by Tessa Dawn
Gaia gulped, and she began to fidget with her fingers, having to tell herself to keep her posture dignified. She linked her hands behind her back and slowly raised her chin. “Then what would you have me do?” Her belly trembled. “Do you not need to feed in order to reanimate your fire?” She lowered her voice. “Do you not need to…satisfy…your dragon’s carnal nature?”
She waited with bated breath as he chuckled: deep, low, and sonorous in his throat. “Ah, my beautiful princess; there are so many females I can choose from. Indeed, there isn’t a maiden in Dragons Realm who would deny me. No.” He spoke the last word with conviction. “I do not need to take from you.” He studied her features with the scrutiny of a hawk and met her seeking gaze head-on. “Princess Gaia, we live in interesting times. The Realm is flourishing, as is Lycania, in no small part due to our fathers’ alliance; in no small part due to backroom deals and secret whispers, things that would not sit well with the king of Castle Dragon. But—” He held up one finger. “These are the affairs of great men, no? These are the dealings of leaders. These are the ways of our kind. You, however, are an innocent soul.” He stepped forward and brushed his thumb along her delicate jaw, causing her to shiver. “You need not be the prostitute of a prince, simply because that prince has a prominent place in the line of succession.”
Gaia fought not to stagger sideways, and his touch left blazes of fire, fissures of heat, radiating along her skin.
“Yes, at some point, you will be trained at the Ahavi’s Keep,” he continued, staring into her pale blue eyes. “You will learn the ways of the dragon, the duties and obligations of the Ahavi, but until then, I will honor your father’s gift by keeping you at Castle Warlochia. And that is where the bargain ends. You will live in comfort and peace, sweet Gaia—you will not live as my whore.”
Gaia gasped, and her knees began to tremble. Unable to withstand his tender touch a moment longer, she drew back and turned her head to the side.
A single wet tear flowed from the corner of her eye, and Prince Dario reached out, once again, to brush it away with his thumb. “No tears, Princess Gaia. All is well.”
Transfixed by the moment—and all the prince had said—she finally found her voice: “Thank you, milord. I…I am at a loss for words.” She paused, but only for the span of a heartbeat. “You are truly a male of honor.”
He smiled faintly then, and his features were positively resplendent. “Oh, do not misunderstand,” he drawled. “Make no mistake, sweet princess, I am still a dragon…always a dragon…and I have spent many sleepless nights dreaming of your smile and envisioning your breathtaking, feline eyes as pale blue rivers that flow into mine. I have imagined your body trembling beneath me. But alas, I am my father’s son. And while he may have raised me to be a formidable beast, he did not raise me to be a monster.”
Chapter Three
Later that night, beneath a clear dragon’s moon, on a private stone balcony at the Castle of Umbras, Dante folded his obsidian-black wings, waited as they receded into his back, and tapped lightly on the arched glass doors. “Ahavi,” he whispered in a dark, sultry voice, “come to me.” He waited patiently as Mina Louvet stirred in her bed, rubbed her tired eyes, then donned a robe and padded out onto the ornate terrace.
“My prince,” she greeted him sleepily. “How long have you been here?”
“I just arrived.”
She rubbed her eyes again, then squinted at the candlelit bedchamber. “Why didn’t you come in?”
He opened his arms to usher her next to his heart and glanced at the haunting sky. “I wished to speak outside,” he said. “The night air is cool and invigorating.”
Mina nodded and wrapped her elegant arms around him, snuggling seamlessly against his chest. “I’ve missed you.”
He placed a tender kiss on the crown of her head. “And I, you, my sweet Ahavi.”
They stood like that for several peaceful moments, each taking in the other’s warmth, reacclimating their souls to their union, until Dante finally stirred. “As you know, I spoke with Prince Damian and Prince Drake earlier this day in Warlochia.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
He sighed, and the exhale of breath sounded like the slow banking of a gentle fire. “It is time, Mina.”
