by Imogen Sera
Mira nodded; the thought pleased her. Her room had seemed nice, certainly nicer than anything she’d been accustomed to at home, and on par with her room at Dragongrove, but if Lily insisted that there were nicer rooms then she was happy to explore and find them.
She sat up straight, up from where she leaned on her headboard, then fell back again, her head still foggy. Perhaps she would explore later.
“I should let you get a bit more rest,” Lily said. “But I think you’ll be in excellent shape by this evening.”
Mira smiled faintly as Lily rose to leave. She breezed out as easily as she’d drifted in.
Once the door was open she heard Lily’s faint voice. “Oh, hi Tarquin.”
The door was shut then, and Mira fell back onto her pillow. He was outside of her room. She wished he would come in.
He didn’t though, which was probably for the best, she thought to herself. He’d kissed her and it had thoroughly confused her and awoken something in her that she hadn’t known was there. But he hadn’t been particularly kind about it, and as she thought about him and the way he’d always stared so hatefully at her, but never acknowledged her otherwise, she was newly grateful that he hadn’t come in. She didn’t want him to.
She couldn’t forget his touch though, and as she tried to settle back into her bed all she could feel were his warm hands on her face and his hot breath on her neck. So she resolved to stand, slowly and on wobbling legs. If she could stand then she could walk, and if she could walk then she could explore the palace and find a room more suitable for herself.
She would have a new room, far from his, where he wouldn’t coincidentally be just outside of hers.
Mira moved slowly through the maze of abandoned rooms, pausing often to catch her breath. It was wonderful, though, sorting through so many choices and forgotten things.
Every female shifter had died without warning nearly nine years before, and it seemed that most of the belongings left behind had been stored in this particular wing of the palace. Mira adored each item she came across, and after contemplating a small locket for a moment she pocketed it. The owner was long dead, and besides, it was forgotten here. Surely it would see better use with a new owner who would treasure it.
She found a few things she liked as she moved from room to room, and before long she was no longer considering the rooms themselves but the things inside of them. She found a tea set with pink flowers and tiny blue buds that enchanted her; she didn’t take it with her, but she mentally noted where it was and promised herself that she’d come back for it later. By the afternoon she carried with her a pair of cream colored gloves, a silver ring with a large ruby set in the middle, and a tiny music box that played a song she faintly recognized.
When she entered the room at the end of the long corridor she’d been wandering down, she forgot to even check it for things she might like. They didn’t matter; the room was perfect. It was massive, which she didn’t particularly care about, but when she checked in the attached bathroom she found a huge marble soaking tub. The best feature, though, and the reason she needed it, was the door out to a small private balcony. When she stepped out onto it she was surprised at how high up she was— she hadn’t remembered climbing that many stairs— but that was also in the room’s favor. She could be out here and nobody would be able to see her.
The door was flanked by floor to ceiling windows that were covered by gauzy curtains, which were long enough to pool elegantly on the floor. The floor was white marble, the walls were light and cheerful, and the bed was huge, comfortable, and dusty. Everything in the room was covered in a fine layer of dust, and as she had no supplies for cleaning it she searched through the closet and found the least fine of the gowns hanging there. She used it to wipe everything down as well as she could, and by the time she was finished she was thoroughly exhausted.
She stood on the balcony, leaning against the railing and memorizing her new favorite view. The palace was surrounded by lush gardens and a small lake, but beyond that there wasn’t anything, really. Nothing beyond gently rolling hills and as much green as she’d ever cared to see.
That was where she was when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and the suddenness of it sent her heart racing. Her heartbeat didn’t slow at all when she whirled around and saw who was behind her.
His fingers went to her chin and tilted her face up to him. When his lips pressed to hers it was gentle, almost sweet, but then their tongues tangled together, and the steady heat that hadn’t yet left Mira from their first kiss began to build again. His hands had remained on her face, the first time, but now they were everywhere. They were massive and warm, even through her gown, and when he gripped her by her lower back and pulled her closer to him, she couldn’t suppress the shudder that swept through her. She was mindful not to say his name, not to make any noise, since when she’d whispered it last time was when he’d ended the kiss. She moaned quietly, though, not in control of herself, and that didn’t seem to bother him at all.
His arm stayed around her back, but with his other hand he caressed along her jaw, and then her neck, and then her collarbones. She silently willed him to touch lower, to cup her breasts; she knew she wouldn’t stop him if he did. He didn’t, though, but splayed his hand wide over her exposed skin, his palm resting on the hollow at the base of her throat. His mouth left hers, and then his heated lips kissed down her jaw and then her neck, following the path his fingers had made. She wanted more— anything— but he didn’t seem willing to give her that, and at least she had the presence of mind to not rub desperately against him.
