by Ava Sinclair
Night of the Drakoryans
A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy
Ava Sinclair
Contents
About this book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Excerpt from Sacrifice
About the Author
FREE BOOK OFFER
About this book
Night of the Drakoryans is a standalone supplement to the Drakoryan Brides series of reverse harem fantasy novels.
Sacrifice
Fire Bride
War Bride
Copyright ©2018 Ava Sinclair
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any written form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Ava Sinclair
www.avasinclairauthor.com
Sinclair, Ava
Night of the Drakoryans
Cover Design by Miranda Martin
Images by Adobe Stock Photos
Created with Vellum
Chapter 1
EDRYS
How can this be happening? How can this be possible?
I put my hand to the corner of my eye, feeling the tissue around the cut there starting to swell. I suppose I should be grateful. Another half an inch, and she would have put my eye out. Behind the closed door, I can hear the woman still screaming, still throwing things.
This is not just any woman. This is the woman I am supposed to bed.
It was not supposed to be like this, and just when I think the situation cannot be any worse, I see them—my brothers, Xarsi and Nyron. What are they doing here? They should be in the hall, sulking in defeat, seething because I, who won the right to take and claim first rights of our sacrificial virgin mate, am enjoying what they coveted.
Only I’m not.
“Edrys?” Xarsi peers at me and I turn away, hoping the dim glow of the wall sconce will not illuminate my injury. But he’s seen it, and even if he hadn’t, half the castle surely hears the woman raging behind the door.
I brace myself for their mocking. There’s always a good deal of competitive banter before Drakoryans fight in dragon form for first rights. It is not always kind. The only time a Drakoryan breaks loyalty with his brothers is when he fights for a virgin.
But my brothers do not mock. They seem concerned, and they should be. The obvious, violent rejection from our mate is not merely a rejection of me. It is a rejection of the situation. It is a rejection that impacts all of us.
“She struck you?” Xarsi’s tone is incredulous.
“Not directly.” I cast a sidelong glance at our eldest brother as I press my finger against the cut. “She hit me with a candlestick.”
There’s a long bench to the left. I sink down onto it and am joined by my brothers.
“It’s a good thing her aim isn’t as sharp as her temper.” Nyron, the youngest of the three lords of Jo’lyn sits to my left. He is scowling. “You should punish her. She has to learn she can’t do such things.”
I lower my hand and look at the blood on my fingers. “No, Nyron. I don’t think that would work.”
“Then I’ll do it,” he offers boldly, and I look over at him, trying to keep my annoyance in check.
“And you think that will help? If you go in there and beat her into submission so she’ll be docile when I take her?” I put my hand back to the cut. “All that would do is drive the resentment so deep inside her it would lodge and swim in her veins. We’d never get through to her, then. Remember, we seek more than a coupling with her body. Our mating is but the first bond that prepares her for the final one, the Deepening.”
The room behind us has gone quiet.
“Try again.” Xarsi stands. “For your sake. For ours. For hers. If you can calm this wild virgin long enough to introduce her to your touch, you can use pleasure as a weapon to tame her.”
I wince. The pressure I’ve applied to the cut has stopped the bleeding for now. I rise from the bench.
“I can’t touch her if I can’t get close to her.” I glance warily at the door to my bedchamber. Somehow, the silence behind it is more worrisome than the sounds of destruction. I look back at my brothers. “But I will try. Just keep in mind that your need is no greater than mine.” I incline my head towards the curve in the tunnel leading to the hall. “Now be gone. I won’t do this with your ears at the door.”
Xarsi and Nyron hesitate for a moment, but eventually do as I command. Once they are out of sight, I turn back to the door, which I locked behind me. I open it now to find the room shrouded in darkness.
There’s a full moon, and the light coming through the window provides some illumination to my large bedchamber. I shut the door behind me, standing in silence while my eyes adjust to the limited light. The floor at my feet is littered with items the enraged virgin threw at the door after I closed it — more candlesticks, a goblet, the bowl of fruit I’d optimistically intended as refreshment after hours of enthusiastic coupling. The latter seems almost laughable now.
On the wall by the floor lay several candles, knocked from the wall sconces and extinguished by their own dripping wax. I suppose I should be grateful that she didn’t set the curtains on fire. I scan the room, and finally spot her in the narrow shaft of moonlight that comes through the window. She’s huddled in the corner, her knees drawn up against her chest, her nakedness shielded by the curtain of raven hair that reaches the floor. She is staring at me, and even in the dim light I can see the animosity in her eyes.
I neither react nor speak to her, but I do keep her safely in my peripheral vision as I retrieve the fallen candles, clean the wicks and then kneel at the fireplace. To further dim the room, she’s tossed water from the wash bowl on the flames, but a corner still smolders. I stir the embers and press the wicks of the candles against them. I stand and replace them in the sconces. The room is bright again and I am back where I began.
