Night of the Drakoryans

by Ava Sinclair

  I cry out as I climax, the low moan of the wind accompanying my song of surrender. Then Nyron comes too, spilling a hot seed that warms and soothes the tingle of whatever came before. His body is hot and heavy on mine, pressing me into the rock. Our panting breaths slow as a feeling of relaxation sweeps through me. For the second time, I have been satisfied beyond my wildest imaginings.

  Nyron rises, his cock slipping from my body. I feel blissfully disoriented as he raises me to standing and turns me to him.

  “My painted lady,” he says, and I look down. I am glowing from my breasts to my thighs. “My beautiful work of art.”

  “You’re no longer angry with me?” I ask, arching a brow.

  “Angry?” He speaks the word as if it is foreign to his ears. “I believe you are a balm for my darkest moods, Syrene. In you I have found my elusive, perfect peace. I will know where to go now, should my thoughts become too dark, should my temper burn too hot.”

  I think on this and get the feeling there is more behind his words. I do not want to pull the threads of that truth, however. Not now. I only want to enjoy this moment, here, in this singing cave with the second man to take me in this castle.

  Chapter 9

  NYRON

  This woman. This beautiful woman who stands before me with my seed trickling down her inner thighs. She could just as easily be a sprite or a fairie shimmering in her naked perfection.

  I try to make sense of what just happened. I had planned to use the magic of the cavern to woo Syrene to my room, where I would take her with firm swiftness. I’d thought of nothing but dominating her. But in her presence, I’d turned uncharacteristically shy.

  Wielding only the innocent air she’d retained despite having been taken by Edrys, Syrene had completely disarmed me. Her sense of wonder was infectious, and when she’d touched me, the bravado I thought I’d need melted away. My brother had made her a student of pleasure, and all I wanted was to continue her lesson. She is naturally passionate but when I next take her, I want it to be in my bed.

  We do not pass anyone on the way to my chambers, and for this I am glad. Syrene is once again clad in her gown, but I am eager to see her out of it again. I have a tub brought and filled with heated water. Syrene is less bold in the light of my room. She blushes when she removes her gown. Most of the iridescent dust is gone from her skin, but the sight of my seed drying on her thighs fills me with a sense of possessiveness I struggle to contain.

  “Would you like me to bathe you?”

  She looks away and answers me by stepping into the water.

  I kneel by the tub. She is so beautiful. I take in her profile as I lather a soft cloth with a cake of soap. Her nose is sharp and slightly turned up, her cheekbones high like mine. I try to imagine what our sons will look like. Will they have her dark hair? My eyes? Our sharp features?

  “Why do you stare so?”

  “Because you’re so pleasant to look upon.” I rest the cloth on her shoulder. “I was wondering what our children will look like.”

  “Children…” She stares straight ahead, her expression pained. “I think I would be a bad mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my mother died before she could show me what a mother’s love was like. I was raised with bruises and barbs. Even my efforts to give love were punished.” A hurt look floods her eyes, as she begins to share a memory in halting tones.

  “My family raised chickens. We had some eggs hatch once. I took a little chick and raised it as my own. It grew into a fine brown hen. I cared for it, and it would follow me. It may seem odd that a little hen could teach me to love, but it did. Then one day my stepmother…” A tear trails down her cheek. “She killed it in front of me. I screamed and screamed as she wrung its neck. But she only laughed, and later beat me when I would not eat the stew she made of my pet.”

  Her shoulders shake with crying and I feel my blood grow hot, not with passion this time, but with rage. Syrene sobs harder, and I lift her from the tub and cradle her in my arms. And I know she is crying not just for her lost pet, but for her lost childhood. This is the first time she’s felt safe enough to do what she’s never been allowed to do – mourn.

  I take her to my bed, questioning my own sanity at my sudden change of plans. I tuck her in between the sheets and go to the nearby table, where I secretly mix up a sleeping draught in some wine. I coax her to drink and calm herself. Then I lay down with her.