She looked down at him as his tongue traced along her collarbones, and found his eyes already on her face. His gaze was scorching; she knew right away that the image would be seared in her mind forever. His tongue dipping out to lick her bare skin, his eyes hot on hers. His hands were tight on her hips, gripping her roughly, and she thought without them she might fall over.
His tongue trailed over her chest one last time, and then he pulled away and stood to his full height, towering over her. His hands were still on her hips, and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his still-heated one.
He released her a second later, and she wasn’t sure if she was disappointed at the lack of contact or pleased to feel momentarily in control of herself again.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her brows furrowed, when her breathing had slowed and she could think again.
He shrugged. “You weren’t in your room.”
That wasn’t what she had meant at all, and she felt confident that he knew that. “This is my room,” she said, glaring up at him.
“You chose a room in a deserted wing populated solely by dead people’s belongings?” he asked, and then shook his head. “Of course you did.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but instead she crossed her new room and opened the door to the corridor, sweeping her arm out in a gesture for him to leave.
When she returned from breakfast the next morning, she found that someone had put a small table and chair on her balcony.
CHAPTER THREE
Mira settled into a dull kind of routine at the palace. It was a life free from responsibilities, free from worries, but before too long she found herself restless and searching for… more. Her first days she’d spent in the queen’s parlor, where the queen’s ladies-in-waiting along with Lily gathered daily. They played cards and practiced instruments and painted landscapes, but Mira found herself frustrated with the endless passing of time. Nothing they did mattered, nothing was important; their days only existed to be whiled away.
She found she enjoyed meal times at the palace. They were a big, mostly informal affair with a large table that all of the nobility gathered around without a care as to who sat where. She never spoke at the table, would have hardly known what to say, but it provided her a few minutes a day when she was able to observe the other dragon shifters. They were all huge, and nearly all handsome, and Mira wondered not for the first time about what
the females must have looked like. Lovely, she was sure. As she glanced down the table to where the ladies sat, each beautiful in their own way, each chatting easily and laughing prettily, she knew it wasn’t the dead female shifters who made her feel inadequate.
Tarquin sat next to her frequently at meal times, which to a sharp-eyed observer would be the only sign that they were anything more than acquaintances. He never spoke to her, always turned his attention the other direction or else ate silently, but under the table, his foot would nudge hers, or his leg would press into her, or, rarely, he’d run his fingers over her palm until she was covered in goosebumps. She wasn’t sure why she was alright with being his secret; she wasn’t even sure why she was a secret. It made her angry sometimes, when she was alone in bed, but never angry enough to pull away when he kissed her, never angry enough to demand answers before he ran his hands all over her.
He was rarely away from Ingrid’s side which Mira suspected had something to do with Helias still being missing. He did steal away sometimes, though, and he always found her. If she was with the ladies she’d excuse herself after a few minutes, and meet him in the hallway, and grip his arm tight and pull him somewhere private. He seemed to especially like when she was alone and hadn’t yet noticed his entrance. He would stand right behind her, press his hard body against her back, wind his arms around her middle and breathe in her neck until she was breathless and dizzy.
She enjoyed their little interludes, despite the unfilled ache he left whenever they were finished, despite the way she questioned herself endlessly about why she was accepting the situation with no answers from him.
She knew Lily suspected something between them, perhaps because of the way he’d been lurking outside her door that one day, perhaps because Lily was the one who’d taken care of a shocked Mira after she’d first seen him. She appreciated Lily’s discretion in the matter, but not the endless, suggestive questions.
“He seems… fond of you,” Lily said carefully, one afternoon, while they sat alone in the Queen’s parlor. The other ladies were blissfully absent, perhaps finally attending to the queen, Mira thought unkindly.
“I don’t think that’s true.” Mira kept her face impassive. It wasn’t a lie.
Lily continued. “I’m sure it’s hard for him, after losing his mate. Ingrid’s having a hard enough time, goodness knows, and at least she knows that Helias is alive.”
“I didn’t know that,” Mira said, her cheeks coloring despite her best efforts. “I don’t know why I didn’t know that.”
“Hmm,” was all Lily said, scrutinizing Mira’s face. She brightened then a rose to fetch a pack of cards. “Want to practice?” she asked. “I’m really tired of losing to Vivian.”
Mira nodded, unable to form words after the revelation. He’d had a mate.
The next time Tarquin found her, she’d been digging through a traveling trunk in a bedroom in her corridor. It was, indeed, her corridor, completely uninhabited otherwise. She’d found a glittery, flat pair of shoes, which were much too small, and a wide-brimmed hat which she’d immediately put on her head and worn while she continued her search.
