by Sharon Page
“He has taken Lucy,” Sinjin roared. He slammed his fist into the end of a wooden shelf. “Where would he take her?”
“If she is not at his official London residence, then he might have taken her to a house he rents on Curzon Street. That is the only other home I know of that he would use.”
“Curzon Street. Thank you.” He turned.
“Wait one moment, my lord,” Guidon called. “I have discovered there is another being who also wants her. Another dragon. His name is Lionel Ferrars.”
Ferrars? That was the surname of her fiancé.
“Tell me about him,” Sinjin said coolly. “Make it swift. I have to get to her.”
Of course she was still naked when she woke. Nude, chained to a bed, and covered only by a scrap of pink satin sheet. Once she would have died of embarrassment and shame. Now, she was just determined to escape.
Lucy strained her arms as hard as she could, but she only pulled her muscles, made the chains rattle, and gained absolutely nothing toward freedom. The collar was hot and itchy at her neck. If only she could get rid of it, she could shift shape and break the chains in seconds. She shook her head, then her shoulders, but that didn’t dislodge the controlling band around her neck. She tried rubbing and banging it against the bed, hoping to break open its clasp.
Again, it didn’t work.
From the bed, she could see both the window and the door. She was in a bedchamber, one with ivory walls. The window was shut, but the black curtains were open. A golden-red hue glowed against the pane. The sun was setting. Was Sinjin still alive? Was he aware the sun was going down and it would soon be night, when it was safe for him to come out? Or was he gone—lost to her forever?
What of James? Was he hurt? Had that monster of a dragon hurt him? Who was the dragon-shifter who had taken him—the man who had looked like Allan but who couldn’t possibly be Allan?
Bound to the bed, Lucy knew she should plan a way to escape, but her mind continually fell back into the same pattern. Her stomach roiled in agony as she worried if Sinjin was dead. She worried about James. She kept trying to figure out who the black dragon was. Could it be someone related to Allan Ferrars? A brother? A cousin?
As time ticked by, she kept forcing her memory to dredge up the face of the man who looked so much like Allan. Were his eyes really exactly the same? The same color? Was the shape of his face an exact match? Or was his jaw heavier, his skin rougher, his nose crooked?
Then she thought of the horrible wounds on Sinjin’s face, and her heart thudded and thundered. She couldn’t even remember how he had been wounded, only that his face had been a striated mess of black burnt areas and red, oozing welts. It made her sick to think of it. It must have been so painful.
The door rattled. She watched the knob turn, the door swing open. She saw the white-blond hair of the prince, then his elegantly dressed body as he came into the room.
Hatred. Fear. Revulsion. Fury at being powerless. Emotions exploded in her, lending her strength, stoking desperation. She tugged as hard as she could on the chains, praying she could pull them free. That she could win.
He crossed his arms over his chest, watching, and an amused smile played on his cold, ruthlessly perfect face. “Stop,” he said, and his voice seemed to echo inside her head. “I have come to unlock you. There is no need to thrash as though you are having a fit. You are to be taken downstairs, where you will wait for your hero to arrive.” His lips split in a leering grin.
“I need clothing.” Really, given what he intended to do to Sinjin, if Sinjin had survived, it hardly mattered.
But he threw something upon the bed. A slither of dark purple silk. “A robe for you. Now I will unlock you, but I warn you not to try to overpower me. Or try to escape.”
Of course she nodded, to show she would behave. As soon as he unlocked both her wrists, she struck at him. She tried to throw all her strength behind the blow. But he caught her fist before it connected with his face.
“Naughty girl. You will be punished later, dragon. After you have done your job and brought Sinjin’s heart to me.”
But Sinjin might not even be alive. Yet she did not say anything to the prince.
Minutes later, bundled in the silk robe, she was being propelled downstairs. Even after just a few hours of being chained, her feet were tingling and half-numb and her legs did not want to move. The prince gripped her arm, forcing her down one step after another. He directed her down a large corridor, one with niches filled with statues, and an ornate ceiling. The painted frescoes showed men battling dragons, and the statues were all of dragon slayers wielding swords.
