Dark Dragon's Desire (Dragongrove Book 4)

by Imogen Sera

  She tried to spend time with the other ladies, especially since Maggie had brought five more women with her, but she couldn’t ever shake the feeling of being slightly different, of being an outsider allowed to witness certain interactions. More often than not she just sat back and observed, afraid of accidentally causing offense to someone. She spent many days as she currently was: in the queen’s parlor, pretending to read a book that was spread across her lap, full of words far too long for her to understand.

  She was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of laughing at the wrong moment or not laughing enough. She missed Tarquin in moments like this; missed the fact that she’d been able to talk and laugh easily with him. Then she’d remember why she couldn’t, she’d think of Aurelia and how much she envied a dead woman, and then she’d hate Tarquin some more.

  The wedding was planned to be three months after Maggie and her friends had arrived at the palace, and Mira bit her tongue painfully when she’d unconsciously opened her mouth to comment on how soon that was. The months had passed quickly, especially because Ingrid had announced new requirements for women who wished to live in the palace: self defense training. They couldn’t— wouldn’t be permitted to live here in this dangerous land without any hope of defending themselves from dragons. Mira had tried not to roll her eyes, but wasn’t sure if she’d been successful when Lily gave her a look.

  Each woman had been scheduled to have a preliminary lesson with the old mage who looked after the palace, to see if there were any potential for them to perform magic. Mira knew that the queen had been training with him, had heard rumors that she’d blocked her mate’s dragonfire to save her own life, and while the thought was interesting to Mira, she knew before she stepped foot in the mage’s tower that she would be hopeless.

  The mage had declared her worthless upon setting eyes on her, and over the next several hours she had indeed proven herself to be.

  “Not a single inkling of magic in you, not one tiny scrap of anything special at all,” she mimicked to the ladies after her lesson was finished. She laughed at it, threw her head back, but couldn’t help the odd disappointment that settled over her. It hadn’t been a complete loss as far as finding new trainees, Ingrid had been excited to share. Two of the people who’d come with Maggie had shown potential: Magda, her mother, and Elisabeth, a girl of eleven who’d come with her sisters.

  The rest would need to learn archery, they’d been informed, and when Mira questioned the use of an arrow against a fire breathing dragon the size of a house, Ingrid had reassured her.

  “We have magic, Mira. Morwich is working on it.”

  Mira was as worthless at archery as she’d been at anything remotely magical, she had to admit to herself after several weeks of daily practice. Tarquin had begun to attend almost every day, close enough to Mira to tease her about her form or pester her about her terrible aim, but not close enough that she could make him shut up by telling him the filthy things she would do to him later. So she had to content herself with telling him off as politely as she possibly could while trying not to make the other ladies suspect anything. He didn’t seem to care if anyone knew about their nighttime meetings anymore, and that made her want to guard the secret even more.

  “Fuck off,” she spat at him before he could say anything, after an arrow fell to the ground at her feet. It had been weeks, and even tiny Olive had figured out how to shoot at least near the target. Mira wasn’t used to being so terrible at something with no way to hide it. It certainly didn’t help that the man assigned to instruct them, Berric, had been chosen because he’d learned once, in his childhood, and they were learning from a book. Dragons didn’t seem to need to be able to fire a puny arrow because, she thought again, they were dragons.

  Mira had pointed this out constantly, but although the ladies had grumbled along with her, no one seemed to want to cave on the issue. She knew the queen just felt helpless about the women being defenseless, and she harbored no ill will over it, but that didn’t help the exasperation she felt each morning as she woke early and dressed for it.

  The worst mornings were the ones when Tarquin was still in her bed. She didn’t want him there, and the first time he’d fallen asleep after having her she’d tried to wake him to no avail, although she wasn’t sure if he was a heavy sleeper or just pretending to be. He’d been more persistent with his affectionate touches, and although she’d tried to shake him off as best as she could, he still would brush his thumb across her cheek or kiss her forehead when she wasn’t vigilant.

  She sat on her terrace and considered him while holding a cup of tea brewed in her stolen— was it possible to steal from the dead?— teapot. It was a cold night, freezing really, she thought as she watched her breath form a puff of fog and then disappear in front of her. It almost hurt to breathe, but around her was a heavy fur cloak, the hood drawn tight around her face, and above her, a million tiny twinkling lights that made her feel less alone. It hurt to breathe, but at least she could breathe out here. She glanced at the door to her room, her haven, and the light from the hearth illuminated it well enough that she could see that he was still there, sprawled across her bed in sleep. It annoyed her.

  When he slept in her bed he always, always tried to hold her as he slept, but she’d managed to wriggle away each time. She rose from her seat with a sigh, then gathered all of her blankets, leaving him none, and made a little nest to sleep in on the settee.

  He was gone when she awoke in her cocoon of blankets, and before she remembered to be pleased, she was sorry.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tarquin found that he no longer cared what anyone thought about his strange situation with Mira. Including, most surprisingly to him, what Aurelia might have thought had she been able to make her feelings known. He supposed that maybe that had something to do with it— if he was honest with himself, he knew she wouldn’t have wanted him sulking and miserable forever. He wouldn’t have wanted that for her.

