unsettles me more than her murderous glare ever did.
“I’m trying to figure out if he’s in there,” she answers, her voice just as soft as her eyes. “I’m trying to figure out if the dragon I fell in love with is inside of you.”
The dragon I fell in love with…
Her words still my tongue, but what she does next stills my flame.
She reaches out and cups my cheek.
My entire body shudders, and before I can think upon my actions, I find myself nuzzling my large head into her hand. Seeking her warmth.
“I’m not sure what’s going on. Where Other You came from, or why he disappeared the way he did. But if the dragon I fell in love with is still in there, please come out,” she whispers. “Because I’m having a hell of a time holding my family off, and we have a little dragon wolf to raise.”
Dragon wolf…
The strange reference draws me out of my trance. Reminds me of her state when I saw her last. Heavily pregnant with my progeny housed within her womb.
But now her belly is much reduced. With a start, I realize out loud, “You survived the birth!”
“Ta-da emoji!” she answers with the twirling gesture I believe the upright primates call jazz hands. “Your girl, Ola, came through, just like I said I would.”
An odd sensation fans over my flame, one so foreign it takes me several moments to recognize it as relief.
I am relieved that my she-wolf survived her pregnancy. Even if this further complicates my ultimate plan.
“My hatchling. Where is it?”
“It?” She frowns. “So you no longer think it’s a boy?”
I frown back at her, not only because I never said such a thing but also because, “Drakkon cannot be sexed until a few moons after their birth.”
“Oh…” She gives me a sad, confused look. Then lowers her hand from my cheek.
A strange bereft feeling crackles through my flame as soon as I lose the warmth of her palm against my face. And though I am her prisoner, I am suddenly hit with a strange compulsion to reassure her, comfort her, pay her rev—”
Don’t… I warn myself before I can finish that last thought.
I am warm, unharmed, and fed.
A tactical mistake on her part that she will soon come to regret.
But until then, our roles have reversed. I am her prisoner. At her mercy.
“Why are you afraid all of a sudden?” she asks me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I pause, then realize, she can feel every emotion I’m having over our mate bond. My confusion…my irritation…my reaction to her touch…and the abject fear of finding myself in such a vulnerable position. Particularly with her, the living mother of my progeny.
She is looking down at me with such pity in her brown eyes. Because she knows I am afraid.
A new resolve flares my flame. I can’t let her continue to view me this way. Or tip her off to the power she now holds over me.
I force the last of the glowing warmth I felt at her touch from my chest flame. And I deaden my side of the mate bond before demanding, “Where is my hatchling? You will bring it to me now, and perhaps I won’t make those who have helped you imprison me pay with their lives.”
The pitying look disappears from her eyes, and her expression hardens.
“Okay, I’m going to go now. Give you some time to calm the fuck down and realize that threatening me and mine won’t get you anywhere.”
“That is a recent bit of philosophy from the upright primates’ unfortunate habit toward unsubstantiated theories,” I answer. “In my experience, threats have been, are, and will always be the m
ost efficient way to gain one’s objective.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I wonder what changed your mind then? Because Other You never threatened my family.”
Her question chills my flame because it was the exact one I had. If my jailor was who I suspected him to be, how or why had he come to the opposite conclusion of what I had decided when I realized I would have to claim my she-wolf?
Now that I am able to think clearly, the answer comes to me in the next instant.
Along with all of its implications.
You can let neither enemy nor friend see the true color of your flame.
My father’s words from long ago echo back into my present, cooling my flame. My most revered father was right. I must not let this she-wolf who could destroy everything I am working toward see how confused I am. How weak she makes me. I am a hunter. And I will not stop until I seize my prey.
“You will release me,” I command again, my tone even harder than hers. “You will bring my hatchling to me now, or I will—”
“Okay, well…” Without warning, she plunges her hand into my scaled stomach and pulls both of my seeding cocks out.
I become hard in an instant within her grip. And I can only lie there, stunned at the sight. It would have never in a thousand drakkon lifetimes occur to me to retrieve my own male works. How did she know she could handle me in such a manner?
Before I can begin to think upon that question, her stroking hand cuts off every thought inside my head. Her eyes lock onto mine as she moves her arm up and down while squeezing both my primary and secondary seeders in a tight grip.
The sensations are…unbelievable. Hot and shocking. Electric and sharp. Before I’m ready, a double volley of pleasure shoots up both of my cocks. They erupt at the same time, blasting jets of seed all over my stomach and her arm.
There is no dignity to be had in the silent moments that follow. I look down upon the mess I made on my stomach in horror. Meanwhile, Ola simply grabs several tissues from a box on the nearest nightstand.
“I see both of you like that handjob trick,” she observes with a taunting smile as she wipes my seed from her arm. “But that’s enough playtime. Get some rest and think about being nice to me instead of a domineering asshole. That’s getting real old.”
Her Dragon King (Her Dragon King Duet Book 2): 50 Loving States, North Dakota Pt. 2 Page 2