“Why do you want to kill all of us?”
The demon stopped, apparently astounded by her question. In fact, she had never intended to ask it out loud. It had been a desperate thought in her head and had just slipped out.
He jerked her around to face him. A sneering smile played on his lips. His expression—it looked like the one Jack had worn when he confronted Sinjin in Dartmoor.
The prince lifted his hand. She flinched, expecting a slap. What he did proved far worse. He caressed her cheek, traced her lips with his fingers. Cold fingers—cold, lifeless, unfeeling. His touch made her shudder, made her stomach lurch in revulsion. His eerie eyes glittered like black marble.
But her reaction only widened his smile. “Dragons kill mortals, my dear. It is imperative for humans that they are the strongest creatures on earth. So they chose to prey on the more powerful animals to destroy them: the great cats, bears, wolves . . . and dragons. Humans kill what they fear. They want to eradicate the things that can kill them. They are a lazy species, and for them it is easier to decimate an entire type of animal than it is to be constantly vigilant.”
His index finger stroked her lip, tugging at it. She tried to remain impassive, for she guessed he wanted a reaction. The way Jack used to when he would tease her. “You are not human,” she said coldly. “You are a demon.”
“I am no different from Sinjin. Do you consider him a soulless monster as well?”
He was goading her, she was sure. “That is not true—you are very different from Sinjin. You are heartless.”
“Indeed? As a young man, I was indentured to serve for eternity as a dragon slayer. I did it because dragons killed my family. Just as your kind destroyed Sinjin’s family.”
He wanted to hurt her—he was using those words like a knife, jabbing them into her heart and twisting them.
“But I do not know which dragons did those terrible things,” she said. “I certainly did not do it. I think it is awful. Why should I die because of the actions of some other, brutal dragons?”
“Dragons kill slayers. They do not stop to question the morality of their prey. They just kill.”
“Most dragons don’t kill that way!” she cried. “Of course dragons attack dragon slayers. They do it to save their lives. Just as you would kill a dragon to save your life. Do you not see? It is the fear of an attack that drives each side to kill the other. It should just stop! Surely there could be peace.”
“Not when both sides are living to mete out revenge.” The prince pushed her and continued on down the corridor, his hand at her lower back. “You should be thankful, Lady Lucy. This is what will bring Sinjin to you. His fear that you will die.”
But he might be dead... .
He shoved her and she stumbled against one of a pair of smooth, glossy black-painted doors. “In this room,” the prince said, in a rumbling, accented baritone, “my dragon slayers work off the thrill and heated blood that comes after they have killed a dragon. It is exciting to face such an enormous, dangerous beast, and be the victor. It arouses men incredibly. This is what tempted Sinjin to slay dragons. He got the revenge he craved, and he also received incredible sexual arousal.”
Lucy shuddered, but said defiantly, “I do not believe you. I do not believe he ever felt pleasure over what he did.”
Suddenly the wall pressed into her back. The prince had propelled her
against it. His face hovered in front of her, his lips separated from hers by mere inches. She was trying not to breathe, so she did not smell him—even though he smelled like Sinjin. He smelled of cool crispness. On Sinjin, the scent was alluring. The prince smelled like ice—cold, hard, inhuman.
“Did he tell you what dragons did to his family?” the prince asked.
“Yes,” she began, but he spoke over her, hissing, “Each one was destroyed. He lost his mother, his father, his younger brother, two of his sisters. Only he survived. Along with one sister, who was the mother of his beloved James. She was driven to such madness she took her own life.”
Tears welled as she thought of how much it must have hurt Sinjin to lose her, and in such a way. It must have made him feel so helpless. No wonder James had been so wounded by grief. He had lost his father, and his mother had not been willing to live for him.