She’d been thinking about his mate, wondering incessantly about her. She didn’t know much about mates, but she knew that they were a big deal among the dragon shifters. Ingrid being Helias’s mate was the reason that she was not just queen, but queen regnant. If the fates had assigned her as his mate then surely she was fit to rule, and that truth had been so ingrained into the culture that not a single person had objected.
Mira didn’t necessarily disagree with the idea, still, it seemed like a lot of faith to put in something that seemed so mysterious.
So when she felt hot lips against her neck, a hand lifting her hat from her head, and heard a dark chuckle from behind her, she resolved that she needed to ask Tarquin about his mate. It bothered her that they’d been doing this… thing for weeks, and he had never once mentioned something that was surely such an integral part of him.
He turned her to face him, and then his lips were hard and hot against hers. The feel of them had become familiar, like the feel of his hands running over her exposed skin, and the feel of his shoulders under her fingertips. Familiar, but no less torturous.
“Wait,” she said as she pressed her hand against his chest.
He pulled away immediately and dropped his hands from her sides, a questioning look in his eyes.
She looked up at him helplessly. She didn’t want to ask this now, but she was never with him otherwise. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I heard you had a mate,” she said. “Tell me about her?”
The look he shot her was vicious. “I have a mate,” he snarled. “Her being dead doesn’t make her not mine.”
She shrank back. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just—”
He was already across the room, though, and as he disappeared through the door, he didn’t look back once.
He didn’t stay away for long, because that same afternoon he found her again and kissed her hard, kissed her until she was sure her lips were bruised and knew that she would feel him there later. She let him; she enjoyed it as much as she’d ever enjoyed the slow, delicious torture, but she hadn’t dared to ask about his mate.
It drove her crazy though, and she speculated endlessly about the mysterious woman’s beauty, and her kindness, and her character. The more she thought, the more she was sure that she’d been perfect— perfect and nothing at all like Mira. Because the more that Tarquin came to see her, the more he touched her and kissed her and licked at her skin, the more sure she was that she was just a vessel, something for him to pour his feelings into. He never, ever acknowledged her in public, except to sneer, and even shy Elsie had mentioned that Tarquin seemed to have a particular dislike for her.
She was unsettled enough in her situation to conclude that she’d need to do one of two things: ask him again about his mate or end their tenuous arrangement.
The thought of ending it was unbearable to her. Palace life had become drudgery and her short encounters with Tarquin made her days bearable, so the next time he found her she asked again.
“Please,” she said. “I just want to know her name. Anything.”
“No,” he snarled, but he didn’t leave, just covered the question forming on her lips with his.
So she’d asked again the next time, and received the same answer. It became part of their routine, with him occasionally telling her no as soon as she opened her mouth at all.
She was glad that she could ask, but she didn’t know how to make him answer.
CHAPTER FOUR
As Tarquin’s hands ran down Mira’s sides, promising more— but never, ever delivering— she idly wondered how he’d found her there. She was in another deserted part of the castle, this one an area that had seemingly housed servants. The rooms were small, the mattresses filled with straw instead of feathers, and the furnishings were plain and purely functional. She already preferred searching here to the other rooms in her corridor, though. Instead of painted portraits, she found scribbled drawings; instead of expensive tomes, a deeply creased letter.
She wasn’t sure how he’d managed to sniff her out, there, in the far-flung reaches of the palace, but she didn’t care, not when his breath was hot on her neck and his hands caressed the small of her back. Lower, she willed him, pressing up against him, catching his lips with hers and demanding with her tongue that he give her more, more than this slow torture that they repeated several times a day without release or an end in sight.
She wanted to fuck him, her virginity be damned, and knew she would if he ever trailed his lips from the hollow of her throat down to her breasts, or if his hands ever descended just a bit more to cup her ass and haul her against him. He wouldn’t, though. He’d brushed off her advances every time she tried to take it further, every time her hand slid in the collar of his shirt so she could feel his bare flesh— just a sliver. But he continued to kiss her like this, to run his l
ips and hands over every part of her that wasn’t covered in clothing, until she spent time each morning before dressing, considering which gown exposed the most skin.
He pulled away from her abruptly, stopping himself like he always did, when she began to feel his arousal pushing against her. He leaned over her, into her, his forehead pressed to hers. She could scarcely breathe and hardly stand, all because of the need pulsing between her legs, begging to be sated.
He fingered the tips of her black hair, hanging between her breasts. “You always have this up,” he said. “I like it down.”
And then he turned from the room without another word, and disappeared as he always did, leaving her hot and wild with need. She sat on the lumpy mattress and breathed deeply, slowly, regaining control over her body. She hated him, she thought to herself for the millionth time, hated him for always going but craved the way his hands felt on her, the way his mouth opened her up and coaxed out tiny noises laced with need.