Much to her credit, she didn’t wrinkle her brow or frown. She didn’t question the meaning of his cryptic words, or ask him a dozen questions. So much had been learned by the strong, noble woman over the past thirty-one years—she had come to understand Prince Dante’s moods, the way he spoke bluntly, or drew inward; the way his fire sparked into a sudden, roaring flame; and the way it receded, cloaked in silence. And Blessed Spirit Keepers, she was as beautiful now as she had been the first day he’d met her in the foyer of Castle Dragon, perhaps ten years older in visage, but no more than that. Immortality had treated her well, and soon, Prince Damian would be able to both claim and gift Mina’s sister with the same.
Mina nuzzled Dante’s strong jaw with her glorious raven hair. “When?” she whispered softly.
“Sunday,” he replied, and she stiffened, if only slightly.
“When will you tell the children?” she asked, her voice as enchanting as the starlight.
“Soon,” he said, chuckling at her motherly reference. Ari, Azor, and Asher would always be children to Mina—they were her babies, after all—but in truth, they had grown into fine young dragons: Ari, in his thirtieth summer; Azor in his twenty-sixth, and Asher about to turn twenty-one on Sunday. All three boys had their mother’s and father’s dark midnight hair, just as Dante had predicted they would the day he had first met Mina. They had their mother’s eyes and their father’s strength, but that’s where their similarities ended: Aurelio was brooding and serious, deeply intellectual and pensive—he had few smooth planes and many hard edges—whereas, Azor was a bit more sensitive. He had a penchant for art and sculpture, yet he could wield a sword like it was his second hand. His dragon’s fire burned bright. Prince Asher was an enigma: quick to laugh, quick to anger, but always loyal and faithful. He was his mother’s son, the baby of the three, and he would tear out the heart of any warlock, witch, or gargoyle that dared to glance at her sideways.
Mina didn’t need Asher’s fierce protection—she still had a spine of steel and a tongue as sharp as any warrior’s blade.
Dante gathered her more tightly to him, tightening his arms around her. “I will gather all three together in the Great Hall of Castle Umbras, so they are at home when they hear the news, and invite Prince Damian to join us. The dragons will need the support and conviction of both their fathers as they process this new revelation.”
Mina stroked the underside of his jaw with a gentle, seeking thumb. “And Dario?”
Dante sighed. Dario would be utterly devastated. His greatest pride in all the Realm was being the only son of the future monarch, believing himself to be made in Dante’s spitting image.
And he was…
To a degree.
He was tall, dangerous, and imposing.
He had Cassidy’s crystal-blue eyes and King Demitri’s honey-gold hair, albeit a few shades darker, but he had Dante’s iron will, to be sure. He was a fiercely independent thinker. And while he loved his cousins dearly, Dante was afraid he might come to resent them.
None of that could be afforded right now.
The Realm needed solidarity.
It would take every ounce of compassion, patience, and persuasion Dante possessed to make Dario understand what had happened, to help him accept his change in position: most notably, the shift in the line of succession. Ari, not Dario, was Dante’s eldest son, which placed Aurelio next in line, behind Dante, for the throne of Castle Dragon.
“You are deeply worried, aren’t you?” Mina whispered, pulling him away from his reverie.
“I am,” Dante replied. “We always knew this day would come, but it isn’t going to be easy. There are so many moving pieces.”
“Yes,” Mina agreed, “so many unseen dangers
. So many possible unintended consequences.”
He grasped her by both shoulders, thrust her gently away, and stared longingly into her deep emerald eyes. “Are you with me…Queen Mina? Are you ready to play your role? To do your part for the Realm?”
She swallowed hard and regarded him thoughtfully, her enigmatic pupils growing cloudy with concern. “I have always been with you, my prince; and I will serve you until the day I leave this world. But yes, like you, I am concerned for all involved: Dario, the boys, even Cassidy. I am terrified that Raylea may resent me—she has spent decades alone without tenderness.” She forced a tentative smile and pressed her hands to her belly, as if shoring up her strength. “But I know that we can’t go on as we are. The Realm cannot continue as it is. The humans grow restless; the Lycanians face great peril from Thieves; and our alliances must be made stronger. I trust you, Prince Dante, and I trust the prophecy. All will unfold as it should.”
