by Ophelia Bell
Suddenly his grandmother appeared before him with a butcher knife. She grabbed his hand and made a swift cut, then grabbed Lukas’s and did the same. Time seemed to slow, the sounds of the city outside deepening and his own heartbeat a heavy bass beat in his ears. Before Iszak had a chance to process her movements, his grandmother wrenched his hand and smacked his palm against his brother’s.
“Find her. Protect my grandchild at all costs.”
He gripped his brother’s hand and latched onto the bond with Belah that had all but disappeared since she’d been taken. The thread was faint, but grew stronger with each second. The rhythmic ticking of his grandmother’s ancient clock filled his ears, each beat seeming to strengthen their connection to Belah. Somewhere in the background another beat emerged, and the harder he listened, the more the room around him faded.
Iszak recognized the pulling sensation he’d experienced when Marcus had carried them here, but this time it was even stronger, with a sharp, almost painful tugging centered at his navel. The room disappeared into darkness and vertigo hit, but he managed to remain focused on the bond to his mate, as well as the painful throb of the cut on his hand where his brother still held tight.
Light returned with a sudden, searing glare. Iszak’s stomach lurched, but once more he found himself able to control his nausea. The world swayed around him and the steady ticking was back. The rhythmic beat was so loud in his ears it rivaled Ozzie’s bass drum.
Gradually, the sound faded to a slow tap-tap-tap, and he hazarded a look.
Lukas stood beside him, his eyes still clenched shut, his hand still gripping Iszak’s. Between them, their hands were coated with blood, the red fluid dripping softly onto the soapstone floor.
On the other side of Lukas was the corner of the penthouse where Iszak had knelt earlier that night and lost the contents of his stomach, only the puddle he’d left behind wasn’t there. The place looked different than it had the first time, but he couldn’t put his finger on what had changed.
“The towers,” Lukas said, pointing out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“He’d have had to stay in this century, I guess. This building’s only about forty years old.”
Beyond the windows was a sight Iszak had always loved about the city, but never believed he’d see again. On any other day it would have brought him to his knees, but the sound of whispered, agonized pleas drew his eyes away from the brightly lit monoliths of the Twin Towers outside the penthouse windows.
Angered pleas cut through the nostalgia. His future was what mattered now, and the future of the woman in the other room, along with the unborn baby she carried.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Belah assumed the part of the submissive pet, as promised, and Nikhil played his part as naturally as if they’d lost no time at all. She hadn’t realized until now how predictable their former routines had been. Back then, her perception of their activities had been so clouded with desire that she had experienced every one of his erotic games as though it were the first time.
They had been lovers for three years before their wedding, spending every night revisiting their favorite activities—whether he would tie her and whip her, or shackle her to her bed and tease her until she begged.
Now it took all of three days before Belah regarded it as pure tedium.
Nikhil persisted, despite her conviction that he felt the same way she did and was just going through the motions. At least he’d finally tired of inflicting the kind of abuse on her body that would leave him bleeding and delirious. Then she would be obliged to ease his pain with her breath and sing him to sleep, using a song that had become as much a part of her as her own thoughts.
Yet her power to see into his mind showed her enough of the true desire that still resided inside him, and she couldn’t deny that there was still a tiny glimmer of desire in her as well. She had never once encountered a master of pain as adept as Nikhil, and as much as she loved Iszak and Lukas, and knew they would satisfy many of her cravings, she had to force herself to admit that they would need to be taught to be as brutal as she might need them to be.
When the seventh day dawned, Belah woke with dread. Today would be the day her promise was fulfilled, and Nikhil would either accept the truth and hold up his end of their bargain, or she would have to kill him. She wasn’t prepared to consider her reunion with Iszak and Lukas yet, because she would also have to be entirely honest with them about the events of the past seven days and what they’d meant to her.
Nikhil still slept on his belly beside her, and she exhaled a breath to preemptively numb the pain she knew he would feel upon waking. The cuts on his back had opened up the night before when he’d flown into a sudden fit of rage after she’d let her mind wander in her weariness of his games.
The rage had been incited because she’d become wet for the first time all week, her pussy tingling with arousal that he hadn’t caused. When he discovered it, she’d finally had to admit the truth—that her excitement was due to thoughts of the pair of men he’d found her with the night he took her.
He persisted, begging her to describe every detail of what she had done with them—to show him. He’d thrown all her toys at her in his rage, then torn the room apart when she refused to humor him. When he finally calmed down, his back was bleeding and his eyes were wild from the pain, but she sensed the greater pain ran far deeper than that.
She still ached over her inability to give him what he’d wanted and watched his continued slumber, awash in ancient regret. Had it not been for her impulsive desire, her entitlement as a goddess and a queen, this man would not have risked his life for her on the battlefield. He would have found his true mate and lived a happy life. He was Blessed from birth—fated to be found by another dragon and marked—and she had taken that away from him.