  Mira had pulled away, hard, despite the fact that he frequently found her studying him from across the dinner table or archery field. There was heat in her gaze, but no warmth. He found every possible excuse that he could to spend time with her. They were still having sex, daily, and although he was pretty sure that stopping that would be safer, he couldn’t keep himself from her. Not when it was the only way she allowed him to touch her.

  Caelian’s wedding was fast approaching, and try as Tarquin might, he genuinely couldn’t understand the point of the ridiculous ceremony. They were mates, and therefore bound together in a bond that could never be broken; a human ceremony could do nothing further. He was surprised to learn it had been Caelian who had pushed for it.

  He’d shrugged away Tarquin’s questioning. “She’s human,” is all he’d said.

  Mira and Tarquin stood side by side on the landing above the ballroom, overlooking the dancing and festivities below. Mira leaned against the railing, her chin in her hand and her skirt billowing behind her.

  Tarquin gestured toward the crowd. “We could—”

  “Don’t you fucking dare ask me to dance,” she said, not looking at him, and without any real force.

  He didn’t respond, just turned his attention to the people below.

  There was a pregnant silence between them before Mira broke it. “What was she like?” she asked for what must have been the millionth time.

  He studied her face for a minute. He was struck, as he had been many times before, by how different she was from Aurelia. Aurelia had been beautiful, so beautiful that she turned heads of people she’d never spoken to, without any effort or knowledge that it was happening. Mira hadn’t turned his head, not at first, but each time he looked at her, he liked her more. Her face wasn’t particularly special, but it had become dear to him over the months he’d spent studying her: her deep eyes, her cold complexion, the way her nose wrinkled whenever he said something she didn’t like. Aurelia had had the warm, constant beauty of the sun, Mira had the cool, ethereal aloofness
of the moon.

  Her expression was different than he’d seen in a long time. It bothered him to talk about, but it was unfair for her to never know, especially with the growing… something between them. “It was,” he said, pausing to thing of the word, “consuming. I had no control of myself, of how I felt. It was unsettling. Not like this.” He gestured between them. “This is easy. This is how I like it.”

  “You like this?” she asked, surprise on her face. “It doesn't constantly make you want to jump out the nearest window to end it all?”

  He watched her intently. “I hardly think my jumping out a window would end me,” he said wryly.

  “Well I want to. I hate this.” She looked up. “I hate you.”

  “I know,” he said.

  Mira sighed heavily, then turned from him and stared back at the dancers below. “I asked what she was like.”

  He gazed down to the dancers below, where their king and queen were standing together, laughing. He glanced back at Mira and her face was creased with suspicion.

  “You’re jealous. You’re in love with Ingrid.”

  He laughed out loud at that. “I like Ingrid; I think she’s an excellent queen and I admire her. But do you think if I were capable of ever loving anyone other than—” he paused, “—that it would be my brother’s mate?”

  Mira stood frozen, her expression unreadable. “Please tell me about her.”

  Tarquin looked thoughtful, not taking his eyes from Ingrid and Helias on the floor below. “Do you know what I admire about Ingrid?”

  Mira just watched him.

  “She knows better than to meddle in other people’s business.”

  “It’s a pity Aurelia’s dead,” said Mira, shooting him a venomous look. “I’m sure she’d appreciate what a miserable jackass you’ve become.”

  Tarquin paused for a minute, didn’t look at her, only stared at the dance below. “I’ve always been a miserable jackass,” he said finally, faint amusement in his eyes. When he looked up, though, he could only see the swish of Mira’s ridiculous skirt, already across the hall and disappearing around the corner.

  Mira avoided him for a month. He slipped into the seat beside her at dinner, and before she was finished eating his fingers had tentatively touched hers, then run across her palm. She pulled her hand back above the table and angled herself away from him. She wanted to get up, to storm off, but she didn’t want him to take it as the usual invitation to follow her. So she sat there, ignoring the place on her palm that still burned, pretending to be engrossed by whatever Lily was chattering about.

  He found her on the archery field, struggling as much as she ever had, and she ignored the barbed words he playfully tossed at her. The look on his face, confusion and then… nothing, made her feel bad for a moment. Then he stalked away and she remembered her reasons and hated him some more.

  She started to find safe seats between people, or come late for meals when she could find a place far from where Tarquin was already seated. He wasn’t stupid, though, and after several days, seemed to have given up trying. The strangest thing was how much that disappointed her.

  Her days were much longer without their encounters to look forward to each night, but she spent an increasing amount of time with the women at court. Her comfort with the lovely, socially graceful women wasn’t increasing, but she could usually find a quiet corner and pretend to read to pass the time. She was even slowly improving. She put as much time as she could into archery, and she was surprised at how much Berric had been able to help her. Although she was still a miserable shot she was soon able to at least get the arrow across the field, most of the time. She found that she enjoyed the company of the handsome instructor, even if he was a little friendly for her tastes.