“Let’s start again, shall we?” I pull over a chair and place it in front of her. She regards me with mounting hatred. She does not reply.
I study her from where I sit. I was in dragon form when I first saw her. She was taller than most virgins we claimed, with raven hair and olive skin. I could tell that underneath the shimmering gown spun of fireproof thread, her body was lush and lithe. If the same hatred burned in those almond shaped eyes, I was too overwhelmed by her beauty to take note of it.
Her village, Arkney, is not known for producing such women. When the witches told us the virgin that had been named would be taken from their Altar Rock, we’d been disappointed. It is not that the women of Arkney aren’t fair, but they are sturdier and plainer than the women of other villages.
She’d neither screamed nor cringed when I’d burned her bonds, but had looked straight ahead as I’d snatched her from the rock. I’d ferried her into the clouds, where the thin air rendered her unconscious. This was by design. When a virgin awakes, she is intended to see her first Drakoryan mate in human form, not as the dragon that bore her away. The truth of our dual nature is not something we immediately reveal.
“Will she tell me her name, this wild creature I have bought to my bedchamber?” I attempt to lighten the mood a little, but there is still no answer. I reach out, tentatively, and she bares her teeth. So, she’ll bite, too?
I draw my hand back. “Can you not at least express a bit of gratitude? Did you not expect to die when you were taken from the rock? You not only live, but are in a fine castle.”
She fixes her gaze on mine now. “Are you responsible for that?” she demands to know. “Are you the reason I live?”
Finally, I am getting somewhere. I allow myself to smile. “Yes,” I say. And it is not a lie. A dragon could kill any human, but I bore her back with incredible care.
Did I expect praise for my answer? Her reflexes are surprisingly fast for a human, and she reaches behind her back and pulls out another hidden candlestick before I can stop her. But I do halt the attack, lunging forward to grab her wrist before she can slam her weapon into my kneecap. I sink to the floor with her, restraining both her wrists now. I squeeze the one below the hand holding the candlestick and it clatters to the stone floor, but I barely hear it over her screams.
“Why? Why?” Her cries ring with anguished hatred. “Why did you save me? The dragon had me! I was ready! I was so close to finally getting what I wanted!”
I look down at her, puzzled.
“What you wanted? What did you want?”
“Death!” She stares up at me, and I see her rage give way to tears. She begins to sob. “Death,” she repeats, more quietly this time. “I’ve prayed for it daily. But you…you robbed me of it.” She begins to fight again. “Thief! Thief!”
I keep hold of her, letting her struggle. She’s not eaten since she arrived, yet somehow has the strength to wriggle like a demon in my grasp. But she must tire soon, and I have the strength to outlast her. Her struggles grow weaker as the sobs come again and she melts into the floor. I keep hold of her wrists, unwilling to let go until I’m sure that this isn’t more trickery, that she is truly exhausted. Once I ascertain that she is, I release the virgin’s hands and scoop her into my arms. I carry her to my bed and lay her down on the coverlet. I’d removed her gown while she slept. She is naked, her body bathed in moon glow.
I’m able to get my first full look at her willowy form—the long, narrow waist, the perfectly round breasts that sit high and firm on her chest, the pleasantly flared hips and sleek, shapely legs. I try not to let my gaze linger too long on the thatch of soft black curls at the apex of her thighs, at the visible seam of her pussy, closed tight to hide the virgin barrier my cock aches to breach.
I have a sudden, wild notion to lean down, to run my tongue through that slit, to grasp her hips as I grasped her wrists, to restrain her on my bed until she acknowledges and succumbs to the pleasure of having her virgin clit licked and suckled. My cock bobs painfully under my leather skirt as I imagine the flavor of her sweet, musky arousal, the sounds of her moans, the feel of her hand in my hair, pulling at first in fear before curling through the strands in pleasure.
Then I look at her face. Her head is turned to the side. She is staring towards the window. She must know how open she is to my gaze, how vulnerable. And she doesn’t care. This is worse than anger. Whatever has damaged my beautiful prize did so before I snatched her from the rock.
“I was supposed to take your virginity tonight.” I pause. “I still could. You were brought here for a reason, to be a mate not just to me, but to my two brothers as well. I am Edrys, Lord of Jo’lyn, and I would ask that you trust me in this.” There is still no response. I try to temper my patience with understanding. “Will you at least tell me your name? Please?”
Finally, after what seems like forever, she looks at me. I hold my breath. She is regarding me as I regard her. Her gaze slides over my body like a touch, like fingers. I can almost feel the sensation, so intense is her look. It quickens my blood. I allow myself to feel hopeful as I sit up a little straighter. I am in peak physical form. I want her to see this, to see the shield of muscles that covers my chest, the convex pectoral that would mold to her slim hand if she would only raise it to touch me. Would she slide that hand in the direction of her gaze, down the bumpy ridges of my abdominal muscles, and lower still to where my cock rises in eager anticipation?