“You can guess at the torment he must feel—caring for you and hating you,” the prince went on, like a serpent hissing and spitting venom. “Each time he is with you, he must remember how it felt to be pursued by a dragon. He told me everything. How monstrous and terrifying the dragons looked. How he saw his younger brother be caught and killed.”
His words fell on her like blows. What was truly in Sinjin’s heart every time he was with her? Was it pain? Did he think of all he had lost when he saw her? He had kissed her and made love to her, he had told her he adored her, but was it the truth? Was he being honest about what he truly felt? The prince’s words were what she feared—that she would constantly remind Sinjin of all he had lost.
“His mother begged for the lives of her children. She sobbed and pleaded, but she was killed anyway. His father tried to fight to protect Sinjin and his brother and sisters, but a dragon slashed his heart out with one swipe of claw. That is what you will remind him of. Always.”
The prince shouted out a curt word. She did not understand it—it was not English—but it was obviously a command as the door flew open at once.
After the brothel, she thought she could not be shocked. She was wrong. This was not like the lighthearted, playful dancing that had led to the orgy in the brothel’s ballroom. Darkness permeated the room, despite all the burning lamps. The room was hot, steamy, and smelled of sweat. The glow was golden but it was not a warm, welcoming, mellow gleam—it was the type of garish coloring that should be cast by the fires of hell.
The room was dark, paneled with black wood, filled with settees and chaises covered in black silk. Women were everywhere in the room. Naked women. But all the ones Lucy could see were bound. Their hands tied at the wrists, their legs tied at the ankles. Some were balanced on their forearms and knees with their bottoms in the air. Others were tied to chaises. Some were standing upright, but their bonds were hooked to eyelets that hung from the ceiling. There were men, of course. Fully dressed or half-naked, the men smacked the women’s bottoms with whips, or they held flat, round paddles and used those to spank the fleshy, jiggling rumps.
Squeals, throaty moans, and sobbing, agonized groans filled the room.
Then she glimpsed the faces of some of the men. Recoiling, she tried to step back, but the prince’s hand was at her back, forcing her to stay put.
They looked ... driven by something wild and awful. They barely looked human. Their eyes were bright and filled with lust. Their faces were distorted, their mouths open, demonic grins twisting their lips. They were panting as they delivered blow after blow to the women.
They looked like monsters. Like she imagined vampires would be—treating humans like insignificant prey. Something to consume, destroy, throw away.
Sinjin was not like this.
He could never have been like this. Could he?
“Yes, Sinjin has been here.” The prince wore a leering grin. “He is notorious for his skill with a whip. Shall I ask some of the women to describe the things he has done?”
“N-no.” Then Lucy cringed at the quake in her tone. He would know how devastated she was.
But Sinjin would not do this now. Perhaps he was like one of these slayers before, but he had changed now. She was certain of it.
Yet her heart still felt heavy. It felt as though it was turning to ice. How could he ever have done this? How could he believe that hurting others would make up for losing his family?
“Would you care to join them?” the prince asked, his tone insolent and goading.
She drew herself up, and coldly informed him, “If you are planning to whip me, I would suggest you do not try. If you do, I will hurt you.”
His laugh boomed out. “There is nothing, sweet nymph, you can do. I think it is time to show you what dragon slayers are truly like.”
The prince whistled and footmen sprang forward. Two grasped her by her arms and dragged her across the floor. They wound through the various scenes of domination, and as they passed, the male dragon slayers stopped their work and stared at her.
Several left their bound partners and followed.
Heavens, no. She twisted in the confining grip of the two young, strong footmen. The prince was behind her, smiling and ... and humming a melancholy tune that sounded like a dirge, though he looked incredibly pleased. Six men trotted behind him. Two were dressed in gentlemanly attire, two were wearing the rough-looking clothes of tradesmen, and two wore nothing but their trousers and boots.
All looked large, strong, intimidating. Four carried whips. The two bare-chested ones had riding crops.
God, no.