  The more time that passed, the less she saw of Tarquin, rarely even seeing him across the room at meal times, and she tried to convince herself that it was a good thing. She tried not to miss the way his hands felt on her, or his mouth, or even his obnoxious, constant presence. When she went to bed alone every night, and woke up alone every morning, she tried not to remember how he’d clearly pretended to sleep to stay in her bed with her, and how warm and solid and constant he’d been next to her on the nights that she’d allowed it. When she struggled with moving a vanity she’d found from an abandoned room into hers, she tried not to think about his bemused smile when he’d helped her move her big chair, or the way that he hadn’t judged her at all when she’d shown him her collection of dead people’s belongings.

  Eventually she wondered why she didn’t want him anymore, and was forced to admit to herself that she did want him, and that was the entire problem. He’d said himself that he was entirely incapable of ever loving again, and although Mira had never thought herself to be the kind of woman who would need a declaration of love, the opposite had hurt her. She’d tried so hard to detach affection from sex, and thought for a time that they could both be satisfied if there were no feelings involved, but as they continued the ache in her hurt more and more that she could never be anything to him other than just… the woman he slept with. Not even slept with, she thought wryly, thanks to her propensity to kick him out of bed.

  But she got through her days, slowly; got through her weeks, torturously. And after four weeks of pretending to be quiet and polite so as to not offend the other ladies, and four weeks of missing someone who lived under the same roof but was increasingly absent, and four weeks of wondering why the hell she was still at the palace, she crawled into bed and wished that she was anywhere else.

  Mira spent a long afternoon outdoors with Lily and Elsie. It was an unlikely group; Lily chattered the day away while Elsie nodded along, keeping a careful distance from Mira. Elsie seemed to have a particular dislike for Mira. She didn’t know why, but each time she spoke, Elsie’s eyes would widen to watch her warily.

  It was nice, though, aside from that. Spring hadn’t yet begun, and that particular day was the first sunny one after a week straight of rain. The ground was soaked enough that Mira had walked out of her shoes right away, so she carried them and grimaced at the mud that squished between her toes. Lily managed to gracefully maneuver the ground in her very high heels, and Elsie trudged through slowly, determined to not take her slightly more sensible shoes off. Dragons soared overhead, and Mira kept a watchful eye skyward. She didn’t see the black wings she’d been looking for all day; she also wanted to have plenty of warning in case a sentry decided to land and force them back to the palace.

  They were skipping archery practice, and it was divine. Lily had been the one to suggest it, which had surprised Mira, but it seemed that she hated it almost as much as Mira. Lily tolerated it more cheerfully— for Ingrid’s sake, Mira supposed. Elsie had overheard their plotting and begged to come with them; that didn’t surprise Mira, she’d been reduced to tears by Berric several times in just the last week. He wasn’t a harsh instructor, but Elsie apparently couldn’t handle criticism at all.

  When they reached the far side of the lake, Mira plopped onto the ground, pleased that the grass cushioned the mud well enough to not cover her bottom in it. Elsie sat next to her, eyeing her as she did, and Mira tried her hardest not to roll her eyes. More friends at the palace would be nice, she supposed, but she didn’t understand how she was supposed to make them when half of the ladies hated her and the other half had such tightly wound friendships already that Mira was only ever included at Lily’s insistence.

  She ignored that though, and tilted her head back to the sun as Lily talked.

  “I suppose I should have told John what I was doing,” she laughed, “although I don’t know if it matters much regardless. He’s been so busy helping the king that I don’t know if he’ll even notice.”

  “Is he enjoying that?” asked Mira.

  “I think he’s happy to be busy,” she said. “I love it here and I want to stay, but I just don’t know if he does. I’m hoping his new role will help with that.”

  Mira could use a new role, she
thought. A life of whiling away time wasn’t for her; she’d gotten to the point where she’d considered returning to the farm. She’d dismissed the thought each time it came up, but still— having a purpose would make her feel so much more useful; like maybe there was a place in the world for her.

  It didn’t help that she hadn’t seen Tarquin in nearly a week. She thought that he might have left the palace for good, and the thought made her heart hurt. She also didn’t dare ask anyone where he might be, so she spent a few days in misery— misery that he was gone, misery speculating that he would be gone forever, and misery because she was too stubborn and too embarrassed to just ask Lily or Ingrid. They would know where he was.

  It wasn’t as if she were spending time with him, but something about knowing he was there helped her to feel more at home. His presence was comforting.

  And that thought bothered her. She’d cut contact with him, she’d intended to be done with him, but he was still a constant presence in her head. She hadn’t seen him in a week, hadn’t spoken to him in over a month, and hadn’t touched him for even longer than that. He was just— unreachable. If there hadn’t been the constant presence of his dead mate, if there were any chance that he wouldn’t saddle himself to that for the rest of his life, then she would have gone to him and told him he was being stupid and that she would be right there, waiting, for him to get over himself and want her, too. As it was, though, it was hopeless. And that pained her, because she was always, always hoping for something better.