  “Tell me about your home,” I say. “What was your cottage like? Where was it?”

  “Why?” Her voice is drowsy.

  “Because I am your lord and want to know. Tell me, sweet Syrene.”

  She yawns. “On the…southern…side of the village.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “A…red…thatch roof. Fence around the front. Chicken yard to the side…” She sighs sleepily. “They were going to replace me with a cow…” Syrene’s words trail off as she appears to fall into a sleep.

  I am a madman. There is no other explanation for what I am about to do.

  Once I am certain Syrene is truly asleep, I leave her – the woman I’d planned to take at least two more times while she was mine – and head to the top of the castle, to the platform. There I shift and pump my huge amber wings in the night air, picking up speed as I fly through the long night towards the mountains. I am driven by a need to right a wrong, the need for justice burning in my breast.

  I lose track of time, but when I finally clear the mountains, I find it is only nearly dusk on the other side. Good. I fly slowly, waiting for the darkness to fall as I head towards Arkney.

  I pass several villages along the way. The low clouds shield me from view of the villagers finishing up their evening chores. I fly on, and then I see it.

  The village of Arkney.

  I begin to circle overhead looking through the gaps in the clouds until I find what I’m looking for — a cottage with a red thatch roof, a chicken yard, and a cow. A heavyset woman is walking back towards the cottage, yelling something at a man who shuffles towards her with a bucket and a bundle of hay. Her tone is strident. I can easily imagine it berating Syrene. In my mind’s eye, I can almost picture my beautiful mate outside the cottage, trying her best to please her hateful stepmother and milquetoast father.

  I feel warmth in the side of my jowls as I release fire venom into my throat. Once they are filled, I inhale deeply of the air around me. I rise higher in the air, then turn and drop straight down, heading through the clouds. My dragon eyes are fixed on my target as I exhale, igniting my fire venom. The next sound I hear is a piercing scream as I lay down a line of flame that instantly incinerates the crops growing in neat rows behind the red-roofed cottage that was once Syrene’s unloving home.

  I could kill her father and stepmother. But I do not. I want them to live, to pay the rest of their miserable lives for the hurt they did to the beautiful woman in my bed. Her father had fallen to the ground. Now he stands — stock still and shocked — looking to the heavens. His wife runs towards the house, waving her arms at her sons who rush out in their nightshirts. I do not allow them to make it back inside. I lay down another line of fire between the family and the house. I want them trapped. I want them to see what comes next. Amid the smoke, I’m sure they can make out the shape of the dragon that drops down to snatch away their newly acquired cow.

  “No!” I hear the woman screech. “Han! Stop him!”

  Her squawks fade as I take the lowing animal away. I do not look back, but head towards the Drakoryan Empire, stopping along the way to deposit the terrified milk cow on the farm of a village closer to the mountains.

  For centuries, the Drakoryans have controlled what the villagers grow and where. This was not the first field I’ve burned in the dark. But it was the most satisfying. I do not regret revealing myself, either. They will see me again, these people who caused my love such hurt. They will see me as the dragon who keeps them impoverished while their neighbors thrive. They will come to
know me as their punisher.

  When I arrive back at Castle Jo’lyn, I find Syrene still asleep. I undress and slip under the sheets beside her. The feel of her warm body stirs my cock to hardness. She sighs in her sleep and turns to curl into my arms.

  “My beautiful Syrene,” I say. “I will let no one or thing hurt you again all the days of your life. I would give my own to protect you. I would give my all.”

  Her eyes open sleepily. She raises a hand to my face. “What did I ever do to deserve such men?”

  My lips meet hers and she moans as my tongue sweeps across hers. It is our first kiss. She presses against me. The nipples of her lush breasts are hard against my chest. I slide my hand down, finding slickness between her thighs.

  “I woke up like this,” she says. “Is this normal? Or am I just a wanton?

  I chuckle in the darkness. “It is normal for a woman to be wanton. And lucky is the man who has a wanton in his bed.”