If only she could get this thing off her neck. For she could guess what was going to happen. She was going to be tied up and whipped and struck. Perhaps raped also. The prince obviously wanted to torture, abuse, debase her so much she would pray for death. The odds were that she would not survive the night.
If only she could get the collar off. But the prince had bound her hands together at her wrists. He had done a thorough job of tying them up. She’d wriggled and struggled, but couldn’t loosen the rope.
The footmen pushed her into a second room, a smaller one. A fire burned in here, along with lamps, but it was empty. A smooth black wall, one covered in a stone that shone like obsidian, ran the length of the room. She was pushed to it. Then the footmen took gold chains from the wall and secured them to her collar. It was so close to her, she could not see how the chains attached.
The servants left her. Footsteps approached. A male chuckle fell over her—was it the prince? She didn’t know, but hands grasped the belt of her robe and tore it in two. It fell away, her robe fell open, then it was whisked off her. Even though her hands were bound, the robe came off. With a loud rending sound, it tore at the seams, then fell to a warm puddle at her feet.
Behind her, men drank in sharp, appreciative breaths. One let out a low whistle. Again, footsteps approached her. Something tapped her bottom lightly, something hard. It made her fleshy cheeks jiggle.
“Voluptuous, and lovely. Unwilling, I take it?” The voice was hoarse, gravelly, and one she did not recognize.
“This one is a dragon. A strong and very beautiful dragon.”
Murmurs fell over the men behind her. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, her heart thudded with fear. There had to be a way to get at the collar, but her hands were tied behind her back.
“Step aside, Roberts. I will be the one to begin. I want the first strike.”
A boot landed heavily on the floor, something whistled through the air, then snapped against her high back, above her hands. Stinging pain lanced her. She screamed. God, dear God, she had never known anything like this.
“Too hard,” another man shouted. “We want her to last.”
“Just a few to soften her up. To get her blood running.”
The lash of the whip had been unbelievably strong... . It wouldn’t take long before it would cleave her flesh open. It was strong enough to—was it strong enough to break through metal? Even a magical type of metal?
She heard the whistle and she dropped at the last instant, tugging the
gold chains to their limits. The lash smacked against the collar around her neck. It slammed the metal against her flesh then she heard a slight crack. The collar sprang open and dropped free.
“What the bloody hell—?” shouted the prince, his voice an enraged bark.
The instant she felt the collar give, Lucy summoned the change. Her body wriggled, stretched, heated to burning, and transformed, all in a heartbeat of time. Larger and larger she grew, her dragon’s body filling the small room. Her arms broke the bonds and were free as they changed. The dragon slayers were armed with only whips and crops, and they lashed her with harsh, wild strokes, but the devices made no impact on her shimmering scales. They were trying to beat her, trying to wound her.
She craned her head and blew a breath of fire at them. Two of the men were in the path of the flames and they stumbled back. Fire licked at the furnishings, and a chair seat caught. The men ignored it—two ran for the door, shouting for weapons.
She swung her tail, hoping to knock them down. She caught one, but the other escaped. Then she lashed her tail to and fro as the remaining men whipped her mercilessly.
She charged for the window. If she could break through it, she could fly to freedom. Behind her, something released with a twang. She lunged forward, but not fast enough. An arrow drove into the back of her dragon leg.
Another arrow shot, and she snapped her wings to avoid it. The wound slowed her and the pain hammered in her brain. Lucy fought toward the window, but more arrows came—a volley of them. Some bounced off her scales. One ripped through her wings again. Another hit her arm.
She was slowing. There was something about these arrows. Some kind of magic or potion or poison. Her muscles were seizing.
The window was only yards away. She flung herself forward, but a huge black shape appeared in the window. It was the black dragon, with James held in his claws. His huge wings beat as he hovered in front of the window. Then he rushed forward, and broke the window with one of his wings, smashing all the glass out, so it fell like raindrops. Through the opening, he flew with James, landing in the room. In an instant, he transformed back into the shape of a man.