Dante closed his eyes, grateful for her wise, compassionate words, and then he crooked his mouth into a sly, devious smile and raised his brows in question. “You serve me still?” He placed undue emphasis on the second word, drawing it out with a snarl.
She smiled more brightly then and cupped his face in her elegant hands. “I love you still, Prince Dante. And I serve you out of that love.”
He bent his head to taste her, the sweetness and the softness of her lips, and his dragon purred like a predatory cat awakening. “Mm,” he murmured into her mouth. “Then perhaps we should go inside so you can serve me…much, much better.”
Mina giggled against his mouth, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and let her head fall back as he swept her into his arms. “Well, I think it’s a matter of semantics—who is serving whom.” She batted her long, dark lashes and sighed. “I am soon to be the queen of Dragons Realm—perhaps I should let the dragon serve me.”
Chapter Four
Eliaz Griswold stared through the small window of his humble stone cottage in the Shadow Woods of Umbras, pondering the unfortunate fate of his father and the insidious choice of Prince Dante Dragona: why the dragon had slain Eliaz’s father to protect his secret, yet allowed the warlock Aguilon Jomei to live.
He slammed his fist down on a rickety wooden table and took a long drink of ale.
No, Prince Dante hadn’t just allowed Aguilon to live; he had taken him into his inner circle, elevated him to high mage of Warlochia, and funded each and every clandestine activity of the Warlock’s Council on Supreme Magic and Mystical Practices as if Aguilon was the prince’s favorite pet. To Eliaz’s best guess, the calculating monarch had removed Aguilon’s memories of the fateful event, that night in the tent of Umbras—he had to have removed them, hadn’t he?—but Aguilon kissed the prince’s arse just the same, that was, when he wasn’t strutting around the Realm in his opulent robes and his mystical regalia, preening like a peacock displaying its plumes. Eliaz couldn’t help but wonder if the high mage of Warlochia might not lose some of that annoying swagger if he knew the unedited truth—if he realized he’d been used.
He spun around on the rickety bench and stared at an inconspicuous shelf full of jugs: the first contained a liberal supply of ale; the second, a season’s storage of fine, powdered grain; the third, the soul of a wicked prince; and the fourth, well, it contained thirty-one years’ worth of coppers, each one earned by the toil of Eliaz’s hands and the implacable determination to one day buy a witch.
Or a warlock as the case may be.
Prince Dante may have murdered Elzeron Griswold, Eliaz’s beloved sire, but he had not murdered Elzeron’s legacy or the power of his shadow, the dark, cryptic mysticism that now flowed in Eliaz’s veins. Eliaz was powerful enough to implant that wicked bottled soul into another nubile body if necessary—all he needed was a warlock to resurrect it.
He licked his taut, thin lips, lapping up a dribble of ale from the corner of his mouth. Kristof Nocturne was also a member of the Warlock’s Council on Supreme Magic; he was a wizard of untold power, albeit less than Aguilon possessed, and he could be bought for a price, a heavy purse of coppers or the delicacy of a little boy, as long as the lad was beautiful.
Eliaz did not have access to the latter, but he certainly had three decades’ worth of the former, and he had no doubts, whatsoever, that if and when the time came, Kristof could perform the necromancy Eliaz required.
Ah, but then Eliaz must consider his options carefully as there were so many potential ways to play his hand: With help, he could overpower the body of Prince Damian—the sentient which now contained the soul of Matthias Gentry—and put Damian’s soul back where it belonged. He could choose a weaker and less challenging victim, perhaps Thomas the squire, now regent of Castle Warlochia and Prince Dante’s right hand, thus, placing the enemy in Prince Dante’s camp. Or he could sell the valuable commodity to a powerful player across the restless sea, King Thaon of Lycania or Craon, son of Plagues, the general of Thieves.