She had preempted that fate by promoting him to general of her army; then when he’d sustained a mortal injury, by saving his life and making him hers in all but the most important sense. They may have been wed, but she had never marked him. And now it was far too late for her to take back any of it.
When her magic took effect on his wounds, the heavy crease between his eyebrows smoothed and he opened his eyes.
“Good morning, little beast,” he said with a smile. His dark eyes remained emotionless. It was a rote greeting—the same one he’d given her every morning that week before rising to begin the daily routine of working her over in some vain hope that her body might respond.
Belah’s stomach knotted with apprehension strong enough to make her nauseous and she left the bed, running to the bathroom before the contents of her stomach escaped.
She dry-heaved into the toilet, the sleeves of her robe draped over the seat as she rested her cheek on her upper arm, willing the vertigo to pass. She abstractly fixated on the bloody cuffs of her robe. Nikhil had finally fallen, exhausted, into bed late the night before and she’d tended to his wounds as well as she could, heedless of the mess they made of the white silk.
Nikhil’s flesh would heal well enough once he got back to his life and ceased his daily torture—he’d told her one of his Elites possessed excellent healing powers and would be able to tend him quickly. The information had been shared idly, as though Nikhil were simply trying to fill the silence while she eased the pain of his wounds, but all it did was remind her how his Elites had come by that power. The blood of her own brothers ran in their veins. The mention of that connection made her withdraw from Nikhil, and he’d avoided sharing such details of his life since.
His blood had been spilled this week repeatedly, but so had hers. The robe she wore had already been stained by her own blood, so there was no sense trying to keep it clean. In Nikhil’s final, fruitless attempt to elicit a reaction from her, he’d repeated their wedding night in just about every detail but the last. She still bore the marks on her skin to show for it, after the small blade she had given him h
ad cut her.
The knife had been her wedding gift to him for precisely the purpose he had used it for, and that had been their downfall. She hadn’t craved the cuts this time, but the slice of the blade into the unmarred skin of her breasts and belly reminded her how easily her power could destroy something that should have been left whole—that would have been, if it hadn’t been for her involvement.
Nikhil’s large hand warmed her back through her robe, and the gentle rubbing pulled a body-wracking moan from her.
“I’m sorry for everything,” she sputtered through a torrent of tears she found impossible to hold back. Her chest burned like a dozen molten rocks filled her lungs and another sob escaped.
Without a word, he pulled her into his arms and held her. She collapsed against him while she cried over all the centuries of torment he had brought upon the world. All of it was her doing in some fashion. There was no denying it.
Lukas and Iszak had been right at the start. They should never have loved her, and neither should Nikhil. All she was good for was turning a man into a destructive monster. Her own son was likely better off without her, too.
“Belah, you’re breaking down here. Don’t do this to yourself. I’m a grown man—more than grown, in fact. Three thousand years tends to lend a certain perspective. I can’t read your mind, but I sure as fuck know what you’re thinking right now, because I’ve been through this myself over the last week. None of it was your fault. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am simply not worthy to be a father, after all I’ve done …”
She snuffled against his chest. “But I don’t deserve any of it, either. Not your adoration. Not their love, and not …” She stopped short and frowned sharply at the thought that had popped into her head, unbidden. Her hands reflexively fell to her lower abdomen. Not their child growing inside me.
Nikhil stiffened and she sensed his head tilt and his gaze fall to her hands.
“Please, God. No,” he whispered. He pushed her off his lap and lurched away. Belah was too focused on the tiny, but intense bundle of power that pulsed undeniably inside her womb. She suddenly regretted that one, brief wish for complete oblivion that had overtaken her a moment ago. She had very nearly asked Nikhil to do it again—to bleed her until she lost consciousness, and to take her inert and all but lifeless body away to a place where they could never find her, and where she could never cause such destruction again.
She knew all she had to do was ask, and he would agree.
But now … Now she was carrying a child again—one whose fathers waited out there somewhere, whole and in full possession of their minds, their wills, and their love for her. They had forgiven her for what she was, and for this child’s sake, she had to forgive herself.
Getting Nikhil to forgive her would be the challenge. She steeled her resolve and rose to follow him.
He stood, staring blindly out at the sunrise beyond the high windows of the bedroom. Dried blood caked his back—the wounds as much trophies from the battle they’d waged with Fate that week as any wound he had sustained as her general. But those wounds were superficial to the psychic ones she’d inflicted upon him, and no doubt, this would be the worst yet.
“Tell me those two men were just your pets, little beast. That they meant nothing to you, and that look you had just now was for some other fresh hope and not the thing I believe.”
“They are my mates. I marked them just before you took me. I am carrying their child now.”
Nikhil let out a strangled moan and pressed his hands against the glass, then rested his forehead on the shining surface. “How can you know with such certainty? That they are the ones, and that it has never been me? Did you ever really love me?”
“It’s in my blood to know, as it is in theirs to recognize me as their mate. Turul only have one true mate. I could never have conceived, if that weren’t the case. I could never have conceived if I didn’t love them and want a child with them.”