“Edrys of Jo’lyn.” The sound of my name on her lips only increases my desire for the woman who speaks it. I hold my breath, waiting, hoping…“My name is Syrene of Arkney. I was supposed to die today. You robbed me of that. I will not mate with you. I will not mate with any man, lord or no. I will give nothing to those who robbed me of escape from this world. I hate you. I will hate you forever.”
I stare down at her, cold disappointment dousing the fire in my blood. When I’d fought for the right to claim her, I’d faced my own brothers in battle. They’d slashed and bitten and burned me, but the pain of that fight was nothing compared to the hurt of her words.
I try not to show how unsettled I am as I rise from the bed where I’ve been sitting beside the woman I know will not be seduced this night.
“Rest,” I tell her. “I will take my leave.”
This time when I shut the door, I feel not frustration, but fear. I lock the door behind me, and then go to seek counsel with my brothers.
Chapter 2
SYRENE
“At least now we know there was a purpose for your pathetic life.” My stepmother’s words had been accompanied by a vicious sneer. “And here all this time I thought you were useless.”
She’d barked a laugh and clapped her hands together. After so many years, her cruelty should have no longer surprised me, but this? This was harsh, even by her standards. I’d looked to my father, allowing myself to hope that hearing his wife gloat about the impending sacrifice of his only daughter would stir some memory of a time when he’d cared enough to defend me. But he only stared down at the knife he was grinding on a wheel, pretending he’d not heard. He’d heard, though. I’d seen his brow twitch; the small motion was the extent of his defiance of the woman who’d rendered him helpless years ago.
“There’ll be one less mouth to feed with you gone,” she’d continued, her mean smile revealing blackened nubs of her teeth. “Our dragon rulers will reward us with more land to till, what with the sacrifice coming from our house. We’ll get an extra ten acres.” She’d looked at my father. “What do you think, Han? Should we invest in a nice milk cow to replace your worthless slag of a daughter once the dragon takes her away?”
My father had stopped grinding his knife. He’d risen from his wooden stool, his gaze riveted to the dirt floor.
“I asked you a question.” My stepmother had crossed her arms over her saggy breasts, her tone challenging.
My father’s weary eyes had met mine. He’d picked up the blade. I am not ashamed to say in that moment, I’d hoped he’d kill her. Instead, he’d shrugged. “A cow might be good.”
“Hear that?” My stepmother had cackled, pointing at my father. “A cow might be good!” She’d repeated the hurtful words as if I might have missed them, continuing to laugh as she shoved a broom into my hand. “Clean up. If your worthless father can provide no more than a hovel, at least you’ll keep it tidy before the dragon rids us of you.”
I’d hated myself as I’d complied. What would I have had to lose at that point if I’d broken the broom off on the mantle and rammed the sharp end through the woman who’d tormented me since I could remember? I’d considered it, and the only thing that had stopped me was the knowledge that if she survived she’d cast herself as the victim. So I’d done the sweeping as she left the cottage. Through the open doorway, I could see her outside talking to another village woman who’d come by with her daughter to buy eggs. The daughter was my age and bore the look of most women in Arkney, with auburn hair, large breasts, short waists and thick bottoms. They were not unattractive, with feminine forms juxtaposed against lean and tall Arkney men like my father. But they were nothing like me.
I do not know why I was born different, but I was. I had often wondered how my life may have been if I’d looked like the other women. Had I been plain and nondescript, would my stepmother have loved me? I never got to experience my own mother’s love. She only lived long enough aft
er my birth to see me take three tiny breaths. I do not remember her. Father once said she was different, too.
“She was beautiful,” he’d said. “Like you.”
I still cling to that compliment. It was intended to be spoken in confidence away from the earshot of my lurking stepmother, but she’d overheard. There would not be another compliment from my father after that.
I could not count on the villagers for love, either. My stepmother’s cruelty towards me was like an infection that spread to our neighbors. If the sons she eventually bore my father broke a tool or stole a chicken, she would blame it on me. Her active campaign to make our village hate me as she did was a successful one. News of an impending sacrifice is usually accompanied by a great outpouring of sympathy. Neighbors descend on the house of the unfortunate family to offer condolences and support. But in Arkney, no one came to offer words of comfort to my family because they knew my family did not care.
No one did.
Perhaps that is why the priestesses took extra care to prepare me the morning I went to Altar Rock. Although they stayed distant and apart from the rest of the village, they seemed to somehow know I needed a kindness. I suspect the compassion they showed was not only because I was facing death, but because of what I had faced in life.
My stepmother did not allow me so much as a comb when I was growing up. She called my hair a raven’s nest. Each night, I’d work the knots out with my fingers the best I could. The irony of the priestesses’ gentle hands untangling and washing my raven tresses did not escape me. Finally, on the day of my death, I would be well-groomed.