Eliaz would only get one opportunity to maximize his play.
He rose from the table and paced the earthen floor, recalling his father’s last missive: Elzeron’s premortem confession about all he had seen and done, about the significance of the contents in that plain stoneware jug. Then he ambled across the cottage, ran his finger along the earthen lid, and thanked the Keeper of the Forgotten Realm that Prince Dante’s Warlochian soldiers had delivered Elzeron’s satchel along with his lifeless body to his only surviving kin.
And why wouldn’t the soldiers have delivered the seemingly worthless, tattered bag?
Not even Prince Dante could have conceived of what the satchel contained—they had no cause to inspect it. Yea, but Eliaz had done more than check its contents; he had read every desperate word on the parchment, taken great care to conceal and preserve the jar, and bided his time for thirty-one-years to make good use of its inhabitant.
Prince Damian Dragona’s soul.
Eliaz bent to the jar and kissed the lid.
“Soon, my evil prince. The nights grow darker, the fog grows thicker, the dragon’s moon casts a haunting double shadow across the land—a portent of secrets and whispers and treachery. Something is afoot in the Realm.” He clenched his hands into fists, bemoaning his unwanted fate; for surely, if he had possessed a choice, Eliaz would have chosen a gentler path. He would have liked to have bred many sons, gained wealth and status in Umbras, passed on his legacy of shadowmancing to future generations.
But alas, it was not meant to be…
From the tender age of eleven summers, Eliaz had only one purpose: to exact revenge on the Prince of Warlochia in whatever way he could.
King Demitri Dragona came awake with a start.
He’d had the cursed dream again.
The one where he is bending over his middle son, Damian, about to tender the dragons’ kiss. Then Damian’s appearance becomes that of Prince Dario, Dante and Cassidy’s son. Just as quickly, Damian becomes a full-grown dragon, nearly 150 years old, and he is walking through the gardens of Castle Dragon when a band of warlocks and shades surround him. Before the king can intervene, they impale Prince Damian with a lance, remove his heart from his chest, and hang it from an octagonal turret atop the castle. The king falls to his knees—he was too slow to get there…
Hell’s fire and damnation!
Why wouldn’t the infernal dream let him be?
He’d had it for at least three decades, and Damian was always fine.
In fact, his middle son was prospering in the Castle of Umbras, and unlike his brother Dante, he already had three sons!
“Milord?” A faint, shy feminine voice, the mewling of a Blood Ahavi, brought the dragon king back to his senses, back to his lucid awareness. “Are you all right, my liege? Do the night-terrors still plague you?”
Now this just made Demitri angry.
Who was this low-born slave to question the king of Dragons Realm, to remind him of his weakness, and to fall asleep in his bed?
As he gazed into her see
king, pale gray eyes, a wicked thought consumed him: It was such a curious, scintillating sensation, to couple with an Ahavi while feeding, to release his savage beast whilst struggling to maintain control. For, in truth, if he took too much of her essence, her delectable blood, or her intoxicating heat—if he ravaged her too eagerly as he reanimated his dragon’s fire—her skin would cool to frost, her blood would harden to ice, and her tantalizing, feminine curves would calcify as stone.
There was no coming back from such a state, which made it a dangerous game.
Not to mention, King Demitri had to slake his masculine needs before the female perished beneath him—he had to pull back in time to regenerate her mortal body with his dragon’s healing blue fire.
The king rarely took too much.
He had been feeding for nearly three hundred years…
But tonight was different.
He had suffered the damnable dream.
His dragon was restless; the shadowed moon was calling to his savage; and the female beside him had…overstepped.
Rolling atop the Ahavi, he grasped her hair in his fists, thrust his body into hers, and slowly released his fangs as he began to rock his hips. As the Ahavi wrapped her arms around him, eager to accept his carnal lust, he pierced her carotid artery and began to feed in earnest.
This night, he would play the game.
Chapter Five
Castle Umbras ~ The next day