“Did you?” he asked, glaring at her over his shoulder.
“Did I love you? Yes. More than you know.” Ever since the first moment of tenderness they’d shared seven days ago, she’d fought to avoid admitting that she still loved him, and it tortured her to be forced to have this conversation with him now.
“Yet you say I was never meant to be yours.”
“I learned long ago never to test Fate, Nikhil. My marriage to you did just that—all the races tested Fate that day, and we all learned to regret it. You were our punishment. Iszak and Lukas were the ones I was meant to be with.”
He set his jaw and crossed his arms. “I think this Fate of yours was far more devious. I’ve seen the pair of them. They’re young—no more than a couple hundred years, I believe. I am holding a prisoner from their race, and she tells me their kind is not as long-lived as dragons are. They weren’t even born yet when you and I were together. How could two men who didn’t even exist yet be the fated mates of a goddess thousands of years old?”
His mention of a female turul prisoner distracted Belah from his question. She latched onto the detail. If she gained nothing else from this week with him, she could at least find out where Evie North was being kept.
“That prisoner is their sister, Nikhil. When we met, they hated me because of what they’d lost. At least, they hated me as much as two men could hate the woman their very souls dictated they love. They believed their sister dead all this time, but she isn’t. Their sister belongs to Ked, and he’ll tear himself apart trying to find her.”
“Why should I give a fuck about your brother? Or their sister, for that matter? They’re the reason I couldn’t fuck you all week, aren’t they? Some goddamn Fate magic. Was it because you marked them?”
“I made them a promise in submission—true submission—that I would never take pleasure with another. Without their blessing, nothing you could have done would have worked.”
He regarded her silently for a moment, seeming to consider her words with far more seriousness than she was prepared for. She itched to dip into his mind just then, to know what he was thinking, but he always seemed to know when she tried.
“Submission, is it? Is that what has the most power for you?” He walked toward her and dropped to his knees in front of her. “How did it work for you, Belah? If there is such power in saying it—in doing it—will it work for me, too?”
Belah read his intentions in the earnestness of his gaze as he looked up at her. Ordinarily the words would have no real power, not if they’d been spoken to a mortal dragon, but Belah was nothing close to mortal.
“No, Nikhil. Please, don’t … you don’t understand what you’re doing. This is magic I cannot undo, once you voice the words.”
She pressed her fingers to his mouth, but he grabbed her wrist in a grip so tight it would have snapped the bones of a mortal woman.
“I submit to you, ’Iilahatan. I forsake my past, my possessions, my pleasure, my entire life, if that is your will. I submit to you as your slave, your pet, to do with in any manner you wish. Let my sole purpose in life be to please you, my love. I would have conquered the world and laid it at your feet, Belah. Let me be that man again.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Nikhil.” But she understood perfectly. He was surrendering to her, binding himself to her unequivocally, as long as she accepted.
“Say you accept this, ’Iilahatan, or I will never tell you where your son and his bride are hidden.”
The children … Belah’s heart broke as she realized she could never accept his submission, not even for the sake of finding her own children. Doing so would be tantamount to accepting him as a third mate. Iszak and Lukas had barely managed to accept her despite Fate’s magic. She would never force them to accept a man they hated even more.
But perhaps she could still help him. The power of the corrupted wedding blessings had shackled him to a life of darkness for so long. If
she could release him from those curses, perhaps he would also be released from her unwilling claim on his love. She had to try.
As he gazed up at her from his knees, Belah let her power have free reign.
“As much as it grieves me, I cannot accept your submission. But I may be able to release you from the curses. Will you at least let me try to free you?”
Nikhil’s desperation faded into disappointment, but he nodded, then closed his eyes and opened his mind, allowing her in.
She pushed her magic as deep as she could, comforted by the familiarity of a mind whose landscape she knew so well, even the darkest corners. Looking farther, she saw how the magic of the wedding blessings clung to his soul as closely as his own skin, but each one was dark and tarnished in a way that made no sense to Belah.
These must be the curses—their energy was familiar to her, but twisted by the same magic that had created them. The curses were beautiful constructs in and of themselves, and impervious to her power. She began to retreat when she caught a glimpse of something darker lingering at the edges of Nikhil’s consciousness—prodding at the barrier of his will.
The more she pushed back at it, the more alarmed she became. Something about the energy stirred a memory of hers, but not enough that she could determine the source. It slunk around like some malicious beast looking for a way in, hungry and filled with ill intent.
“What do you see, ‘Iilahatan?”
“Has this always been a part of you? No … I know it hasn’t,” she murmured, pushing her power against the dark presence again with utter certainty that it didn’t belong.
“My … mind has often felt very full since I lost you. Like I have too many thoughts and … have to … force half of them away in order to focus. Only in the moments after I consume your blood does the pressure retreat. Being with you now keeps it at bay. For the last seven days, I’ve finally felt as though I am returning to myself for the first time in an eternity.”