  I roll over onto her, grasping a sleek thigh and pulling it to the side as I slip my cock into her tight, welcoming pussy. She winds her arms around my neck. She looks into my eyes as she moves with me, as she welcomes my thrusts, welcomes my fucking.

  No, I do not regret burning her family’s crops.

  Chapter 10

  XARSI

  “Nyron, you know that was not wise.”

  Edrys and I are staring dumbfounded at our younger brother, aghast to hear him boast of what he’s done in the village of Arkney. We were surprised to see him enter the hall, and at first, I’d feared Syrene had rejected him as she’d initially rejected Edrys. Then I’d seen his smile, and I knew all went well, at least with the claiming. But why leave her bed?

  That’s when he’d told us about how Syrene had confided in him about her childhood, about the hurt she’d suffered.

  “You don’t know what they did to her,” he says, pacing angrily.

  “I agree, brother,” Edrys says, but his tone is still heavy with disapproval. “Yes, Syrene suffered great hurt at the hands of her people, but that does not mean you can dispense justice on your own.”

  “Tell me you didn’t want to punish them,” Nyron turns to face Edrys, staring him down.

  Edrys stares back, then sighs and looks away. “I will not lie,” he confesses. “I did. But wanting to avenge her hurt and doing it are two different things.”

  “This went far deeper than hurt.” Nyron scowls. “Her stepmother tortured her spirit.” He pours himself a goblet of wine.

  I’ve been listening, but now I enter the conversation before discord between my brothers can flare anew. “And what of her father, Nyron?”

  “From what I understand, he stood by and allowed it.” His eyes glow with anger. “I wanted to burn them alive.”

  “No,” I say, “we can’t kill the villagers. And we can’t fault you for punishing this particular lot. Indeed, the whole village should be made to pay for how they treated Syrene. The extra acres usually given to villages that give us a sacrifice will be denied to Arkney. And it is only just that her family has no extra land allotment.” I pause. “But I do wish you’d consulted with us before making this decision on your own, Nyron.”

  “No need in scolding me for it after the fact. What’s done is done.” He walks over to me. “You taste her sweetness. You lie between her thighs. You feel your own heart wrench when she cries. Then tell me you wouldn’t burn the world if you thought it would heal her hurt.”

  I can’t help but chuckle and shake my head. I turn to Edrys. “Is this the same Nyron who just days ago advocated bending the reluctant Syrene to our will?”

  Nyron flushes.

  “By the gods,” I laugh. “You’re smitten.”

  “What if I am?” He smiles. “She is captivating. And I don’t regret what I did in Arkney.”

  “Understood,” I concede, “but we all know that we can’t yet divulge what’s been done to Syrene. She does not yet know her lords are the dragons that took her, and even if she did know we punished her family, that will not heal her.” I feel my anger flare at her situation. “How could her father stand by while she was hurt?”

  We sit in silence, reflecting on our mate. Through the walls, I can hear the sounds of feasting. To the lords below, it still seems the first night thanks to the magic of the witches. But it has already been several days for us, and while we are ahead of schedule, I am secretly fretting about my time with Syrene.

  Although I am the oldest, I am the quietest of my brothers. They would never say it to my face, but the servants have nicknamed me the Silent Lord. I tend to think more than speak. I am more cautious, and while I can wield my cock as masterfully as any Drakoryan, it will take more than carnal skill to win a woman like Syrene.

  “What vexes you, brother?” Edrys pours a goblet of wine and hands it to me.

  “He is obviously worried about following me,” Nyron boasts. “I’ve ruined her for the two of you now.”

  Edrys frowns, but I brush aside the boast. “Pride precedes a fall.” I wink, and my brothers laugh, but I know I cannot linger here with them. Even if I wanted to, my body won’t allow it. The prolonged wait has caused a sustained ache not just in my cock; it surges throughout my body. Only the sweet relief found between our mate’s thighs can bring me peace.

  I down my wine and turn my attention to Nyron. “I’m off to my chamber. Do not dally in sending Syrene to me.”

  “He won’t.” Edrys assures me, glancing at Nyron.

  I walk alone to my bedchamber, pondering what lies ahead. I pass servants in the hall. They nod but do not speak as the Silent Lord makes his way up the winding passages and spiraling stairs. Once in my chamber, I stare at my large bed. It’s hung with heavy red velvet drapes, and many a night have I imagined the day when I would take a mate here. I am not only the eldest brother, I am the largest.

  The Silent Lord. The Gentle Giant. Sometimes I feel more comfortable as a dragon, drifting on the wind, than I do as a man communing with others.

  I reflect on what I know my brothers have done for Syrene. Edrys gave her our mother’s comb. He smiled when he spoke about his pride in giving a gift to a woman who has never experienced the joy of another’s generosity. Nyron showed her the Singing Cavern, awakening a sense of wonder. What do I have to give?

  I hear a tentative rap at the door and walk over to open it. She is standing there looking up at me. She is clad in a rose-pink gown. Her feet are bare, her raven tresses hanging around her shoulders like a shiny black mantle. Her eyes are large and curious. My first thought is that she looks like a lost child.

  A lost little girl.

  At that moment, I know what gift I have for Syrene of Arkney. I too, will give her something she never had, something she truly needs.

  Chapter 11

  SYRENE

  He is huge, and when the eldest Lord of Jo’lyn stands aside to silently usher me into his room, I feel a surge of trepidation. His brothers are large, but I have never seen a man his size. His body is solid and firm; the muscles and swells of his chest remind me of small, sun-warmed boulders. His black beard braided to a point. His eyebrows are heavy over deep brown eyes, giving him a fierce appearance. His hair hangs to his shoulders. He is handsome in the way a mountain range is beautiful.

  He is also quiet. “Welcome,” he finally says, and I swallow nervously and nod as I look around his bedchamber, which is large like he is. The bed is as big as a boat. A round iron chandelier hangs overhead. A chain used to raise and lower it runs from the top to a hook on the wall. The candles in the huge fixture cast a golden glow through the room.

  To ease my nervousness, I move to examine my surroundings. I walk to the fireplace and stare at the blaze crackling between two massive dragons-head andirons. I warm my feet on the fur rugs scattered around the stone floor, admire the intricate needlework of a wall tapestry depicting the castle.

  “Our mother made it for me.” Xarsi speaks. “She gave each of us a gift when we got our own castle. This took her a y
ear to make.”

  I reach out my fingers. “May I?” He nods and I touch the stitches, so fine, so delicate.

  “If you’d like, I can have her teach you when she visits.”

  I think on this, his mother teaching me woman’s things. It makes me ache for what I have missed. Xarsi seems to realize this.

  “I’m sorry.” He comes over to me. “I know you lost your mother. I didn’t mean to bring up an old hurt.”

  “It’s not an old hurt,” I say. “It’s more like an ache that never goes away. I have learned to live with it the best I can.” My gaze moves to the mantle. “Is that your sword?”

  “Yes. When a Drakoryan son is in his twelfth year, his father helps him forge his own.”

  “It’s looks heavy.”

  Xarsi moves to the mantle and takes it down. He holds the gilded hilt out to me. He doesn’t say anything, and I know he expects me to take it. I shoot him a dubious look as I accept. It’s heavier than I expected, and a jarring clang echoes through the room as the tip hits the floor. I can’t help but smile.

  “It’s too much for me to lift,” I say.

  He takes it and steps back, lifting it easily. He waves the sword around his head, but I’m not focused on that. I’m focused on the cords of his forearms, the bulges of his smooth biceps shining in the golden light.

  Xarsi puts his hands up and replaces the sword. He keeps his hand on the mantle and puts his head down. Then he turns back to me.

  “I am shy,” he says. “I do not possess my brothers’ gifts— ease of speech and charm. I’m better at observing than conversing. I’ve been observing you.”